Writing challenge prompts PART 2 ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

Pick and choose as you please  might add to this as I find new ones that could be fun

dialogue prompts:

“I miss them, dammit! I miss them so much”	"Oh no, you don't get to die until I say you die"
"You look familiar. I just can't quite remember how I know you"	"Tell me lies and I will believe you"
"Let's get you patched up and into something warm"	"You deserve a good life"
“I’m not who you think I am”	“Don’t come back here again”
"Is that my shirt?"	“You look stupid as all hell right now.”
"How drunk are you?" "Can I kiss you?" "A lot, okay."	"I'm sorry if i woke you up."
"Can i hold your hand? Is that weird to ask?"	“Was it worth it?”
“You make it look so easy.”	"I don't want you getting hurt..."
"You'll be fine"	"Are these sad, or happy tears?"
"Do you wanna talk about it?"	"You can be really convincing sometimes"
"this is the third time i had buy a box of bandaids this month,"	"there’s nothing to be afraid of"
"Can't be that bad if you're still talking"	"well I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t make it so fucking easy."

Write about:

A new name	A religion
An event involving magic	Something involving the Godia
A time your character was sick	A body of water
Someone who died	An irritational fear
Shame	A business transaction
Something cold	Fight, flight or freeze

"Let's get you patched up and into something warm"
I am not sure this is 100% how it goes, but it's a sketch.

So far, 2014 had been a warm year. Warm and wet. Which was probably why the boy now lived to see January give way to February and the first real snow cover the firs in heavy duvets that fell in thumps behind him as he made his way to anywhere else.
He had been living mostly off of the sparse provisions taken from the house, a fervent hatred for that same place, foraring and theft whenever the occasion presented itself. Both food and anger was wearing thin, and he was in no better shape than he had been that autumn. And I won’t be naive like that again, he vowed, stepping over a half frozen creek, or curling up to sleep. He was not that desperate. This time around he even had a sleeping bag. If you managed to find somewhere shelter from the wind, it was nice enough, it wasn’t the cold that prevented him from sleeping. He was still haunted by her memories. There was no escape, not when the world was bright and white and quiet. Not when the only other option was thinking about [i|him[/i] or how the snow betrayed his footprints and left him vulnerable. There was no escape. It made him sick, but there was no use in vomiting out an empty stomach, so instead he cried. Silent sobs, he didn’t know for whom the tears fell. If he had any right to feel sorry at all. He knew the woman hadn’t, and her self pitying last moments made him wish she could die all over again. This of course made him a monster, wanting to hurt her again… How he had been the last thing they both had seen.
*
So far, 2014 was a warm year, the old man thought, stepping over a half-melted puddle of yesterday’s snow. The quiet of his forest, for this was the way he felt about it, was only broken på the rhythmic drips of water falling from the branches as the snow continued to melt. It was a quiet he was used to and when it was suddenly interrupted by the ever so slight tug at the edge of his consciousness that indicated human life, the old man noticed. At first it was with nothing more than a slight curiosity. Although it seldomly happened, it was not unthinkable that someone else might be up for an early morning trek. When this other consciousness seemed to become aware of his presence, by resisting, however vaguely, he became aware of the situation. Of course he could see; he knew all about the boy, before reaching the primitive shelter he had made for himself on the forest floor.
*
“Who are you?” The boy asked, scrambling out of the sleeping bag. “What do you want?” He couldn’t explain how he knew, but someone, a Nachon, was messing with his head, and this–would they have felt this?
Trust was not something the boy was sure he wanted to do. Not even after the Nachon had left his spirit and instead stood in front of him in the form of an old man. He looked harmless, and said he did not want to do the boy harm. That he could be trusted and wanted to help.
How, the boy asked, how could he be sure? And why?
The old man knew, had sensed it, now sadly wished he could undo the harm. But this was his lot, he knew and could not forget. And sometimes things should not be forgotten. This was a sign he was sure. This day, five years ago, Hector had died. And here was a fugitive Nachon child who looked enough like him to unsettle the old man. Surely the gods had their reasons for such occurrences.