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Frosted Writing Floops

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Hello! I'm Frost, here to supply you with your daily serving of Writing Floops. I accept payment in the form of feedback and orders for more Writing Floops.


I am legally required to inform you that Writing Floops contain no vitamins, minerals, and are processed in a facility that handles nuts/is actually a large nut (my brain). Writing Floops are however organic, vegan, and gluten free! Only 1/3 physicians suffered irreversible brain damage after consumption of Frosted Writing Floops and is thus the only one crazy enough to endorse this product!


Here is a place I write for your entertainment and to polish my own work which sometimes requires a lot of polishing. Sometimes it needs to be polished out of existence. I leave that to your discretion.


Feel free to leave prompts/requests/cookies/feedback.










Current Product Line:

- Medic

- Past Due

- The Message

- Drinks Too Much Coffee and Needs a Vacation

- An Open Letter to Someone I Have Never Met

- Kitchen Etiquette

- Wolf Wereing

- Better Late


Edited by frostmourne

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To start us off, DEATH! It comes in sugar free version and diabetes version!


Sugar-Free Writing Floop:

Today, he found his suicide note, dated three days ago. It was stained and tear soaked and crumpled up at the edges, ink running into salt water running into blood. Crocodile tears. If she could actually feel anything at all, he would eat his own hat. He picked up the piece of paper and balled it up before tossing it into the garbage can. The faint smell of smoke told him it had been incinerated. There was a knock on his door, which beeped as it scanned the keycard. A slight hiss indicated that the locking mechanism disengaged. She was standing there in a lab coat as white as dove’s feathers, aside from the bright red cross that declared her position. The damned witch that pulled them from the jaws of death on a daily basis. Medic.


She adjusted her clipboard and smiled gently at him as she walked into the room. Her silvery heels clacked on the stainless steel floor the same way her polished pink nails did on the clipboard. Concern was a flashing neon sign on her angelic face.

“You weren’t at breakfast today. You need to eat you know,” she said, eyeing him over for more injuries. Her calculating gaze was unsettling, much like the faceless robots that maintained the facility. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was actually one of them.

“What, you don’t have a magic pill to fix hunger?”

“I do actually, but you would find it far more pleasant to eat normally.” He shouldered past her and her meaningless smile.


He remembered the village. It was a primitive farming town, but they were expecting an assault. He remembered the robotic dogs ripping through his body armor, tearing through his abdomen. They tore and chewed and gnashed their metal teeth, their sightless eyes glinting as if pleased by his evisceration. His comrades managed to shoot them off of him, but then she came. A few seconds with her nanotechnology and soul-rending agony was reduced to mere soreness and unbroken skin. She pointed at the pack of the mechanical mutts. “Well? Get back in there.”


Get back in there. No excuse to stop. You probably don’t even feel it anymore. Pain means nothing as long as she doesn’t see blood. That day, he lost limbs and organs and got all of them back. That day, he died over and over and over again and he was always greeted by that flawless face, perfectly framed by platinum white curls.


He didn’t know what a normal pain tolerance was anymore. After a week of being saved by her, he had convinced himself he was absolutely in love with her. He owed her a debt that could never be repaid. After a month, he was afraid of her. Seeing her meant he was going to get hurt and it wouldn’t matter. After a year, he punched walls just to feel something. To feel anything. After ten years, he was still trying to find a way to break himself so that she couldn’t fix him.


He sat down at the mess hall and stared blankly at the food that the robot placed in front of him before wheeling away. He took out a pen and paper, and began to write his suicide note.




Diabetes Writing Floop:


My best friend died four months ago. Coincidentally, he is now four months behind on our rent.


Johann and I had been friends since our mothers met each other at some pregnancy yoga class where they teach you to breathe in case breathing isn’t something you normally do. We have the same birthday (joint birthday parties saved a lot of money for our mothers) and the same unfulfilled dream of having exactly 32 dogs, 23 cats, and 3 owls. I punched out Taylor Watkins in third grade for stepping on Johann’s lunch (which was a tuna sandwich that he didn’t even like, but no one steps on my friend’s lunch except me). He brought me homework that one time I ate all the fudge popsicles in the fridge and then threw up. Those fudge popsicles were delicious and I have no regrets.


We went to high school prom together. Not in the cheesy dozen roses and bad breath first kiss kind of way. No, we went in dressed like Secret Service agents and followed the prom queen around the entire time. We had sunglasses, spiffy suits, earpieces, and fake badges (they were fake FBI badges, but no one asked to see them so it was okay). Miss Prom Queen threw a hissy fit and spilled punch on herself. We tried to wipe the punch off her face and ended up wiping off her eyebrows and most of her face. I suggested waterproof makeup. Johann suggested that maybe it was time to leave.


