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 was in the Same Airborne Dinner Theater as Petit Julien

  • by jenmade with real human bones
  • everyone acted like you’d pooped on the floor
  • assortment of exotic jerkies
  • while grunting like a zombie
  • (and in denial)

Tune in next time part 809      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was in the same airborne dinner theater as Petit Julien, the most dangerous mime in the world, (and in denial). All I wanted was to have a few peaceful hours alone with Tessa, the woman I loved, but our lives were too complicated for even that simple pleasure. Tessa had commandeered the theater’s sound system and was blasting Deuce Pamplemousse’s disco anthem Hop on My Caboose in what I hoped was an effort at distracting the deranged mime. Her attempt was moderately successful. While grunting like a zombie, swaying his hips, and occasionally thrusting one finger to the sky, Julien was still lurching toward me. Hearing a mime of such high calibre making any noise at all was as unexpected as finding an assortment of exotic jerkies in a vegetarian buffet. Mimes are mercilessly shamed into silence early in their schooling. If you so much as sneezed, everyone acted like you’d pooped on the floor.

The audience seemed baffled, and the actors on stage opted to wing it and pretend this was part of the show. I wished them luck as Tessa exited the control booth and the two of us ducked out the back door. I didn’t know what would happen when the song ended, but I did know that Julien had a secret recipe for his white face paint. It was made with real human bones ground into a powder and mixed with petroleum jelly. Contrarian thespians are made of stern stuff, but I wasn’t sure they were up for this particular adversary.

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The Situation Was Dire Indeed

  • by KentWhat kind of traps?
  • why there was a whole cucumber back there
  • purple leather shorts
  • Ha ha ha. (In my personal experience.)
  • not a disco album?

Tune in next time part 808      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The situation was dire indeed if it truly was Petit Julien we faced, the mime no invisible box could hold. What kind of barrier would be effective? What kind of traps? Tessa knew far more mime lore than I did, so I hoped she was aware of some critical weakness we could exploit.

She vaulted over the bar and disappeared through a door. I gave chase and found myself dashing through a commercial kitchen, leaving it behind so fast I barely had time to wonder why there was a whole cucumber back there when the chapel only served them brined and sliced.

Tessa hadn’t slowed down, so I couldn’t afford to either. I pursued her through the dinner theater. I couldn’t remember what show they were running, but the lead actor’s purple leather shorts jogged my memory. It was a Contrarian comedy about dehydration. It was full of dry humor. Ha ha ha. (In my personal experience.) (The animated version ran on weekday afternoons when I was a kid.) (And I was a weird kid.)

I risked a look back. The burly man was still following, and seemed to be gaining. That momentary glance away was all it took for me to lose sight of Tessa. I kept running, scanning the crowd. A few seconds later I deduced that she’d gone into the control booth, based on the sudden blast of music. I hoped this was actually something the Mime King would be vulnerable to. I had no idea what might be effective, so why not a disco album?

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“Don’t Look Now, Enzo”

  • by jenburly man with a thick neck
  • appears to be a sequined ballgown
  • fondness for partying, drinking, and womanizing
  • photographic evidence of the handholding toilet experience
  • they had a civil marriage

Tune in next time part 807      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t look now, Enzo,” I whispered, “but there’s a burly man with a thick neck creeping up behind you. He’s wearing what appears to be a sequined ballgown.”

She whispered back, “It sounds like he’s the sort of guy who has a fondness for partying, drinking, and womanizing.”

This was a game we played, our own variation on What’s Their Story. Only everything we said was in code, so that we could relay important information to each other without anyone becoming suspicious.

I nodded. “I think he’s a salesman for Hizzenherrs Toilets, and always carries photographic evidence of the handholding toilet experience they try to promote.”

Her eyes went wide. “His parents founded the company. They liked to poop together because they had a civil marriage. Their motto was ‘Never go to the bathroom angry.'”

If that were true, it was worse than I thought, and the man sneaking up behind her wasn’t just any old mime. He was the most ruthless mime of them all, their king, Petit Julien.

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“That Would Be Cruel”

  • by Kentshook his butt
  • walk around in ugly pajamas
  • rhythm helps your two hips move
  • writhed around like he was being electrocuted
  • focusing less on his lemon

Tune in next time part 806      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“That would be cruel,” Tessa chided. “First we shoot them with blowdarts, and then we just abandon them to post-polarization syndrome?”

“You shot them with blowdarts,” I corrected. “Feel free to lay the abandonment entirely on me and we’ll call it even.”

