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So, I've written about ten pages, max, excluding RPs, since year 5 (6 years), and recently I've been feeling like it, but lacking motivation.
But now, thanks to Katirai's Writing Comp I got onto my a** and did some more. Ergo, here is the second thing I wrote using the prompt, but decided, with some help, that the first was better.
(Summary: 'ere be writin's)

Precooked Souls, Microwave Ready. - An original work of Nemly reality warping!

The tracks seemed to stretch forever, as straight as the desert horizon. The man in seat A, row 5, car 3, stared lazily out the window, his eyes unfocused. He was forty two, balding, underweight, and now he was bored as well. This train ride across the desert was only three hours, but in his rush to leave he'd neglected to grab his books, now lying on the coffee table back home.

He felt a headache coming on. The air conditioning musn't have been working, because it was uncomfortably warm. The two kids running up and down the aisle didn't help either. He suppressed an urge to reach over and cuff one as it passed. His eyes returned to the window.

3-5-A must have dozed off, because he was suddenly aware of his bladder requesting, rather forcefully, to be emptied. He stood, careful to not hit his now throbbing head on the lowered ceiling above the seats. He stepped into the aisle, and proceeded to the rear of the car, past their

Freaking. Kids.

He staggered and fell to his knees as the train shook violently. One of the kids was now screaming in pain. Served it right. He regained his feet. The aircon must have started up, as now the air was comfortably cool. His headache was gone too. He got all the way to the lavatory compartment before realising he didn't have to go any more. Strange, that.

He returned to his seat, but there was something odd. It took him a couple of moments to realise that the children had stopped yelling. He half stood again and looked back, to see them sitting in their seats quite happily. Thank God for that. Feeling quite content, the man in 3-5-A returned to watching the horizon, the horizon that this train, a perfect symbol of the modern age's power, had defeated.

An hour out of Terrace, the 9:30 from Amberly lay on its side, next to the tracks that stretched forever, slowly baking in the desert sun.