We always knew what we were destined to be. I would be the hardened detective cracking cold cases and interrogating good for nothing perps. He’d do geeky stuff in a lab, pulling fingerprints and tiny droplets of blood from a crime scene. We would be unstoppable.


And then he stopped. It was his turn to buy groceries, and thus, it was his turn to lug those eco-friendly tote bags all the way up to our sixth floor apartment. He crossed the street just in time for a car to swerve the wrong way and send his fragile body flying. Red joined black and yellow asphalt. Red crept through the eco-friendly tote bags that he insisted on buying for us. Red ruined the box of fudge popsicles.We didn’t have groceries that week.



Our mothers cried together at his funeral. No breathing exercises anymore, just raw, desperate gasps for breath between the sobs. Taylor Watkins was there to put roses on his coffin. Johann would have hated that. He always said that dead people can’t appreciate flowers so we ought to just give them to living people. I didn’t give him any flowers. My best friend was dead and no stupid flower could fix that.


Which is why I took up necromancy instead of gardening, which my mother suggested. Summoning vengeful spirits was easier than I expected. Unfortunately, Johann lacks a single vengeful bone in his now incorporeal body. The lazy bum just reads and hogs the television all day to watch Doctor Who and science documentaries. You would think maybe death would make him less nerdy.


I’ve made up my mind to go and tell him to either finish getting his degree or to get a job. Our landlady is breathing down my neck and Johann probably wouldn’t learn necromancy to bring me back if she comes after me. He says the science is faulty.

Edited by frostmourne

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I applaud your humor, good sir! Though in all serious, the stuff you write is pretty dark. xd.png Not morbidly dark, but dark. That was not something I expected! I enjoy writing myself, so if you're looking for critique then I'll gladly throw a bunch of nitpicks at you; otherwise I will leave this plate of cookies here and lurk in the corner for updates. c:

(Pushes a plate of assorted cookies toward frostmourne and hides.)

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Now, I'm a picky reader. If it doesn't grip me in the first few pages, back on the shelf it goes. I'm not saying I'm some kind of critic or connoisseur of fine literary works, just someone who knows what they like.


And this right here, this I LIKE. REALLY like. I love the bleak, almost resigned hopelessness of the first story - it draws you in, makes you want to know more, - and the witty humour of the second one was a perfect contrast to what would normally be a very dark territory to wander into, (granted, dark and morbid are exactly what I love to read anyway, so I might be a little biased xd.png).


I am certainly looking forward to what else your pen can conjure up.

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Awww, thanks! Have a short little horror story that probably should be shorter.



The Message


Humans have always been storytellers. When we stepped into the starlight and looked at the jeweled heavens, we saw grand stories of heroes and tragedy. Of deities cast down and mortals raised into eternity. Back then, the stars were untouchable. Distant and unknowable as the gods we said dwelled in their burning hearts. So eventually, we turned our minds to the flesh of the earth and its iron bones, driving them up like monuments. We marked their heights like our mothers marked ours on the doorframes. How tall you have gotten this year. One day you’ll be taller than me.


Our reach stretched to the clouds, clawed at their fluffy indifference. We looked towards the stars again and they looked so much closer. All we had to do was reach a little further. Listen to our mothers and drink our glass of milk and grow a little taller. Perhaps our pale blue dot was not the only one out there. And so we built ships for air instead of water and then ships for void instead of air. We build surrogates of ourselves and named them Spirit and Curiosity and Opportunity. They would be Sojourners, Pathfinders, and Voyagers, and we would reach the stars.


We sent out signals in every language we knew. We sent our music and pictures, our feelings, hopes, thoughts. A bottle sent adrift among the stars, but it wasn’t enough. We screamed into the sky and its distant gods and built ourselves things to hear any response with. We tore ourselves from the skin of the earth as far as we could go, and for a brave 18 of us, farther than we could go.


Today, we finally heard back. A mere blip that we would not have noticed had we not been straining for it from the moment we realized we could. A message, sent back to us in every language they knew that we knew. Furtive and fearful, a message.



“Be quiet. They are going to hear you.”

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Wow. So easy to read, so enjoyable and clever. Just how I like it smile.gif


Your style reminds me a bit of young Neil Gaiman.

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(Reads latest snippet.)


I want to know more! Why? Why did you stop it right there? xd.png Now I will always wonder... Seriously though, that's a full-fledged novel waiting to happen. I would read the heck out of that.

