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.

“Stop Crouching”

  • by jentie-dye crocs
  • witnessed his mother commit adultery in the back seat
  • at a depth of 500 feet
  • wasn’t in his mouth very long
  • hands of a stranger

Tune in next time part 659      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Stop crouching,” Dr Ferguson said. “It’s about as erotic as a pair of tie-dye crocs.”

The sweet warmth permeating my body felt extremely erotic. I knew it must be radiating off me, and it surprised me that Dr Ferguson couldn’t feel it, too. I felt like a man, like a sexual beast, and not at all like someone who once witnessed his mother commit adultery in the back seat of a private submarine at a depth of 500 feet.

I must not have stopped crouching, because Dr Ferguson sighed dramatically and joined me on the floor. As soon as she was close, I stuck out my tongue and licked her from navel to chin. “How’s that for erotic?” I said like Angela Tyrannosaure, my tongue thick with desire.

“Abort! Abort! He’s got the third slug!” a tinny voice cried from the ceiling.

I collapsed in slow motion, swimming through a flurry of sudden activity around me. Someone grabbed my head. “At least it wasn’t in his mouth very long,” that someone said as they wrestled with my tongue.

Behind me there was a pair of tugging sensations, and abruptly my skin felt cold and clammy, especially on my back. My eyes came into focus and I saw the trio of icicle slugs resting in the latex begloved hands of a stranger.

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My Current Situation

  • by Kenthow to conduct a toy dinosaur battle
  • They must be very cold.
  • Angela Lansbury doing a French accent
  • I did so by bouncing it off
  • and crouched while she drank it

Tune in next time part 658      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My current situation combined numerous unusual factors into a highly improbable whole, and like all such situations my Academy training had specific guidelines to address it. I recalled clearly the preamble to this section of the manual, the way it explained that how to cope with these circumstances was the same as how to conduct a toy dinosaur battle in the snow. The toy dinosaurs must be deployed strategically across the terrain. They must be very cold. Tyrannosaurus must speak like Angela Lansbury doing a French accent.

When I took Dr Ferguson’s hand and tried to lead her out into the soft, luxurious snow, she resisted and tried to lead me back to the bed. I wasn’t sure if I was a tyrannosaurus, so just in case I tried communicating in the proper mode. Dr Ferguson seemed more confused than before, though, and I realized that I had to remodulate my voice. I did so by bouncing it off the walls of the apartment, but even that didn’t make her understand. In the end I went outside only for a moment, to bring her a double-handful of the delightful snow. I put it into a mug and sang the Academy alma mater until it was all melted. Dr Ferguson seemed reluctant, so I sang some more until she took the mug, and crouched while she drank it.

Academy training guidelines are meant to be adaptable for conditions in the field.

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“Don’t Squish the Slugs”

  • by jenbut in that way dreams do
  • rubbing their fins against it
  • own personal golden spoon
  • some sort of cheesecake
  • you have to plan your moves

Tune in next time part 657      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t squish the slugs,” Dr Ferguson purred, refusing to allow me to lay back on the mattress. For a moment I thought I knew what she was talking about, but in that way dreams dodge from your waking mind, the knowledge was gone. My senses were overwhelmed. Dr Ferguson moved close, and her heartbeat merged with mine, sounding like two dolphins with a balloon, rubbing their fins against it. She kissed me and it tasted like using my own personal golden spoon to savor some sort of cheesecake. When you’re in bed with a virtual stranger, and you’re clearly under the influence, you have to plan your moves very carefully and in accordance with Academy training. I attempted to do that now.

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I Blinked

  • by Kentso very cute
  • climbed into bed with her
  • with the ashen pallor and anxious charisma of a new and fresh heartbreak
  • a dying snake in a free road-side couch
  • didn’t need Arturo

Tune in next time part 656      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I blinked. My lashes brushed something in the dimness, and gradually I assembled meaning from the rough pressure on my nose and forehead. I was lying face-down on the carpet. I rolled onto my side and tried to remember how that had happened.

