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.

I Hated Working At The Strip Club

  • by jeneye contact during a fingerbang
  • those nicknames were always for in-family use only
  • The adventure of the Devil’s Thumb
  • the most hackneyed of subjects
  • hoping for a glimpse of the glamorous chorus girls
  • seemed to be by no means diminished
  • zoo for endangered species

I hated working at the strip club. I know that’s just about the most hackneyed of subjects imaginable. Sorry. I never would have started dancing there if I hadn’t needed the money so bad. The front row was always full of guys drooling like poachers at a zoo for endangered species. How much nicer if they’d act like society gentlemen merely hoping for a glimpse of the glamorous chorus girls they’d heard so much about. There were never any gentlemen at the Devil’s Thumb, though, just drunks and frat bros who expected you to maintain eye contact during a fingerbang in the private room for a lousy tip.

The adventure of the Devil’s Thumb was in never knowing when the place would get raided, but the clientele’s libidos seemed to be by no means diminished by threat of arrest.

One night I was on the pole and I heard someone shout, “Hey Boo Boo, check out the tits on Skeeter!” and I knew I was in for it. Those nicknames were always for in-family use only, which meant that a couple of my cousins had just figured out where I was working, and in no time my whole family would know. Damn you, Boo Boo!

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Not Even A Mouse – Holiday Prompt

  • k-avatarhe was dressed all in fur
  • got stuck only once
  • like the down of a thistle
  • leaving crumbs much too small
  • not even a mouse

Not even a mouse could slip through the tiny gaps between stones, but frigid drafts infiltrated the hut from all sides. Even though he was dressed all in fur, Nick shivered. Climbing to the summit alone was foolish, just like everyone tried to tell him. But all the way up he felt cocky, especially after successfully making the eastern traverse. He got stuck only once, which forced him to backtrack and take a higher route, costing him precious time he didn’t realize he should be hoarding. As daylight faltered on way his back down, Nick spotted this rock-walled dwelling and decided not to press on. A night descent would be suicide. Now he stared sullenly at the small heap of twigs on the hearth, and shivered. His flint had disintegrated when struck, leaving crumbs much too small to be of any use. He might get a meager spark, with luck, which might light a sufficiently fine kindling like the down of the thistle, but all Nick had were twigs.

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That New Restaurant – Holiday Prompt

  • by jenthat old silk hat they found
  • the moon on the breast
  • I’d take the seasick crocodile
  • strike the harp
  • since reindeer are scarce

That new restaurant turned out to be a real disappointment! First the waiter informed us that, due to a late delivery, they had to strike the harp seal from the menu. Then my husband asked for a description of the chef’s speciality, but it turned out that the “moon” on the breast of emu was just a lump of mashed potatoes. I had a hard time deciding what I wanted, but since reindeer are scarce it was agreed that I’d take the seasick crocodile. As we waited for the food, our twins squabbled over that old silk hat they found in the cloakroom. They enjoyed that more than their free-range antelope chops!

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Our Plans Worked to Perfection

  • k-avatarscreen door of his sleeping porch
  • impatiently explains to strangers
  • very sore and humiliated
  • save for spasmodic jumping
  • Our plans worked to perfection

Our plans worked to perfection, save for spasmodic jumping. We didn’t anticipate that side effect. The rats showed no such symptoms during our preliminary experiments, and we still haven’t pinned down the cause. Anyway, Fleming is very sore and humiliated, and I find it delightful to observe as he impatiently explains to strangers, through the screen door of his sleeping porch, that he’s a government agent working deep cover to expose illicit and unethical psychological research at the university. He evidently doesn’t know we carted him across the border, and these strangers don’t speak English.

Bonus points for using them in reverse order?

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Poet, Sir?

  • by jenPoet, sir?
  • lie festering in the crowded alleys
  • inherently disturbing but not gory
  • a jar of warm sputum
  • concentrating on my landlady’s cat

Poet, sir? You dare call me a poet? Do I have the look of one who would lie festering in the crowded alleys of Paris, drunk and penniless? The insinuation behind your “casual” inquiry is inherently disturbing but not gory, much like a jar of warm sputum. It tells me much about you, this assumption of yours in regards to my occupation. You presume I am concentrating on my landlady’s cat in preparation of writing an ode or a sonnet or — shudder – a limerick, when that is not the case at all. I am concentrating on my landlady’s cat so that I might learn to read his thoughts and gain valuable intelligence about my landlady’s comings and goings. Good day to you, sir. I say, good day!

bonus points for using them in order!

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As I Lay Here With You

  • dark thorn stuck in the skin
  • and there he lay for eighteen months
  • It was fascinating.
  • “I mean, obviously.”
  • as I lay here with you

Kent’s Take

k-avatar“As I lay here with you, I think of him. Not just his physical aspect, warmth and solidness, but his humor and his regrets. So I wonder about your regrets. We began as colleagues, and bonded over the riddle of the dark thorn stuck in the skin of a quarantined banana. It was fascinating. We ruled out every known kind of plant that produces thorns, so in the end we failed to determine whether this one might be dangerous, or deduce anything useful about where those bananas had been. But researching it side-by-side for a year and a half was how you and I fused into a single entity. He knew it was happening. He collapsed on the sofa the first night, sobbing, and there he lay for eighteen months. One day he was gone. I hear that now he only eats bananas.”

“I mean, obviously.”