(Gives more cookies.)

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Ahhhh! High praise indeed! biggrin.gif Soon I will reach my goal of having enough cookies to dive into, Scrooge McDuck style.


Also, consider leaving a request or a prompt! Raw material for Writing Floops requires many daring adventures through Peruvian rain forests to hunt for exotic brain jelly and I did not bring sufficient mosquito repellent for the last trip. Donate your brain and its jelly byproducts to science Writing Floops!



Drinks Too Much Coffee and Needs a Vacation


“Where are the white collar crime files?! LAURA YOU ARE THE WORST INTERN I HAVE EVER HAD AND I HAD JOSEPH STALIN FILING MY TAX RETURNS FOR TWO YEARS!” The voice was a banshee shriek that rose up from the corner office of a incredibly bland looking office building. Laura jumped out of her seat and quickly scurried over, juggling piles of paperwork. She had asked him to consider using a computerized system, but no, this was the way that he had done it forever, albeit with fewer medieval monks and human skin scrolls.


She crashed into her boss’s office. He carried the constantly stressed look of public relations executive that was simultaneously facing a firing squad and an ex-wife that wanted full custody of their rebellious teenage son who had just been thrown out of school for fighting. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He sat back down in the computer chair, fixed his tie, and started again. His voice was so pleasant and soothing that it made every hair on the back of her neck stand up. Some primal part of her brain screamed at her to flee. This was a predator, a shark who had blood on its teeth and murder on its mind. “Do you have the files?”


She handed them over and watched him run a hand through his jet black curls as he looked over the paperwork. His horns were slightly curly too, and she wondered what it would be like to touch them. Her fingers twitched, and she had to remind herself that the ruler of all of hell was not a goat at a petting zoo. “Sorry for snapping at you, I had a rough morning. I’ll take that computer thing into consideration. I guess I’m getting too old to keep up with technology, eh?” He chuckles and flips through the file, finding the paper he wanted and plucking it out.


A summer internship at hell was not how she planned to spend her much deserved vacation, but her mother had insisted. “Think of how good it will look on your college application! Eternal damnation is a big business these days!” At least Satan was sure to write her a stellar recommendation letter. He wasn’t a terrible boss either.


He smiled at her charmingly, and she started to leave his office. She turned around, gathering up all her courage and finally blurting it out. “Did you really make Stalin file your tax returns?”


Satan’s smile turned into a grimace. She could practically see all the paperwork he had to redo flash before his tired eyes.


“Yes. You’re a much better intern than he was.”

“Great. I always wanted to be better at making coffee than Stalin.”

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Oh dear. It is late at night and the mushy Writing Floops have escaped containment. My only advice is to hope they remain afraid of the searing daylight, and to read them as bad poetry and not prose. Symptoms include: cringing, vomiting, and disgust. I am currently experiencing all of this but perhaps posting this will serve as a stinging reminder to myself to not attempt Floop creation at two in the morning.


An Open Letter to Someone I Have Never Met


If the stars told me to stop loving you, I would tear down the very heavens and grind them into the dirt with my heel. No stars could dare cross us. We are fury and grief and kindness and we would make them ashamed to call themselves heavenly. We will dance in laundromats on Sunday mornings wearing mismatched socks and baggy t-shirts because all our clothes are spiraling through the rumbling machine like our heads used to spin when we were the kids picked last for dodgeball and everything else. But we won and they were wrong.


We made it and they must be wrong because why else are we still here? We strange creatures who like soft ice cream, chewy noodles, and the indomitable weeds that push their yellow joy through concrete streets and on subway tracks. We will make mosaics from the pieces of our broken hearts, and the art we create will sing happiness because we know that hearts do not ever break, they only bend. The pieces are nothing more than a shattered cocoon left over from yesterday’s sorrows. We hammer and pound our twisted iron back into shape, the blacksmiths with hard fists and lion hearts.


You still get hurt too much, but that’s okay because now you wear your scars like battle armor. Every ragged wound is proof that you have lived and you have conquered and you still draw breath into lungs that fail you every time we kiss. I think you’re funny and wonderful.


So before we get to those Sunday mornings when we eat misshapen pancakes in our mismatched socks and baggy t-shirts know that you can make it and we will not be broken kids walking a tightrope of pain with the thousand foot drop below us. We will be and have always been, beautiful.

Edited by frostmourne

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This writing floop is one kitchen, from three points of view.