“That’s not how it works. We’re in this together.” She hopped off her barstool and danced across the chapel to where Rosencrantz was flailing about on his couch. She jostled the couch forcefully, which shook his butt right off it.

He was too woozy to stand on his own, but sharp enough to give me the stinkeye and say, “You must have some reason to walk around in ugly pajamas all day.”

“I’m dressed as a scientist,” I complained.

Meanwhile Tessa had gone to the other couch and dislodged its lanky occupant. As she shoved on the couch, she explained to him, “The rhythm helps your two hips move out of the polarization zone.” He sprawled on the floor. “Hey, Seahorse,” Tessa called. “How we doing with those pickles?”

“Calm down, Enzo.” Against my better judgment I took a couple of gherkins and some fruit garnishes over to Rosenkrantz. He first tried to bite my hand, then writhed around like he was being electrocuted in order to fend off my efforts at feeding him. He seized a wedge of citrus from me and tried to weaponize its juice, aiming for my eyes. He only managed to stain my lab coat, but by then I was focusing less on his lemon and more on the newest arrival in the pickle chapel.

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Rosenkrantz and His Tall Companion

  • by jencreated a lot of real headaches
  • hungry yet oddly belligerent
  • medieval nonsense from an old song
  • world’s least-sexual use of lips
  • as though by magic

Tune in next time part 805      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Rosenkrantz and his tall companion ceased being polarized in perfect synchronicity, as though by magic. The final stage before normalcy resumed had their facial features squirming around like an organic Rubik’s cube, truly the world’s least-sexual use of lips. Nonsense words sprang from those writhing lips, sounding like medieval nonsense from an old song.

“Better get some pickles ready,” Tessa said.

I nodded. Polarization makes one hungry yet oddly belligerent about eating. If you weren’t able to cram some food into a recent polarizee’s mouth pretty immediately it created a lot of real headaches.

Then I had another thought. “We could just leave.”

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Our Next Move

  • by Kentthe eerie exhibition
  • optimal number of dogs
  • never fun for someone else’s drama to splash on you
  • stroked the back of her hand over its rough surface
  • both became fairly competent rappers over the years

Tune in next time part 804      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Our next move was apparently to remain stationary for a while longer wondering what the hell was going on. In a way it was ironic that Lyudmila and Jason were enemies, because they both became fairly competent rappers over the years. Seemed that way to me anyway, not that I considered myself an expert. But I began to wonder if this was the common thread that would explain the coded message.

Tessa ordered another pickle, saying it would help her think. I said I didn’t think that was wise, but she ignored me and stroked the back of her hand over its rough surface, so intent on this action that brine was flung from her fingers and got all over me. It’s never fun for someone else’s drama to splash on you, especially not when that drama is in the form of Contrarian pickle brine.

A hazy recollection rose up, something I’d overheard at one of Fleur’s family functions. “The optimal number of dogs is one cat…” and then there was more that I didn’t quite catch. But why would John’s sister be referencing Contrarian idioms in messages to my twin?

I swiveled on my barstool just in time to observe the eerie exhibition of two polarizing couches simultaneously running out of juice.

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Choosing a Code Name

  • by jenyou rapacious bird of prey
  • ever seen an old lady with a secret
  • using a plain old corkscrew
  • room-quaking vocal performances
  • not even her children knew

Tune in next time part 803      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Choosing a code name is something you shouldn’t overthink. Everyone wants something badass, something that will inspire one’s enemy to gasp, “Night Talon, you rapacious bird of prey! I surrender!” But it rarely works out that way. Mostly they laugh because you tried too hard. For that reason I was leaning more toward the seahorse or spaghetti end of the spectrum. I opted for Seahorse because it seemed the most innocuous. I mean, have you ever seen an old lady with a secret pasta recipe? They are vicious! My own grandmother once pinned my Aunt Züg’s hand to the table using a plain old corkscrew when Züg tried to guess the secret ingredient in her infamous buttered noodles. Züg gave one of the most room-quaking vocal performances I’ve ever heard, screaming in pain and outrage. That was the thing about Granny. Not even her children knew what might set her off.

So anyway, code names chosen, Enzo and the Seahorse were finally ready to make their next move.

