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.

Felix is Plotting a Rampage

  • by jenthe plight of the American stockbroker
  • with a long-lost sister
  • dancing the wicked flamenco
  • are they being worn by non-members?
  • he will not hesitate to shoot you, whether you voted for him or not

Felix is plotting a rampage at the school’s Homecoming dance. He’s in the running for Homecoming King, but don’t assume you’re safe if he wins. He’s so disgruntled he will will not hesitate to shoot you, whether you voted for him or not. So go ahead and vote for whoever you think is cutest, or whatever the criteria are for the position.

You may well ask why Felix is so bent on dancing the wicked flamenco of destruction. He told me he is concerned for the plight of the American stockbroker. I think he was being facetious.

My theory involves Felix’s recent meeting with a long-lost sister in which she expressed her horror at the thought of outsiders wearing country club jackets to the dance. Have you heard anything about this? Are they being worn by non-members? And if so, is that a call to arms?

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“Please,” I Begged

  • k-avataryet oddly not hard
  • a huge eel lay on the table
  • like a slender cherub
  • slowly and most wickedly
  • don’t be cruel to me
  • her brows, nostrils, lips

“Please,” I begged, “don’t be cruel to me.”

Her response to my supplication registered slowly and most wickedly in tiny movements of her brows, nostrils, lips, and ears. Finally she marched her fingers across my exposed thigh, her dainty hand looking like a slender cherub.

A huge eel lay on the table beside me. Being dead, it wasn’t strapped down. Being alive, I was.

The woman’s fingers had crossed my lap and attained their objective, curling around the haft of a long knife. It was hard to believe she meant to eat me, yet oddly not hard.

“At least tell me your name,” I stammered.

“Minerva,” she sighed, carving a thick steak from the eel without taking her eyes off of mine.

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Hieronymus Warhol Wandered the Arid Australian Outback

  • by jenonly this wasn’t a dolphin or a lion
  • a certain rock
  • It’s the fever
  • the sparkling synapses
  • tiny bubbles from his angelic lips

Hieronymus Warhol wandered the arid Australian outback in search of his spirit guide for three days before discovering a certain rock that spoke to him. By that time Hieronymus was naked, hungry, sunburnt, and severely dehydrated. The sparkling synapses in his overtaxed mind misfired repeatedly as the rock, the beautiful gray rock, told him where to find his spirit guide.

Hieronymus had been expecting a grand and noble creature to guide him on his quest, only this wasn’t a dolphin or a lion. It was Donald Trump.

It’s the fever, Hieronymus thought as he gazed upon Donald Trump spewing tiny bubbles from his angelic lips.

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Amanda Has Not Moved

  • nothing at all unusual in thisk-avatar
  • countless x-rays
  • normally so motionless
  • the stench of rotten fish
  • the files of the child welfare committee

Amanda has not moved in 17 hours.

There is nothing at all unusual in this, as she is normally so motionless that birds alight on her head and moss grows on her toenails. What is a bit unusual is that the stench of rotten fish hasn’t prompted her to relocate.

The tips are good down here at Fisherman’s Wharf, but not that good. And the freak tide, with its concomitant aroma, has chased off all the tourists anyway.

Amanda’s silver body paint reflects most of the solar heat, but also inhibits perspiration. She must be uncomfortable. She faces the promenade, with Alcatraz in the background. A living photo-op.

Enduring countless x-rays as a little girl must have trained her to keep still. The reason for all those medical images is sealed away in the files of the child welfare committee.

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He’s the Kind of Guy Who Keeps a List of Judicial Candidates

  • by jenhas her gargle with salt water
  • a jar of warm sputum
  • judicial candidates with humorous names
  • and then he’d wave
  • the Swiss bank account of a total stranger

He’s the kind of guy who keeps a list of judicial candidates with humorous names to choose his aliases from. The kind of guy who takes his date to an orgy, but then has her gargle with salt water before he’ll kiss her afterwards. He probably collects it so that he has a jar of warm sputum to remember her by. And then he’d wave and send her off into the night on her own so that he could sit at his computer and try to hack his way into the Swiss bank account of a total stranger. In other words, he’s just like all the rest. OKCupid sucks.

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“Are You Telepathic?”

  • k-avatarand feeling for a zipper
  • and a felt hat like a helmet
  • Are you telepathic?
  • Better than getting drunk!
  • the finest esprit de corps the world has ever known
  • Also 50 yards of extension cord

“Are you telepathic?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Because if you were, I wouldn’t have to waste time speaking aloud. But, unless you’re hiding your true abilities behind a bland denial, I suppose speech is going to be necessary.”