“Aw, he’s awake,” cooed Dr Ferguson. “You look so very cute down there, but you’ll certainly be more comfortable up here.” She patted the mattress. I crawled the few feet across the floor and then climbed into bed with her. She wore only night-vision goggles, and her nude skin glowed with the ashen pallor and anxious charisma of a new and fresh heartbreak.

We seemed to be alone. “What happened to Arlo?” I asked in a somnambulist’s mumble.

“You were, it seems, too much man for him. He will never return to me.” She laughed, but couldn’t hide her bitterness.

“Sorry,” I said. I meant it, for although getting any affection from the viscount would be like getting a dying snake in a free road-side couch, I didn’t like to be the cause of her current unhappiness. “You don’t need him. You never needed him.”

“You’ve already shown me that,” she said. Her goggles glinted in the filtered moonlight. “Thank you, truly, for showing me that I didn’t need Arturo.”

“Arlo,” I corrected.

She cleared her throat. “Right, Arlo.” Rosy overtones flowed across the pallor of her lithe form.

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Dr Ferguson Reached Again for my Waistband

  • by jenwhy would you ever need more than one cat
  • some secrets are just not meant to be uncovered
  • feeling each other up in your pantry
  • shiny because of bug secretions
  • “Who whistles for this long?”

Tune in next time part 655      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Dr Ferguson reached again for my waistband. Before she could accomplish anything, I heard someone clear their throat. My eyes were focusing on things beyond this world, things in the realm of sensuality, and it was nearly impossible to scan the room for the mystery throat-clearer.

I wondered if it might be Deuce Pamplemousse after all, but the pale bald head suggested not.

In an outrageously accented, smarmy voice, he said, “Look at your back! Why would you ever need more than one caterpillar aphrodisiac? Is your manliness so meager?”

“Hello, Arlo,” I snarled. “They’re not caterpillars. They’re slugs, which means they must be related to you.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” The viscount punctuated each word with a clap. “Very. Funny.” He positioned his pudgy body between Dr Ferguson and me.

“Arlo darling, you’re early,” simpered Dr Ferguson. “And you’re still dressed.”

“Some secrets are just not meant to be uncovered,” I blurted. What the hell was Dr Ferguson doing mixed up with the likes of this Svenborgian trash fire?

“Ignore him,” said Arlo. “Come with me, Fergie. I’d like to start by feeling each other up in your pantry. Your chest is so shiny because of bug secretions, it’s very enticing. I want to put my tongue on it.”

“They’re not bugs!” I said. “They’re slugs!” Whatever you called them, the warm, sweet pleasure they brought was overtaking my entire system. I doubted I’d be able to fight Arlo off if he took a swing at me.

“The double slugs are an experiment,” Dr Ferguson said in a babydoll voice, while running her fingertips around on Arlo’s bald head. “He’s my guinea pig.”

Arlo whistled a low note in appreciation of the plan. And whistled. And whistled. He just kept going.

“Who whistles for this long?” I grumbled, right before my consciousness drifted away on a current of pleasure.

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“Where Do You Want Them?”

by KentNorth Pole here we come! Each year during the thick of the winter holidays, we search out seasonally appropriate sources for our Stichomancy Writing Prompts. This year, we’ve chosen to pull random lines from that 1964 Rankin/Bass stop-motion classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Prepare to be festive!

  • Not if you don’t mind me being a dentist
  • Why weren’t you at elf practice?
  • “How would you like to be a spotted elephant?”
  • Shiny? I’d even say it glows.
  • I’m the king of jingling

Tune in next time part 654      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Where do you want them?” Dr Ferguson asked, brandishing icicle slugs at every sensitive zone on my body.

“Don’t rush me! I’m about to make history here, remember? Maybe give me a second to consider my options?”

She narrowed her eyes at me, but she did drop back a step. “Sorry. I hope you aren’t too upset that I’m an impatient ophthamologist who has certain needs.”

“Not if you don’t mind me being a dentist who never actually became a dentist.”

