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 Gazed at the Moose

  • by jenlong puffy sleeves
  • bees cannot live when their stings are broken
  • dream about mousetraps and poison darts
  • result of our extra-marital affair
  • “I DESERVE this!”

Tune in next time part 649      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I gazed at the moose as snowy air stung the skin of my bare arms, jutting as they were from my duvet-toga. “What I wouldn’t give for some long, puffy sleeves,” I muttered.

“And some shoes?” Dr Ferguson asked, handing me a pair of slippers from the hotel’s spa.

I grunted my thanks and put them on. “Why the hell did you enter a moose raffle?” I asked.

“Everyone knows bees cannot live when their stings are broken.” She smiled the smile of a woman who has a recurring dream about mousetraps and poison darts, and, what’s more, enjoys it. Her statement would sound to many people like a coded message, but to me it sounded like a metaphor. But for what? I studied her from the corner of my eye as I stroked the moose’s velvety snout. It seemed quite docile.

“You’re trying to figure me out,” she said. “But don’t worry. The result of our extra-marital affair will be complete understanding. And maybe a little rug burn.”

“We’re not having an affair.”

“You won’t be able to say that tomorrow,” she said. “At least not honestly.”

“Lady, I don’t have time for this. I need to find my way off this island.” I held the reins out for her to take. “Your moose is ready.”

She ignored the reins. “Who do you think you are, turning me down? I worked hard to get to this desolate place to save you. I went against all of my training, and a direct order from your mother!” She stamped her foot in the snow. “I DESERVE this!”

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Dr Ferguson Was Not, Of Course, Her Real Name

  • by Kentcheck for ears
  • his chest seemed to thrill and quiver
  • his engine had an anti-siphon valve
  • “You ate that whole dang cake, baby!”
  • first-ever moose lottery

Tune in next time part 648      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Dr Ferguson was not, of course, her real name. I did not know her real name — no one did — but I knew she was no protegé of Chartreuse Pamplemousse. She’d been one of the silent, nameless attendants within the warren of tunnels at the Academy known as the Nurse’s Office. The Nurse himself was a radical freethinker, and he compelled his assistants to devise bizarre procedures to use on the students. So-called Dr Ferguson had been the one to invent a vision check for ears.

“My hearing’s still 20/20,” I muttered. Her smile widened and she followed me out into the hallway. “Glad to see you escaped that lunatic, the Nurse.”

“He was misunderstood,” she replied, her expression darkening. “At each new discovery, his chest seemed to thrill and quiver, like he was a jet ski and his engine had an anti-siphon valve with a cracked flange. I was lucky for the chance to gather crumbs of his knowledge.”

I laughed. “You ate that whole dang cake, baby!” Her smile returned, so I supposed I hadn’t offended her too badly. “Maybe we can help each other out,” I pressed. “Right now I’m mainly interested in getting as far as possible away from my new wife.”

She nodded. “Come with me. I have a ride waiting.”

In the parking lot, she led me to a gigantic beast with antlers seven feet across. She patted my shoulder. “Here’s where I need your help. I just won him in Bumpengrynd’s first-ever moose lottery, and haven’t gained his trust.”

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My Heart Was Neither Open Nor Vulnerable

  • by jenwith a surrealist spirit and a beret
  • but I only have so many middle fingers
  • carrying a rubber dinosaur between them
  • connected to a 1948 zoo escape
  • —that particular blend of anticipation and fear

Tune in next time part 647      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My heart was neither open nor vulnerable, so my attempt at a new surname came with a surrealist spirit and a beret (of the imaginary variety).

“It is not possible to marry three such distinct names verbally,” I said. “I will use the medium of hand gestures, but I only have so many middle fingers, and you’ll need to imagine I am carrying a rubber dinosaur between them.”

As I flipped off the assembled crowd under the guise of a shadow puppet recounting of the gory escapades connected to a 1948 zoo escape, I backed toward the door. Chartreuse and Hildegard raised their own hands, attempting to imitate my motions, while everyone else stared open-mouthed –that particular blend of anticipation and fear that only a good zoo escape story can bring.

As I was about to dart into the corridor and make my getaway, I remembered where I’d seen Dr Ferguson before. I slapped myself on the forehead, and Hildegard and Chartreuse followed suit. Dr Ferguson’s lips twitched.