“Does anyone ever say yes?”

“One man did once, and elderly fellow with a bow tie and a felt hat like a helmet. I thought about cars at him, and he stumbled away swearing and feeling for a zipper. So I think he was lying.”

“How about you? Can you read minds?”

“Sometimes. Better than getting drunk! But I need two live doves to make it work. Also 50 yards of extension cord.”

Telepaths have the finest esprit de corps the world has ever known.

“I quite agree.”

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Trudy Looked at the Pamphlet

  • by jenIs your skin too loose?
  • as double-jointed as a trained mime
  • biting her lip furiously
  • the lewd cartoon
  • he blushed like a boy
  • toxic sludge in the neighborhood

Trudy looked at the pamphlet in her hand, biting her lip furiously to keep from smiling. Ever since the EPA found toxic sludge in the neighborhood, they’d been getting stuff like this in the mail – offers for all kinds of services that would solve all of their alleged problems.

“Is your skin too loose?” was the headline on this one. Trudy handed it to her father who opened it to read the details. As he scanned he blushed like a boy.

Trudy looked over his shoulder to see what the problem was. Presumably it was the illustration that embarrassed him so. The lewd cartoon depicted a woman as double-jointed as a trained mime who was demonstrating just how loose her skin was.

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“Really, Winifred”

  • k-avatarfrom your clogged and sputtery pen
  • “It’s a farmer’s job.”
  • The goat raised her head
  • Like kittens about to ignominiously drowned
  • Russia, without a doubt
  • “Really, Winifred,”
  • Agriculture is a broad field
  • carefully maneuvered herself between Angel and Will

“Really, Winifred,” Walter sighed. “It’s a farmer’s job.”

Winifred smirked. “It’s like you always say, though. Agriculture is a broad field. Why shouldn’t a broad stand out in it?”

The goat raised her head, then carefully maneuvered herself between Angel and Will, the pair of mastiffs who kept order in the chickenyard. Walter scratched his chin, looking from the goat to his wife and back. “Okay,” he finally agreed.

Glee made Winifred’s eyes into tiny, happy animals. Like kittens about to be ignominiously drowned. Walter knew she would soon beg him to take over, but meanwhile she would learn another side of the business. Where had she picked up such curiosity? Russia, without a doubt.

Maybe the mail-order marriage hadn’t been such a good idea. The magazine ad had been too irresistible — “A beauty who will keep you warm, for just a few words from your clogged and sputtery pen.”

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“No, no, no, no, no, Chico!”

  • by jenhe was like a cat pouncing
  • immobility his eyebrow moved
  • noticed the colour of your dressing gown
  • rather the Latin temperament
  • Not even a compromising bequest!
  • a most awkward mistake
  • They die, yes

“No, no, no, no, no, Chico!” screamed Thelonious Tharp, and Chico Desideria knew that once again he had made a most awkward mistake. Chico both admired and despised his choreographer and mentor, Thelonious. Admired him for the way that when he danced he was like a cat pouncing, despised him because he possessed rather the Latin temperament and made no move to disguise it.

Chico knew what mistake he’d made this time. He was supposed to prance and cavort, leap awkwardly in time to the arrhythmic music, and then freeze. But despite his required immobility his eyebrow moved. Thelonious was livid, as usual.

“Chico, today when you left the dressing room I noticed the colour of your dressing gown had changed and I hoped that your attitude had changed along with your sartorial choices. I was wrong! You are as useless as ever! And you know, don’t you Chico, what the parents of one as unimpressive as you do? They die, yes, die! Of shame! And they leave nothing to their disappointing offspring, Chico. Not even a compromising bequest!”

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I Received a Visit From My Nephew Today

  • k-avatarheavy in his breast pocket
  • Yours sincerely, Gordon K.
  • tracks leading off into the blinding snow
  • an industry catering to “needs”
  • like pumpernickel bread
  • with a lip-smacking sigh
  • a band of earnest, friendly gnomes

I received a visit from my nephew today, a band of earnest, friendly gnomes heavy in his breast pocket. He wished to discuss a business loan, which is the reason for this letter. He would tell me little of his scheme, except that it is an industry catering to “needs.” He spoke these words with a lip-smacking sigh, his close-cropped dark hair, like pumpernickel bread, betraying the tingle in his scalp.

Eventually I had to send him away. I can still see his tracks leading off into the blinding snow.

I would greatly appreciate if you could spare a moment to apply your prodigious knowledge of gnomes, and their needs, to the question of my nephew’s scheme’s viability.

Yours sincerely, Gordon K.

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