A smile softened her gaze. “That’s my favorite kind of dentist. But I am a little peeved that you dragged me all the way up here to find you. Why weren’t you at elf practice?”

I hadn’t attended any functions of the Elite League of Fornicators in years. In fact I’d only ever been to one practice, per se. How would Dr Ferguson even know about that?

“Quit stalling!” she scolded. “Position #34 awaits, so make up your mind about these beauties.” She proffered the glistening, transparent mollusks. While I was hypnotized by their waving eyestalks, with her other hand she tugged on the waistband of the crocheted trousers. Peering down into my pants, she crooned, “How would you like to be a spotted elephant?”

“On my back,” I blurted. “Put them on my back, please.”

Dr Ferguson waved bye-bye at my crotch and then circled around behind me. “Huh,” she said. “I hope they can make contact with your skin through all this hair.” A strange, warm sweetness told me they’d succeeded, and then the good doctor sashayed back into view. The remaining slug was between her breasts.

“Look how shiny the trail is,” she stage-whispered.

“Shiny? I’d even say it glows.” The sweetness on my back had already soaked through to my front, and I was no longer afraid of the icicle slug. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I wasn’t tired anymore. “Shall we?” I asked, lowering myself in preparation for the North Pole Vaulter.

“I’m afraid that with the slugs on your back, #34 will not work after all. You can’t lie back without squashing them. But not to worry, I am also fully certified for position #35.”

Ah, yes. The Ring-My-Bells.

“Are you familiar with it?” she purred.

“I’m the king of jingling.”

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I Stared at the Teeth in my Palm

by jenMandatory Festivity Alert! Each year during the thick of the winter holidays, we search out seasonally appropriate sources for our Stichomancy Writing Prompts. This year, we’ve chosen to pull random lines from that 1964 Rankin/Bass stop-motion classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Off we go to the North Pole!

  • I’d like to be a dentist.
  • better known as the North Pole
  • I’m cute! I’m cute! She said I’m cute!
  • square wheels on your caboose
  • you’ll go down in history

Tune in next time part 653      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I stared at the teeth in my palm. “I used to think I’d like to be a dentist.” I dropped the horrible little things into a vase on Dr Ferguson’s mantel. “Right now I’m happy I’m not.”

“Stop stalling and put on the uniform,” Dr Ferguson ordered. “My orders are to start our encounter with Position #34.”

Position #34 is better known as the North Pole Vaulter, and that at least meant she’d be doing most of the work. I doffed my makeshift toga and stepped into the awful, scratchy pants. My copious body hair protruded through the crochet holes in a very unappealing fashion.

“Well don’t you look cute?” Dr Ferguson tried to suppress a laugh.

I feigned enthusiasm. “I’m cute! I’m cute! She said I’m cute!”

“Stop bellyaching and choose your slug.” She handed me the tray and finally took her coat off. She was naked underneath. After folding her coat into a neat square, she turned and placed it on the coffee table, and I spotted an unexpected tattoo.

“What’s with those square wheels on your caboose?” I asked.

“They were a gift from Chartreuse’s brother Deuce.”

“Deuce Pamplemousse? The disco artist?”

She nodded. “That’s who the third slug is for.”

I froze, even though I was standing practically in the fire. Dr Ferguson erupted in laughter. “I’m just kidding. He’s only here musically.” She tapped her phone, and hidden speakers in the rafters started pumping out the driving disco beat of “Hop on My Caboose.”

“Then who is the third slug for?”

“You! One for me, two for you. After tonight you’ll go down in history as the first person to use two icicle slugs at the same time!” She snapped on a latex glove and scooped up a pair of clear gastropods. “Well, maybe not history, but in the organization’s files anyway.