Kitchen Etiquette


Grandma brushed flour off of her hands, smiling at me as I prodded at her creations. I left tiny fingerprints on their soft surface. She let me help dust sugar over the pastry dough, curled like snail shells studded with chopped walnuts and cinnamon. The finished sweets rested on a red checkered cloth, a picnic I wasn’t allowed to eat. She told me it was so the table wouldn’t get dirty, but I was thinking about what a nice cape it would make. I clung to the edge of the table, my head barely poking over the edge. I bounced up and down impatiently as she opened the oven door. I could feel the blast of heat even from where I stood. It reminded me of towels fresh from the dryer. Mom always complained when I burrowed into them. Grandma just laughed indulgently and plucked me out of her laundry, like I was a missing sock that she had been looking for all her life.


My mother’s kitchen was a cozy place. The maple wood table, an anniversary gift from my late father, dominated the small room. It was polished to a gleam by her endless scrubbing, her wrinkled hands constantly working the soft bristled brush against a particularly stubborn piece of hardened dough. Father used to fuss over her hands. When he married her, he had promised that she would never have a hard day’s work again, and her hands would be smooth as a child’s. He had worn a permanently worried expression, even when we lowered him into the ground. Citrus scented cleanser overpowered the smell of the tulips tucked into the vase every spring. By no means was this table perfect. One of its legs was slightly wobbly from the time my little brother had clipped it trying out skateboard tricks. It had cup marks from when she made me endless mugs of tea for my late nights. I was too busy worrying about my own future to bother with coasters then. Smears of bright paint marred a cabinet, probably the splendid artwork of her grandson. She had not even tried to scrub those marks off.


One hundred beats a minute, five centimeters up and down again.

It was exhausting. The lights were not on in the kitchen when we burst in, knocking over a quaint looking umbrella stand next to the shoe rack. I head Joanne hiss in pain as she stubbed her toe on the leg of a wooden table. A dark red smear that was not paint caught our attention.

One hundred beats a minute.

Flashlight beams darted like startled bats while we searched for a light switch, calling, “Ma’am?” with increasing urgency. The dread in our guts weighed heavier than all the medical supplies slung over our shoulders.

One hundred beats a minute.

The lights rose and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sight. A dignified old lady was sprawled on her kitchen floor. The years had drained the color from her hair, but now her blood dyed it red.

One hundred beats a minute.

I knelt. Unresponsive, no pulse. Joanne prepped the defibrillator and I started a steady rhythm.

One hundred beats a minute, five centimeters up and down again.

A rib cracked like dry plaster underneath my palm but I kept going.

One hundred beats a minute, five centimeters up and down again.

I heard another soft crack, and I wondered whether it was a bone or a heart I broke.

One hundred beats a minute, five centimeters up and down again.

Edited by frostmourne

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Wolf Wereing


I have a terrible curse. Every time the full moon casts its sickly glow over the pines and the field, I change into a truly horrific creature. A monstrous thing, but not one that I am unfamiliar with. I see them roaming around my home. Sometimes alone, but usually in packs of twos and threes to hunt the larger deer. Their eyes glint with a bottomless hunger through the trees. Nothing is ever enough.


Tonight is another full moon. I get up and sneak away from my family. They would not recognize me like this. Perhaps they would attack me. Perhaps I would attack them. I think of my children, the little things curled up against their mother. I would never forgive myself.


I walk out into the field, and then succumb. I taste blood in my mouth, my own. The first thing is the teeth. So many teeth. More than was designed to fit in a mouth. They crowded together so much that some came in sideways, my jaw not enough to accommodate them. The last four burst through the gum like iron nails driven through rotting wood. My tongue ran over the new bone experimentally. Next was the fur. Thick, gray clumps of fur became tangled into the sweet field grass as I writhed in agony. I could feel my skull cracking, forming along new lines. Bone grinding against bone like tectonic plates, the earthquake tensing every muscle and sending every nerve into screaming anguish. And then it was over.


I rose to my feet again. Such disgusting feet. What fur I had left flaked off like a cocoon. I was horrific. A thing with hungry eyes that bared its terrible teeth to show joy as they gorged themselves on the flesh of the earth. I was human.

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Whoa, that was well done! At first you start reading it, thinking to yourself "eh, it's predictable, but the writing is good", and then you reach the end and suddenly it was not predictable. xd.png Yay twists!

Here, have some more cookies. (Really though, keep writing! Don't become me where you end up stalling on big projects...)

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I just had my wisdom teeth pulled and I am on lots of painkillers. They make my neurotransmitter receptor sites tingly! I hope I do not reread this to find it completely incoherent.