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I Was Still Reeling

  • by Kentunder a churning, poisoned sky
  • with a stethoscope
  • known colloquially as the “Florida lunch break.”
  • not sure how he ended up on the couch
  • with an open, vulnerable heart

Tune in next time part 646      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was still reeling from the revelation that I had married into the van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister clan, but as shocking as it was it also made a perverse kind of sense. Legend held that the van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister name formed out of congealed fog and sleet under a churning, poisoned sky right here in the isles of Bumpengrynd. That familial linkage did account for Hildegard’s presence in this remote place.

Chartreuse Pamplemousse returned to the living room with a stethoscope. Quick as a serpent he placed its cold end over my left eye, and with matching quickness I reflexively countered with a self-defense move known colloquially as the “Florida lunch break.” If delivered with full force it can indeed break somebody’s lunch, but I reined myself in at the last second. Or did I? The whole matter was over in a flash, and I was not sure how he ended up on the couch across the room.

The old man was still rambling about the complexities of our putative surname. “No one should try to hyphenate a van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister, but if you must, then do it with an open, vulnerable heart.”

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The Only Clothes I Had Available

  • by jenwe are famous for our punctuality
  • shoulder-length hair and softer features
  • “I can’t believe people actually buy this.”
  • a lot of celebrities
  • create a new surname entirely

Tune in next time part 645      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The only clothes I had available were the ridiculous tinseled ankle cuffs I’d worn to the wedding, and without a fan to lift the streamers they were not only useless but a tripping hazard. While Dr Ferguson watched with keen interest, I wrapped the relatively pudding-free duvet around myself like a big puffy toga and secured it with a tinsel belt.

“Surprisingly stylish,” Dr Ferguson admitted.

“In my family we are famous for our punctuality and our fashion sense,” I said.

“You look so much like your brother,” she sighed, “Only with shoulder-length hair and softer features.”

Which of my brothers did she mean?

From his seat on the ottoman, Spex held up an empty butterscotch pudding tin. “I can’t believe people actually buy this.” He wrinkled his nose. “Homemade is so much better.”

I tried to tune out his snotty comments and figure out why Dr Ferguson was so familiar. I frequent all the cool websites, so of course I know about a lot of celebrities in the ophthalmological world. She was not one of them.

Hildegard’s father stumbled over, drunk on peanut butter. “What a mouthful it will be to hyphenate Pamplemousse, van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister, and your last name. You ought to create a new surname entirely!”

Oh shit. How had I not known that Hildegard was a van der Zhößængrüüpårbergschløssenfußmeister? Had I known from the start she was a van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister things would have gone entirely differently.

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Chartreuse Pamplemousse Strode Into the Depths of the Honeymoon Suite

  • by Kentone spoonful of peanut butter at a time
  • oddly nonchalant about
  • like it was a curse word
  • rotator is a palindrome
  • “I never threatened him.”

Tune in next time part 644      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Chartreuse Pamplemousse strode into the depths of the honeymoon suite, trailed by a babbling Hildegard. Lenz, Spex, and Iris chose random furniture to slouch on. The old man toddled into the kitchenette and decided to see about blocking his arteries one spoonful of peanut butter at a time.

Which left me standing awkwardly with Dr Ferguson, trying to recall where I’d seen her before. She was oddly nonchalant about my nudity. “So, you’re an associate of Dr Pamplemousse?” I asked conversationally.

She made a loud, derisive “Tchuh!” noise. “Oh yes, I’m his associate.” She said the last part like it was a curse word. Then, pitching her voice low in a surprisingly good impression of Chartreuse, she said, “Better now? Or now? Read the smallest line that you can see.”

Hildegard’s father got his mouth unstuck long enough to announce that rotator is a palindrome, then dug up another spoonful.

One of the other three members of Chartreuse’s posse called across the room to Dr Ferguson. “Don’t forget that the doctor sees everything. He knows what you have planned.”

Dr Ferguson shrugged. “I never threatened him.”

In the tense silence that followed, I wondered if it might be time for me to find my clothes.

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A Sharp Rat-A-Tat-Tat

  • by jeniconic metallic wardrobe
  • and last, but not least, Dr Ferguson
  • mermaid-themed birthday parties
  • in many a hipster coffee shop
  • just because you like to destroy

Tune in next time part 643      Click Here for Earlier Installments

A sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door snapped me out of my reverie. I looked up from the note to see the door swing inward, and Chartreuse Pamplemousse strode into the honeymoon suite. I recognized him as much by his iconic metallic wardrobe as by his trademark goggles. An entourage of ophthalmological sycophants rushed in after him and stood in a semicircle at his side.

