Category: Writing Prompts

Prompts are short, fun exercises that can be used to get the creative juices flowing or break the ice at a critique meeting. They start as a brief list of ingredients, forming a challenge for the writer to incorporate all of them into one self-contained piece. There are many ways to come up with prompts and each author will find a unique way to express a given prompt.

The Explosion Occurred at Noon Sharp

  • by jenmouth turned down
  • “See ya later.”
  • his fondness for her
  • nodding in admiration
  • all the gasoline on the island

The explosion occurred at noon sharp, and the fire still raged now at midnight. The sky was a smear of orange and black, like the aftermath of a halloween riot. Mason knew all the gasoline on the island had been stored at the airfield, the one still blazing nearly 12 hours after Cassandra lobbed the first incendiary grenade. Mason couldn’t help nodding in admiration of Cassandra’s efficiency, but his fondness for her professionalism did not bleed over into fondness for anything else about her. The woman was ruthless and now Mason and the very rich man he was paid to protect were stranded on the island with her.

He spoke into his walkie-talkie to his employer, safe in the estate’s panic room. “See ya later.” He hoped to be told to stand down, to take cover and wait Cassandra out, but no such order came.

Mouth turned down in a determined frown, Mason checked his weapon and strode into the jungle.

bonus points for using them in reverse order

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I Think This Paragraph

  • k-avatarthis paragraph is about the plot
  • A feeling of dreamy peacefulness
  • Hot punch is a pleasant thing
  • The ambassador has a good nose
  • ruined it all at Homecoming

“I think this paragraph is about the plot against the ambassador,” Herman said, pointing to a passage of gibberish. “If we could decode it, you’d see. I mean it must be something nefarious, otherwise it wouldn’t be written in such a fiendish code.”

“The ambassador has a good nose for plots, and he doesn’t look worried,” I replied. “In fact, he looks quite relaxed. A feeling of dreamy peacefulness came over me, just from seeing the expression on his face. He was that calm.”

“I blame the punchbowl. Although I should blame all those invited to the soiree, who all failed to show up. The ambassador and his silly sense of duty not to let all that punch go to waste.”

“Hot punch is a pleasant thing, and it was cooling off. Besides, the desertion of the entire guest contingent is your fault.”

“Me!”

“Yes, Herman, you. With your alarmist rhetoric about plots. Just because of one cryptogram. Really, you might have kept your voice down.”

Herman chewed his mustache. “You’re right, Max. I always overreact, and it ruins things. I ruined the ambassador’s fete with my fretting, just like I ruined it all at Homecoming.”

I tutted. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Remember, someone really did release porcupines in the ductwork at Homecoming. You should have been hailed a hero.”

Herman shrugged. “Do you know, the ambassador was there? Well, he was just the jester in the Homecoming court at the time, but he hung around the gym after everyone else stormed off.”

Of course he did, I thought. There was an unattended punchbowl.

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Chauncey Knew

  • by jena great deal of reviewing
  • He got down with raised eyebrows.
  • she did not respond to him in a favorable way
  • for no special reason
  • proximity to money and power

Chauncey knew the way to win Myrtle’s heart was by winning the dance-off at the senior prom. After a great deal of reviewing how-to videos on YouTube and practicing in front of the mirror, he was ready. Chauncey’s rental tuxedo was a stunning combination of white and gold that some people inexplicably saw as blue and black. At the country club he stood in line with all of the other hopefuls. The music started. He got down with raised eyebrows. Despite his sick dance moves and the soulful expressions he threw at Myrtle, she did not respond to him in a favorable way. Neither did the judges. They awarded the trophy to Mike Phillips for no special reason that Chauncey could see, except for the fact that Mike Phillips’s mother was a senator and the judges were all blinded by his proximity to money and power. But not Myrtle. She left the prom the way she arrived, surrounded by a group of indifferent girls dressed all in black.

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Our Ship Rocked and Pitched

  • k-avatarour mole-eyed contemporary
  • is best read in complete silence
  • pushed the throttles to full power
  • under the influence of the impending storm
  • we showed you how to be a gynecologist

Our ship rocked and pitched under the influence of the impending storm as our captain pushed the throttles to full power just to hold position and I handed the dinner menu to our mole-eyed contemporary who squinted and mumbled (although a list of entrees is best read in complete silence, as anyone with any manners should know) and you blushed and squirmed as we showed you how to be a gynecologist, if you know what we mean.

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Rodrigo Chuckled Softly

  • by jenI’m very sensitive to smell
  • in a tizzy about the specter of sweaty boobs
  • Summer’s Eve can go douche itself
  • for nearly a week
  • killed in a skiing accident

Rodrigo chuckled softly and tugged on the waistband of Siobhan’s panties. “Summer’s Eve can go douche itself, babe. I’m very sensitive to smell and I’ve never noticed a problem.”

“I’d rather be killed in a skiing accident than have an embarrassing odor,” Siobhan simpered.

For nearly a week she’d been fretting about feminine hygiene. This was almost as bad as the time they went to the beach and she worked herself up in a tizzy about the specter of sweaty boobs. Rodrigo wished she could see herself as the beautiful woman she was, and not pay any attention to the predatory marketing efforts of the world’s “beauty” conglomerates.

Rodrigo winked and tugged Siobhan’s panties lower. “Give me an hour and we’ll get you good and stinky. Deal?”

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It Takes A Lot of Oomph

  • k-avatarthe mother of an 18-month-old daughter
  • propel a converted atomic submarine into space
  • Because it’s the latter.
  • — what is another word for POOP? —
  • daughter receives a valuable present

It takes a lot of oomph to propel a converted atomic submarine into space, as Giselle found out last Tuesday. That morning she was just the mother of an 18-month-old daughter, but by dinnertime she was an admiral of sorts. Her little Elizabeth, or Bitty as she was known, was a source of more than enough oomph to get the job done.