Daddy's Little Dictator


They told me that my father was a bad man. They told me that he had hurt a lot of people and that I would understand what they had to do when I was older. What beautiful people they were. Their very faces radiated nobility and divine favor, and they were all dressed in bright, pretty colors. The mage with purple magic that still crackled around his hands, the healer in angelic gold and white, the ranger in the rich green and brown of the forest. The glorious silver paladin that was their leader smiled down at me as my father’s blood ran down that ancient sword. He told me he was a simple farmer’s boy who had come to liberate us. These beautiful people were here to liberate us from that tyrant.


That tyrant whose corpse my mother clung to and sobbed brokenly. That tyrant that made me eat my vegetables at every single meal regardless of how tired he looked or how much his hands shook when he held his fork. The tyrant who, when asked by his advisors whether he wouldn’t rather have a male heir, raged to his little daughter to never let them take power from her. I could give them power, yes. But never, never let them take it from me. The tyrant who had taught me to never submit to anyone, yet had laid down his life on the promise his family would be spared.


I walked over to him, past the Chosen Ones, the beautiful people handpicked by the gods. He was never beautiful to anyone but our little family. His face was gaunt and tired looking even now, always under the crushing strain of running a country. I rested my head on his chest, and closed my eyes. The beautiful people pulled me off of him eventually, telling me I should be glad. The bad man was dead. The country would be rejuvenated, and there would be freedom and happiness for everyone. The beautiful people were in charge now.


I am older now. I understand that my father was a tyrant, but the beautiful people did not understand how hard it was for my father. Their liberation turned to chaos, to hardship, to people starving in the streets. Was this the work of the gods? Of fate? I am older now. I have had enough of beautiful people. Now is the time for tyrants.

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After a long and horrible trip to very endangered coral reefs to gather more exotic floops, I have somewhatnotreally returned! Have a un-fairytale.


Better Late


This could not be her. The prophecy had been very specific. It gave an exact date of the birth of the one who would lift the kingdom from its evils and vanquish the wicked. The chosen one would have silver hair like the fur of a she-wolf, kind eyes like a soft cloud, wisdom like the ancients, and she alone would be able to repair the broken crown that sat in the town center that the kingdom’s finest goldsmiths could not. But as the years passed, no plucky peasant’s daughter or courageous princess ever appeared with silver hair and none of them could fix anything worse than a ripped dress. The date the prophecy gave came and went without any miracle children. Things kept getting worse, with more children losing parents and parents losing children. But this, no, this was ridiculous. This could not be her.

“I told you the darn thing just needed some glue and some metal polish!” Grandma Ida waved the crown around, the rusty thing complete and shining once again. “Now we can sell this old thing and get you that new winter coat you needed, Lucy.”

“Grandma, that’s the sacred crown.” The little girl was wide eyed, her pink lips in a perfect O of surprise.

“Is it? I think my eyes are going. Stupid cataracts.” Grandmother Ida squinted at it closely, but didn’t seem all that impressed.

“Grandma, you have to put it back. It’s sacred!”

“Nonsense dear, no bit of metal is more sacred than you being nice and warm.” She looked around at the crowd that was gathering. “Now what are these busybodies looking at? No one else wanted this piece of junk until I fixed it up.” The old woman scoffed and gathered her granddaughter close to her. “Come on now, let’s go get you that coat.”

“Halt! You cannot take the sacred crown!” Several important looking men came running, their breath puffing out in the cold air. You could tell they were very important because they wore very stern expressions, rich clothing, and were also clearly not used to having to run for anything. Some had to stop halfway and pant for a few moments. One of the men snatched the crown away from her.

“Well, I’d never! We had manners in my day, young man. Did your mother teach you to steal from old ladies?” The man actually looked embarrassed for a moment before frowning himself back into a stern expression.

“This is the sacred crown meant for the chosen one who has silver hair like the fur of a she-wolf, kind eyes like a-”

“But my grandma has all of that! So the crown belongs to her, doesn’t it? She can vanquish evil! She made that mean dog on the edge of town nice when she gave it some scraps!” The little girl was beginning to look very excited now.

“What? No, you’re...you’re just-”

“I’m just going to buy my granddaughter a coat now. And maybe teach all of you some manners.” She clucked disapprovingly, shook her venerable silver head, took the crown back from the man, and walked off with Lucy skipping at her heels. She was very put off by how rude the very important men were, and she made up her mind to go give them a good scolding later. The sacred crown fetched a fine coat for Lucy and a nice walking stick for Grandmother Ida. Thus the journey of the chosen one and her stalwart companion began.

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