 

Jen’s Take

“by jenAs I lay here with you, I am reminded of a weird, feminist retelling of Sleeping Beauty, where it was the prince who pricked his finger and fell asleep. Instead of a misadventure with a spinning wheel, the prince encountered an enchanted rose bush belonging to a witch. He made a ham-fisted attempt at plucking a bloom for his girlfriend and got jabbed. The dark thorn stuck in the skin of his index finger and he fell over, unconscious, on the garden path, and there he lay for eighteen months until he was awakened by a kiss from the valiant female gardener. It was fascinating.”

“I mean, obviously.” Jacinda smiled. “That’s why you never shut up about it.”

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Cotton Umbrellas, and Useful Knowledge

  • cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge
  • throw other people’s lives into disarray
  • Whenever she wore pants
  • Should it ever leave the ground
  • scattering in all directions

Jen’s Take

by jenFor years Lolita’s sartorial choices were the talk of the internet. Whenever she wore pants instead of a short skirt it would throw other people’s lives into disarray. Fashion bloggers never knew quite what to say, their clever words scattering in all directions like so many cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge of how the masses could emulate Lovely Lolita’s style never appeared. Lolita dreamed of turning all of her cast-off clothing into a giant hot air balloon. Should it ever leave the ground, she thought she would enjoy looking down on all those who had previously looked down on her.

Kent’s Take

k-avatarHer imagination was like a giant, colorful balloon filled with fish and sneakers and harmonicas. Should it ever leave the ground, the townsfolk would be flabbergasted by cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge, scattering in all directions.

Her balloon would always throw other people’s lives into disarray. They couldn’t reconcile her chaotic visions with their own preference for beige humdrummery. To see the creative faculties of her mind soaring over the trees made their earwax buzz.

Whenever she wore pants, her balloon sailed in figure-eights. Whenever she wore shoes, two tiny banjos were elected to parliament.

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Sheets of Flame Enveloped Every Surface

  1. k-avatarCharacter – pimp
  2. Setting – Hell
  3. Object – baseball card collection
  4. Situation – amnesia

Sheets of flame enveloped every surface, including the bubbling black tar of the river.

“I don’t remember how I got here,” I said to the tall, goat-headed person beside me.

“That’s normal,” the demon replied. “Which is too bad, because the dimensional transit vortex is really bitchin’.”

“The spinning tunnel of sulfurous lightning? Oh I remember that part,” I said. “I meant in a philosophical sense. As in, what did I do that was so terrible?”

“Ah!” Goat-Head brayed. “Tasty. Existential dread added to the other forms of torment! You’re gonna be a celebrity down here.”

“Maybe I can figure it out,” I said.

“Oh, I hope not.”

“Let’s see. I stole my sister’s baseball card collection…”

“That’s a first. But no, that’s not the reason.”

“I had a stable of skanky hos, sold their asses all up and down the north side. And I was looking to expand my territory, which come to think of it is probably what got me killed.”

“I’ve been a loyal customer for years. That’s not it.”

“Really? I was sure that would be the answer.”

“You were a businessman. The big guy doesn’t hold that against you.”

“Well, then what is it? Why did I get sent to Hell?”

Goat-Face grinned. “You’ll thank me someday for not telling you. Things get a bit monotonous after a century or two, and that question will be all that still interests you.”

I looked at him. His words made a kind of twisted sense, even if his breath was a roadkilled skunk in late July. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re okay in my book.”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “If I get fired from this job, I’ll have to move back in with my mom.”

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“I Don’t Care That You’re Married, Genevieve”

  1. by jenCharacter – cheating wife
  2. Setting – witch’s cottage
  3. Object – sequined handbag
  4. Situation – I smell smoke

“I don’t care that you’re married, Genevieve,” cried Wilhelm. “So am I, and I won’t let it keep us apart.”

The beautiful raven-haired woman behind the cauldron nodded and held out her hand, and Wilhelm handed over her gift. As she opened it, Wilhelm admired the pale green undertones in her silky complexion and the way the firelight danced in her deep black eyes. Those lovely dark orbs sparkled with delight when she saw the sequined handbag under all the layers of tissue paper. Or was it the smoke that made them glisten?

“Thank you darling, it’s lovely,” Genevieve purred. She pulled a ladle from the voluminous folds of her long black gown and scooped up some of the liquid from her bubbling vat. The fumes made Wilhelm’s head spin. Genevieve carefully poured the effervescent concoction into a vial and handed it to Wilhelm.

“Have your wife drink this and our troubles will be over.”

“What about your husband?”

Genevieve smiled lazily. “Let me worry about him.”

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When I Saw The Photo

  • k-avatarfoolishly assumed that the astronauts were
  • isn’t it a placebo?
  • in an earth-floored hut
  • something bigger, something that lasts
  • such a methodical revenge
  • But I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient
  • Don’t approach them.

When I saw the photo, I foolishly assumed that the astronauts were in an earth-floored hut. Of course I should have known immediately that it was a mars-floored hut. The hut was a temporary structure built alongside something bigger, something that lasts: the medical barracks of the Mars Colony.

Which was my workplace. I looked out the window and there was the hut, still intact despite its official purpose being depleted.

“You are to find these people and administer the injections. But do it via blowgun. Don’t approach them.” The person who showed me the photo also brought two slender hypodermic darts. I glanced at their labels.

“Fauxdoxicam? Isn’t it a placebo? But more importantly, I have no way to tell who the people in the picture are. They’re wearing spacesuits.”

“I can’t answer any questions. All I can do is communicate your mission parameters.” The stranger got up and left, muttering, “But I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient,” into a strange wrist-mounted device.

I had always known that I would someday need to repay the favor I owed to the interplanetary mob. It had to be them. No one else would exact such a methodical revenge.

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