Giselle had been asked to document how the feat was accomplished, but writing memos had never been her strong suit. “The power for liftoff was obtained from a dense deposit of Bitty’s business,” she explained to the patient boatswain. He lifted one eyebrow and asked, “‘Business’? Can’t you be more precise?”

“Well then help me write this!” Giselle implored. “It came from her diaper, for gosh sakes, but I can’t say… I mean there are some words that just don’t belong in an official memo! But my brain’s seized up — what is another word for POOP? — and I can’t think clearly.”

The handsome boatswain smiled warmly. “Zero gravity sometimes affects mental acuity, and so does the stress of parenthood. In your case, you shouldn’t worry. Because it’s the latter. When a beautiful young mother’s daughter receives a valuable present, it can be quite distracting.”

“So you agree with me that Bitty’s too little to command her own vessel?”

“I’m sure you know what’s best. Perhaps we can address that topic in a later paragraph.”

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The Collision of the Two Vehicles

  • by jensome unlikely and very large costars
  • straighten out those dents
  • But when medicine isn’t available
  • fit for a Gothic melodrama
  • a gigantic sunflower

The collision of the two vehicles left a gigantic sunflower-shaped bruise on Harriet’s upper thigh. The only acceptable remedy was ice and a large dose of Vicodin. In Harriet’s mind even minor inconveniences spun themselves into operatic agonies fit for a Gothic melodrama in which she played the gloriously set-upon tragi-romantic heroine. She gazed with contempt upon the other participants in the unfortunate accident, pouting a bit at having to share her time in the spotlight with some unlikely and very large costars. Narcotics might make everything better for Harriet, it was true. But when medicine isn’t available, like for instance when the patient is a Volkswagen, Harriet conceded that she would have to find some other way to straighten out those dents. A mechanic, perhaps.

 

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Wandering the Suburban Blightscape

  • k-avatarhome with his sister
  • attained an altitude of four thousand feet
  • “No, that isn’t elegant.”
  • found myself in a cul-de-sac
  • threw herself into my arms

Wandering the suburban blightscape of Simon’s neighborhood, I found myself in a cul-de-sac rimmed with identical split-level houses. I hoped Simon was home with his sister. She shouldn’t be left alone in such desolation.

Spotting the four-digit number that spelt “Simon” in the arcane addressing scheme of the development, and which was the sole means of distinguishing one house from any other, I rang the bell. Seconds later the door opened and Simone threw herself into my arms.

“Isn’t Simon here?” I asked with the breath she crushed from my lungs.

“He went up in the balloon this morning and he hasn’t come back!” Simone gasped.

This didn’t bode well. On the balloon’s previous flight, it had attained an altitude of four thousand feet and then couldn’t be coaxed to descend by the usual means. The Civil Air Patrol was called in and had to determine the best way to return Simon and his wayward contraption to terra firma.

“You could shoot down the balloon with arrows,” Simon’s brother had suggested. Minos coveted Simon’s collection of baseball cards and could be relied upon to offer malevolent advice on any topic.

The ranking officer of the Patrol was cool-headed. “No, that isn’t elegant.” The grizzled veteran glanced about the room before concluding, “We’ll use the grappling hooks!”

Now I stroked Simone’s jet hair and told her it would all be fine, but I suppressed a shudder as I recalled the cruel barbs of those hooks, and of the crewmen who launched them.

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“How Much Do You Drink?” She Asked.

  • by jenHow much do you drink?
  • on the Indonesian island of Flores
  • looks pretty cute in his mugshot
  • vital, sunburnt, carefree
  • dazed but not seriously injured

“How much do you drink?” she asked.

“Like I’m on vacation on the Indonesian island of Flores,” he assured.

She eyed him with a smirk. “You look like a guy who looks pretty cute in his mugshot: vital, sunburnt, carefree. Like the bar fight you were arrested for left you dazed but not seriously injured.”

He shrugged and she admired his lazy smile. “But in any case, you have the right to remain silent.” She cuffed his wrists together behind his back. “I’ll have to ask the booking officer if I can have a copy of your mugshot to see if I’m right.”

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The Captain Cleared His Throat

  • k-avatarThe captain cleared his throat
  • for perhaps a minute
  • rubbed her nose tip
  • cool, hard and prickly
  • And then up.
  • plain khaki shirt and slacks
  • by sonic violence
  • killed in an aircrash

The captain cleared his throat for perhaps a minute. Phoebe shuffled her feet, seeming just about bored enough to create a scene. Hoping to distract her, I reached over and rubbed her nose tip, which was cool, hard and prickly. She smiled. Finally, the captain began his speech, and I along with Phoebe and all the rest learned what real boredom can be. At last, he bade us all take our seats and the vehicle sped down the runway. And then up. The plane climbed like a firework, mashing me back in my seat and flattening Phoebe’s plumage. Our frightful acceleration didn’t seem to impede the hostess, who looked beguiling even in her uniform of a plain khaki shirt and slacks. Phoebe pecked the back of my head when I swiveled it to observe the hostess’s progress down the aisle. I wondered if perhaps the captain’s lugubrious oration might have contained important information, for the rate of our ascent continued to increase, as did the noise. Conversation was rendered impossible by sonic violence emanating from the engines. Thus I was unable to inquire as to whether, should we break apart somewhere above the atmosphere, people on the ground would still say we’d been killed in an aircrash.

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