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Tessa And I Had Failed

  • by KentThis should not be surprising
  • my father enrolled me in boarding school
  • including an ax murder over a chess game
  • keeping Enzo from whispering sweet nothings
  • skulls, seahorses or spaghetti

Tune in next time part 802      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa and I had failed to guess what Jason and Lyudmila were concocting. This should not be surprising considering the pickle-stupor we had inflicted on ourselves. But it should be surprising considering that my father enrolled me in boarding school where the curriculum specialized in nefarious dealings and where the penalties for poor performance were quite dire, including an ax murder over a chess game (although admittedly in that case the teacher had been the victim, not the perpetrator). All we had figured out was that we wanted to use code names, even though the gents riding the polarizing couches obviously knew who we were (except they mistook me for my twin). Tessa wanted to be known as ‘Enzo.’ We were reluctant to move away from the bar, because over here we were spared harsh criticism aimed at keeping Enzo from whispering sweet nothings of speculation into my ear. The code name I wanted was Jason, which I thought would be hilarious but ‘Enzo’ worried would give us away. “The real Jason wouldn’t use his own name as a code name,” she whispered. I wasn’t so sure. He had made a lot of spectacularly bad decisions in his time. Still, I didn’t want to waste the couches’ battery life arguing about it. So I asked her to help me come up with a name that related to one of the headings I had seen in my brother’s dream journal, and we quickly narrowed that down to skulls, seahorses or spaghetti.

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“Whatever Jason and Lyudmila are Up To”

  • by jenNot Machiavellian, but
  • a highly unusual practice
  • I’m beginning to think
  • Two coffees and four lagers later
  • illicit parrot-smuggling operation

Tune in next time part 801      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Whatever Jason and Lyudmila are up to can’t be good,” Tessa whispered in my ear. “Not Machiavellian, but probably close.”

“Whispering in front of your hostages is a highly unusual practice,” Tallman complained. “I’m beginning to think you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Tessa and I nodded at each other and turned the polarization controls up halfway. While our guests dealt with that, we sat at the bar to make plans over pickle beverages. Two coffees and four lagers later we were both queasy and had come to the conclusion that my twin and John’s sister were probably not involved in an illicit parrot-smuggling operation.

That left a lot of other options. We had to sober up and figure this out before the polarizing sofas’ batteries ran out.

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“I’ve Never Even Met Uranus”

It’s our chain story’s octocentennial! In keeping with tradition, Jen and Kent will write this entry together. Also traditional is our use of a unique source for our prompt phrases. This time we pulled them from the Wikipedia entry for Runic Magic, in honor of our pen name. Jen goes first, writing until she incorporates the first prompt phrase. Then it’s Kent’s turn. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  • shaken and thrown down like dice
  • including nine symbols
  • cut off a branch from a nut-bearing tree
  • The same curse
  • his own original method
  • ale served by the host’s wife
  • apparently meaningless utterances
  • This act of singing
  • marked on one’s fingernails
  • has a certain sound to it

Tune in next time part 799 & 800      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I’ve never even met Uranus Pamplemousse,” I said. “He has no influence over me, evil or otherwise.”

“That’s not what Rosenkrantz said,” Tallboy said, nodding at the dude on the other sofa, who, due to his ongoing polarization, looked like he’d been shaken and thrown down like dice. “He knows all about your ‘secret’ clubhouse, and he saw the note on the whiteboard. You know, the one including nine symbols, as in nine planets! He saw how you and Uranus were connected.”

Was Jason somehow in league with Uranus Pamplemousse? Or had this guy’s ancestors neglected to “cut off a branch from a nut-bearing tree” as my Uncle Jinx used to say. Maybe his family was afflicted by hereditary stupidity. The same curse was said to have hung over my father’s line, until it was replaced by a different curse when he met Mother. It would certainly take a monumental amount of stupidity to align oneself with Uranus, but if any of my brothers would do it, it was Jason. He always had his own original method for making things worse. Like the time he performed at a mansion and threw up in the pool after drinking far too much of the ale served by the host’s wife (aka, the bride).

Rosenkrantz tried to say something, but the polarization made whatever it was into a series of apparently meaningless utterances. We all waited quietly while he tried again, and then again, but still none of it made any sense. On his next attempt, Rosenkrantz varied the pitch of his voice. This act of singing seemed to allow his meaning to come through.

The gist of it was, “Help!”

“Can’t you stop that crazy contraption now?” Talldude said. “I told you the message.”

I shrugged. Tessa pouted a little, but turned the polarization down to the lowest level. Rosenkrantz slowly took on his usual shape, all except for his fingertips. Once one has been severely polarized, it is marked on one’s fingernails forever.

“Now what?” Rosenkrantz warbled. Another side-effect of polarization is that one’s voice has a certain sound to it. Tessa and I were both trying not to laugh, and even his tall friend was smirking at him.

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