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Dr Ferguson’s Gory Reminder

  • by Kentpromptly caught fire the very first time
  • , but he’s a chef,
  • I don’t recall hearing the astronauts mention
  • tacky crochet pants
  • understood both Shakespeare and the needs of her body

Tune in next time part 652      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Dr Ferguson’s gory reminder brought up some things I hadn’t thought about in a very long time. Things I’d always believed were mere legends. Supposedly, the Academy and all its sister schools were linked to a precursor of the US space program. I knew that agency was real, because I’d been taken on a field trip to see their aerospace lab. It was where they’d built a moon rocket in secret, which had promptly caught fire the very first time the windshield wipers were tested.

“Is the Director still around?” I asked.

She nodded. “He’s very old, but he’s a chef, so there’s no telling how long we’ll be stuck with him. Here” She thrust something at me that looked like a folded afghan. “I want you in uniform. At least to start.”

“I don’t recall hearing the astronauts mention tacky crochet pants when I took the tour.”

“They’re itchy, too,” she replied. “But that’s minor compared to going through life as a woman seeking a man who understood both Shakespeare and the needs of her body. I have it on good authority that you don’t know much about the Bard.” The damn slug tray swung back into view. “But I also hear that I’m not going to hold that against you.”

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Icicle Slugs

  • by jengrueling toll on the mind and body
  • I clenched my teeth
  • Until then, I’m not interested.
  • does not give a fuck
  • spit two teeth into my hand

Tune in next time part 651      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Icicle slugs. Why did it have to be icicle slugs?

A life like mine takes a grueling toll on the mind and body, a grueling toll that my education at the Academy prepared me for. Mostly. I clenched my teeth as the shimmeringly see-through slugs oozed across Dr Ferguson’s tray, leaving slimy, crisscrossing trails.

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the hype,” I said. “They don’t enhance the sexual experience anywhere near as much as people claim.” Truth was, they did, and I didn’t think I had the energy for it after my honeymoon with Hildegard. And why were there three of them? One for me, one for Dr Ferguson, and one for whom exactly? “Get rid of them. Until then, I’m not interested.”

Dr Ferguson said, “We work for an organization that does not give a fuck about whether you’re interested, or whether I’m interested. They warned me that you might try to weasel out of it.”

“I work for no organization,” I said.

Dr Ferguson balanced her slug tray on her fingertips, crossed to me where I stood by the fire, and spit two teeth into my hand. They weren’t my teeth (I knew from having so recently clenched them), and they weren’t hers either.

I looked up from those blood-stained molars, understanding dawning. “Oh,” I said. “That organization.”

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Snow Is Nice

  • by Kentthree little glittering, translucent things
  • with a reality television divorcée
  • like a spinning mouse
  • I’m not sure that’s the only rule
  • those who wallow in it

Tune in next time part 650      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Snow is nice to look at and can be enjoyable in person, but not so much for those who wallow in it with only flimsy spa slippers on their feet and nothing to cover their arms. I was shivering, and Dr Ferguson was determined to have her way.

“Alright,” I said. “You win. My only rule is that you must take me someplace warm right now.”

“I’m not sure that’s the only rule you’ll want to enforce,” she said with a chuckle. “You haven’t seen my toys, like a spinning mouse and a purring cat. But I’m hopeful that you’ll keep an open mind. After all, when else are you going to get the chance to go to bed with a reality television divorcée?”

I helped her onto her moose’s back. “You must have been busy since the Academy,” I muttered through chattering teeth as I mounted behind her. She flashed a grin over her shoulder as the animal moved ahead at a canter. I wanted to tuck my arms inside my improvised toga so they wouldn’t freeze solid and fall off, but I had to hang onto Dr Ferguson so I wouldn’t lose my balance and fall off. She encouraged this, stroking my forearms with her deliciously warm fingertips.

Her home was a modernist chalet atop a small hill, and it was warm, so my stipulation had been met. She used a voice command to activate the fireplace, and I toddled over to it immediately. I was just about thawed out when I heard her voice behind me. I expected to turn and find her in negligee, or in nothing at all, but she hadn’t even taken off her coat.

On a tray she presented three little glittering, translucent things.

“Aren’t those illegal?” I asked. Her only reply was her most devilish grin so far.

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