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.

Turning Her Lips

  • by jenstill damp from the bath
  • turning her lips
  • I know he is alive
  • you do have a lovely arse
  • made use of vibrational lore
  • revel in the soft skin of the breasts

Turning her lips from a smile to a grimace, Reggie made use of vibrational lore handed down to her from her grandmother to confuse the mind of her supervisor so that she could slip out of work early Friday afternoon.

At home later, her hair still damp from the bath, Reggie turned on Maury in time to see a woman declare, “I know he is alive!”

I guess she’s talking about her baby-daddy, Reggie thought.

In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator to find an early dinner. The only thing that looked appetizing was the leftover fried chicken. She took a moment to mentally revel in the soft skin of the breasts before nuking them.

After eating, Reggie shimmied into her slinky black dress and checked her appearance in the mirror before heading out to the local pub.

“You do have a lovely arse!” she told herself happily.

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The Condition of the Sheets

  • k-avataran army of sweating mules
  • supple-looking, with iridescent lapels
  • “like a cat?”
  • a month’s rent in advance
  • the Trump Bordello
  • wearing only yachtsman’s loafers and underpants

The condition of the sheets suggested that the bed had been the scene of some great undertaking by an army of sweating mules. But the condition of Rodrigo’s attire made it clear that, if he’d had any part in those labors, he was now above such menial things and destined for a corner office. His lime-green corduroy trousers were counterpointed by a plasticine blazer in tones of orange and gold, supple-looking, with iridescent lapels. (It was surely a very stylish corner office.)

Three sharp knocks at the door. Rodrigo crossed the suite and opened the door to Faye-Wren, his confidante, his bookie, and his hired wrench. Her pillbox sat askew to the right, meaning her latest assignment had been completed successfully. The twinkle in her almond eyes meant she’d heard about Rodrigo’s exploits of the previous night. “Was she very flexible and fastidious?” Faye-Wren asked impertinently, “like a cat?”

Rodrigo responded with a lazy-eyed smile. His carnal escapades had centered on someone quite catlike, but not feminine in the least. By paying a month’s rent in advance, he got first pick of the diversions on offer at the Trump Bordello.

It was then that Faye-Wren doffed her hat, and Rodrigo saw that the gesture left her wearing only yachtsman’s loafers and underpants.

 

bonus points for using them in order!

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I Had Been Tracking the Missing Goats

  • by jenthey sup at alien tables
  • the missing goats
  • kiss the girls
  • “Bandits — Bandits! Bandits!”
  • water-gypsies!
  • the toothed circle of a reconstructed Stonehenge

I had been tracking the missing goats for almost 24 hours, ever since my sister ran from the barn screaming, “Bandits — Bandits! Bandits!” The trail led me here, to the toothed circle of a reconstructed Stonehenge on the lonely, windy Salisbury Plain. Who could have re-erected these enormous stones in a single evening? And then the answer came to me. Water-gypsies! Harnessing their intrepid water-moose, the lovely aquatic extraterrestrials could accomplish nearly anything. I sat on the cold, damp ground and leaned my back against one of the towering sarsen stones and waited for my chance to kiss the girls from another world. As for the goats? Well, I’m afraid to say that tonight they sup at alien tables. We shan’t be seeing them again.

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I was surely dead!

  • k-avatargathered worshippers in his turnups
  • giggled and tickled the boy next to her?
  • a cocoon of darkness
  • with the skirts of their nightshirts on fire
  • I was surely dead!

I was surely dead! My chances were about as good as a couple of sleepwalking jugglers at a gas station with the skirts of their nightshirts on fire.

My mind writhed in a cocoon of darkness. Was it Marie Curie who giggled and tickled the boy next to her? Did she tickle me?

A farmer, barefoot, gathered worshippers in his turnups. Is he a god to crickets?

 

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Gladiola Sincerely Hoped

  • by jengroup prayer
  • informality prevails
  • lavish ceremonialism
  • genitals

Gladiola sincerely hoped that the large crowd would respect the lavish ceremonialism she had striven for when arranging the group prayer, and that it wouldn’t degenerate into one of the boorish affairs where informality prevails and the men feel compelled to expose their genitals.

bonus points for using them all in one sentence!

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Because they believed us

  • k-avatarpop that sucker out
  • eat pizza! fun fun!
  • designs on their pots
  • hardest departure
  • insane stoicism

Because they believed us to have designs on their pots, the primitive artisans drove us away with sharp sticks and their own spittle. Smithers refused to go, even when they poked him, although he relented in his insane stoicism when the chief began to tickle him.

Awaiting Smithers, the rest of us were stranded by the receding tide. Such is the tale of our hardest departure. One of the savages, fascinated by our fair hair and dungarees, fled his ancestral home to experience Western culture. After six months, all he would say was, “eat pizza! fun fun!”

Presenting my research to the dean, I found myself at a loss to reply when he stated, “Ya gots ta pop that sucker out.”

 

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“There Are Always Girls There”

  • by jenthere are always girls
  • planted the desire
  • sight-taste-feel-know sensation
  • black plastic bags gathered around her
  • the man with his hood thrown back

“There are always girls there,” said the man with his hood thrown back to his compatriots. And with those simple words he planted the desire in them to visit the strange new club.

Inside, a girl writhed on the stage, nude except for the black plastic bags gathered around her. The men gulped and stared.

Behind the bar a neon sign buzzed loudly, advertising in lurid red and purple the latest trendy alcoholic beverage: Sight-Taste-Feel-Know Sensation!

“One for me,” said the man with his hood thrown back to the bartender. “And one for the lady.”

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Not in a million years

  • k-avatar“Get on the floor!”
  • He had used knives before
  • not in a million years
  • chittering, twittering sounds
  • a distinctly squashlike appearance
  • sucked up the liquified flesh

Not in a million years would Melvin have guessed that the chittering, twittering sounds originated from a creature having such a distinctly squashlike appearance. He took a step toward it and it suddenly reared up and barked, “Get on the floor!”

And then Melvin understood that this was a plontworb, and his life was in danger. The creatures had overrun the lower decks and fed on most of Engineering. They killed with a jet of caustic digestive fluids that turned their prey into puddles, and then sucked up the liquified flesh.

But he knew they had weak spots, if he could only locate a weapon. He had used knives before…

 

 

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“Don’t You Think I Want A Cigarette”

  • by jenbecause of the heat of all the dead bodies
  • deserve a straight answer
  • a cigarette or two
  • rows and rows
  • the very thought makes my mouth water

“Don’t you think I want a cigarette or two myself? The very thought makes my mouth water,” said Philip. “But we can’t.”

“Why not?” said Phyllis. “I think I deserve a straight answer!”

Philip gestured at the rows and rows of corpses. “Because of the heat of all the dead bodies.”

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Helga was a witch

  • k-avatarcertainly gambled and caroused
  • the face of that terrible woman
  • in the pastor’s opinion
  • monstrous Stalinist-vintage building
  • dotted with bright red poppies
  • seven-fingered human hand

Helga was a witch, in the pastor’s opinion.

His suspicions could have derived from her propensity for filthy hair and cackling laughter, or the evidence that she more than occasionally butchered stray cats. It could have owed something to her sordid past, when she had certainly gambled and caroused, or the fact that she dwelled in seclusion in a monstrous Stalinist-vintage building situated incongruously amid waving grasses dotted with bright red poppies. But no.

It was all because of the simple fact that any time pastor saw the face of that terrible woman his mind filled with the ghostly image of a seven-fingered human hand.

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