“I’m sure you all know my crew,” Chartreuse announced. “Spex, Lenz, Iris, and last, but not least, Dr Ferguson, my protégé.”

The bunch of them looked like the henchmen of some Batman villain who specialized in swindling children at mermaid-themed birthday parties. I’m sure you’ve seen people dressed like them in many a hipster coffee shop, but it was startling to see so many all gathered together on a team.

“Chartreuse!” Hildegard shrieked in delight. She ran to him, arms outstretched, but he deflected her with raised palm.

“Just because you like to destroy your own clothes with butterscotch pudding doesn’t mean I’ll let you destroy mine. Even if we are, apparently, now married.” He turned to me. “And us, too, I take it.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “None of this was my idea.”

Meanwhile I kept my eye on Dr Ferguson. There was something about her that was incredibly familiar.

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If Hildegard’s Father Hoped

  • by Kenttook off his cravat
  • weird art projects that are mostly about pornography
  • my father also enjoys circus peanuts
  • keys to open the padlocks
  • because of the required coordination

Tune in next time part 642      Click Here for Earlier Installments

If Hildegard’s father hoped to get me in trouble with John, his plan was probably going to backfire. Being the only other person skilled in the limbo code, I was the only person John could be trying to communicate with. Unless this was all a trap.

The old man took off his cravat and used it to mop his forehead. He reached for the photo and the note, but I didn’t give them up. He intended, no doubt, to incorporate them into weird art projects that are mostly about pornography. For once he was quiet, standing there hoping I’d hand over the nude picture of my mother. He took a bag of circus peanuts out of his pocket and munched with a contented sigh.

This brought to mind the fact that my father also enjoys circus peanuts, a taste he acquired during his days as an escapist on the sawdust circuit. He also found it useful to embed within the doughy candies the keys to open the padlocks that were part of his act. He needed keys, since he couldn’t pick the locks because of the required coordination. He did, however, teach himself to bite into circus peanuts without chipping a tooth on the keys.

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Read This Way, the Message Still Said Nothing

  • by jenshorts held up by suspenders
  • while we limber up
  • experimented with it at parties
  • his revenge should be protracted and terrible
  • the precision and cold-blooded nature

Tune in next time part 641      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Read this way, the message still said nothing about the accompanying photo of my mother dressed only in shorts held up by suspenders. Perhaps I needed to rotate it 90 degrees and try it that way? I turned the page sideways, which made my brain cells scream, “Slow down while we limber up!”

Aha! The limbo code! Of course!

It had been outlawed at the Academy, but I and some of my fellow students learned about it and experimented with it at parties. I was one of the two who mastered it. John was the other. I recognized his handwriting now, and knew that if he learned Hildegard and her father had showed this letter to me, his revenge should be protracted and terrible with the precision and cold-blooded nature of a shark.

Was my new father-in-law trying to get me killed?

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Once It Began, There Was No Stopping It

  • by Kentsweating steadily for a week
  • he used the words “primal urges.”
  • “I am a wild beast.”
  • covering up their naughty bits with flora
  • challenged to a dance battle

Tune in next time part 640      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Once it began, there was no stopping it. It no longer mattered that these two were staring at me. Relief flooded my soul as my urine flooded the toilet bowl.

“You can accomplish the same thing by sweating steadily for a week,” the old man advised me. “Course, your way is faster.” He paused for a bit, while I continued to urinate. “Least I assume it is.” He launched into another disorderly tirade, in which, over and over, he used the words “primal urges.” By the time he finished talking, I was done as well. The sound of the toilet flushing seemed apt commentary on what he’d just said.

Before he thought of anything else to rant about, I snatched the note out of his hand.

“Ruffian!” he shouted.

I nodded, and smirked. “I am a wild beast.” I walked out of the bathroom, smoothing the rumpled paper and trying to identify the handwriting. It had many expansive, looping flourishes, and the actual words were in an obscure pidgin that I didn’t think anyone still used.

The message did not relate directly to the photo, at least not in any way I could understand, and it didn’t mention anyone I knew. It described a camping trip that had to be cut short when a bear stole their clothes, leaving them hitchhiking in the nude while covering up their naughty bits with flora (and sometimes fauna) until finally someone stopped. They expected to be offered a lift but instead were challenged to a dance battle.

Nothing I saw in the text would have inspired two Contrarians to share a chuckle about “parrot fever,” until I turned the page 180 degrees. Which raised the question, which one of us was reading it upside-down?

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