I’m doing a bonus prompt tonight.
From writing.com, here is writing prompt #180:
Bonus Prompt: One of a pair of genetically cloned babies robs a bank.
Story:
Babies are small and weak and lack the necessary muscle strength needed to properly hold and handle guns. They also lack the cognitive skills to think through and design a plan to successfully rob a bank, unless the bank is their diaper and their goal is to rob it by peeing in it.
But if the other cloned baby–the one that doesn’t rob banks–could form complex thoughts, this is what it would think: this is one of the dumbest writing prompts in the history of the universe.
The End.
Prompt #4: You go to donate blood, but something goes terribly wrong (click link to read the story)
Note: I chose this prompt because I immediately had an idea for it. I’m not thrilled with the actual result so I may revisit this prompt sometime in the future.
Story:
Travis was nervous. He had never donated blood before. He came close during his first semester in college, when a donor clinic was set up in the lobby of the main building. He walked past the neat white cots filled with students being drained. Others sat at fold-out tables, eating the cookies provided post-donation. He remembered the chatter being friendly, people laughing. It seemed almost pleasant. Donating blood was bound to generate some good karma and it would give him a chance to meet people. Win-win, he thought. He hated needles, having nearly fainted during a tetanus shot he got after a dog bit him, but that happened when he was only seven years old. He’d be fine now.
He returned to the donor clinic after his last class. By this time only a few people were there and his eyes met those of a cheery-looking girl dressed in a white smock. She started with some small talk but her voice faded as Travis remembered the tetanus shot. It felt like it had happened yesterday, not twelve years earlier. He coughed into a hand and mumbled that he had to use the washroom first, then disappeared out the building. He avoided the lobby for the next two days, until the clinic ended, embarrassed at his behavior.
A year later he was twenty, a sophomore and vastly more mature, at least as far as he was concerned. The donor clinic returned to the lobby and Travis made a promise to himself to go, no backing out this time. The clinic again ran for three days and on the first day he strode past, barely offering it a glance. He needed time to work up to it. Baby steps, he told himself.
On the second day he stopped at a drinking fountain in the lobby and glanced several times to the clinic. It was identical to the previous year. He even recognized some of the same volunteers. He wiped water from his mouth and took a few hesitant steps toward the cots. Plenty of room, he noted. Just walk over and do it. Do it. He kept walking and suddenly pivoted away, heading out the main exit. He still had the third day.
On the third day he stood just far enough back from the clinic to keep anyone there from engaging him. He pulled a book from his backpack and leafed through its pages, not seeing the words, just building his nerve. He could feel a light sweat forming on his forehead. It wasn’t going well.
“Are you planning to donate?”
Travis slammed the book shut with a bang, startled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you.”
Travis turned and standing next to him was a tall man of indeterminate age. He had smooth features and thick black hair, closely cropped. His eyes were bright and gray. He could have been 22 or 42. The man was dressed in black jeans and a neatly-pressed blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
“No, I was just checking something in my book,” Travis said.
“I see. Well, I should be off.” The man turned and Travis felt the shame of last year again, but it was that much worse this time with a witness.
“No, wait,” Travis said. The man stopped and turned back. Travis met his look, then cast his eyes to his feet, awkward and unsure. He looked back up and figured he could find strength in confession. “I am going to donate, I’m just a little nervous. I had a bad experience with a needle when I was a kid.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said the man. “My name is Evan Drake. I run blood donor clinics downtown.” He pulled out his wallet and handed a business card to Travis:
Evan Drake
Drake Medical Services
1100 West Pembleton Drive
Vancouver, BC
Travis studied the card then looked up at Drake, who was now smiling.
“You’re confused?”
Travis nodded. “A little.”
“I come by the clinic here when I have time, to look for people like you, people who want to donate but don’t quite do it.”
“Because they’re chickenshits.”
“No, because as you said, they’re nervous. Do you know how important blood donations are, Mr…?”
“Travis.”
Drake nodded. “It’s incredibly important, Travis. We are often running on a supply that only extends a week. If there’s a bad accident, emergency surgeries or god forbid, a natural disaster of some sort, we can run out. People can die. It sounds melodramatic but it’s the truth. It’s scary. So I come here and help people who want to donate.”
“Seems kind of weird.”
Drake chuckled. “My devotion is a bit extreme, but it’s not really weird. I use hypnosis to relax my patients. They readily donate, with no fear, no ill effects.”
“Do they get the free cookie after?”
“Of course.”
Travis looked over Drake’s shoulder, to the girl who he had briefly chatted to a year earlier. She happened to look up and smiled at him, offering a small wave. He turned back to Drake, who had been watching this.
“Would you be willing to let me help you?” Drake asked.
Travis put a hand out. “You got a deal,” he said. They shook.
***
Drake Medical Services was on the second floor of a nondescript office tower and was itself nondescript. Travis entered the reception area and a quiet bell jingled. The front desk was unoccupied. A few moments later Drake emerged from a hallway, wearing dark slacks and a lab technician’s coat. He smiled and opened his arms in greeting.
“Travis, I am so glad you decided to come.”
“Thought I might weasel out?” He smiled sheepishly.
Drake’s face turned serious. “It happens a lot. People want to do good but when it’s voluntary, it can be difficult. But enough of that. You’re here and no doubt anxious for your cookie.” Travis laughed at this. “Let’s get started.” Drake made a sweeping gesture to the hallway and Travis followed him to an open door at the end.
The room was illuminated with subdued lighting. The apparatus for taking blood looked the same as the college clinic. Near one wall was what Travis thought of as a “Freud couch”, with a comfortable-looking chair next to it. Drake gestured to the couch. “You can sit or lay down, whichever you prefer,” he said. “Most people lay down, probably because that’s what they see on TV and in the movies.” He smiled.
Travis sat on the edge of the couch, then swung his legs around and laid back. There was very faint music playing somewhere. Without thinking he found he had closed his eyes. He snorted at the idea of a self-hypnotizing couch. After a few moments passed he heard the leather cushion of the chair crease as Drake sat down.
“Travis, have you ever been hypnotized before?”
He shook his head, then realized Drake might not be looking at him. “No,” he said. “But I went to a show once where a guy hypnotized a bunch of people from the audience. He made my cousin act like a chicken. It was pretty funny.”
“That’s what I’m going to do here. Well, I’m not going to make you act like a chicken, of course.”
Travis replied with mock seriousness. “Of course.”
“But the principle is the same. I’m going to open you to suggestion and when you have entered a sufficiently calm and receptive state, we’ll begin the blood donation.”
Travis opened his eyes and turned his head to Drake, who was sitting with his legs crossed. “You’re not a vampire, are you?”
Drake opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.
