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.

Parrot Meat is Often Used as an Aphrodisiac

  • by jenthe right taste and texture
  • even a fairly sexually liberated person
  • head-to-toe velvet
  • sex after a big sloppy meatball sub
  • rub it all over your palms

Tune in next time part 639      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Parrot meat is often used as an aphrodisiac in Contrarian culture because the locals think it has the right taste and texture to stimulate the imagination in ways even a fairly sexually liberated person might find startling. “Parrot fever” was Contrarian slang for “horny,” and just remembering that was more than I wanted to do in front of an old man dressed in head-to-toe velvet. Unbidden, my thoughts turned to depraved acts like having sex after a big sloppy meatball sub, or what it would feel like to take that sub and rub it all over your palms before jumping into bed.

At least it distracted me long enough for my bladder to let go.

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It Would Have Been A Mercy

  • by Kentcollapse like one of those fainting goats
  • owned a car with a cassette player
  • It would be easy, then, to label Hungary a unicorn
  • doesn’t have any shame
  • parrot fever

Tune in next time part 638      Click Here for Earlier Installments

It would have been a mercy to be able to collapse like one of those fainting goats, just slump off the toilet seat, and maybe with unconsciousness would come sufficient lassitude to void my bladder. The thought of lying in a puddle of my own filth was welcome next to the reality confronting me from this photo. But even seeing Mother like that didn’t shock me quite enough to grant my wish.

Hildegard’s father snatched the picture and the note back from me. “Why are you reading my mail?” he demanded shrilly. “I’m so old, I once owned a car with a cassette player. So don’t think I don’t know how things work. The only thing I was never very good at is geography, and I’ve got a system for that now too.” He babbled about his tricks for remembering maps, his gesticulating hands crinkling the note, but, I noticed, not causing even one crease in the photograph. After five minutes of nonsense about the shapes of countries in eastern Europe, he seemed ready to toddle away. But Hildegard filled the brief pause, saying airily, “It would be easy, then, to label Hungary a unicorn, provided one’s map reflects the Treaty of Ampersands. Otherwise the outline is all wrong.” This renewed the elderly man’s enthusiasm for the topic, and he droned for another ten minutes. I tried to tune him out, let his incessant voice become like a babbling brook to ease my task.

He snapped his fingers at me, breaking the spell. “Nothing worse than a newlywed groom who doesn’t have any shame. What’re you sitting there for? Get outta the way, I need to pee!”

“So do I!” I bellowed.

He laughed, trading sly glances with this daughter as he pointed out something in the note I hadn’t yet read. She tittered and said, “I suppose that would explain why they call it parrot fever!”

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Contrary to What Alfred Hitchcock Would Have You Believe

  • by jenextremely unlikely to do at a hotel
  • decorated with stuffed birds
  • staring at their tight asses and glistening abs
  • “I was very much surprised.”
  • imagine my surprise to receive this photograph of my mother

Tune in next time part 637      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Contrary to what Alfred Hitchcock would have you believe, murder is something most people are extremely unlikely to do at a hotel decorated with stuffed birds, which is why so many in the hospitality industry choose that design motif for their guest rooms. The discomfort in my bladder, though, was so great that I was considering bucking the trend and killing both Hildegard and her father so that I would be able to pee in peace, despite the frozen aviary surrounding me. In a bizarre Bumpengryndian touch, there were as many marble nudes as taxidermy fowl in the honeymoon suite. It was strange to imagine how many couples had spent their first night as a married couple amid these stone Adonises, staring at their tight asses and glistening abs, feeling (probably) inadequate by comparison.

These thoughts distracted me, and I relaxed almost enough to begin urinating. Then Hildegard’s father waved his silk handkerchief in my face, saying, “I was very much surprised.”

I swore under my breath as my bladder slammed shut and my kidneys groaned.

“Did you hear me?” my new father-in-law demanded. “I said I was very much surprised.”

“By what?” I said peevishly. “By the intrusion of virtual strangers into your bathroom?”

“There are no strangers in Bumpengrynd, my boy! No, I was surprised to find this in my mailbox today.” He thrust a large envelope at me. Inside was a salacious snapshot and a folded piece of paper.

He thought he was surprised? Well, imagine my surprise to receive this photograph of my mother dressed in only the bottom half of a Contrarian warlord’s dress uniform. While I sat on the toilet.

I hardly dared read the accompanying note.

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I Gazed Up

  • by Kenthave tried animal bladders
  • touches without touching
  • never legally divorced her first husband
  • shared greeting ritual
  • pulled his silk handkerchief over his head

Tune in next time part 636      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I gazed up at Hildegard, who loomed in the doorway and showed no indications that she would be granting me any privacy anytime soon. It was a silent stand-off. The forgotten latex puppet was mashed into the slope of her hip like a skydiver whose chute hadn’t opened.

The inherent limitations of the human bladder are among the very few problems no one at the Academy has found a good solution for. Some daredevils have tried animal bladders for increased capacity, but the trade-offs aren’t worth it. Others have dabbled in tele-micturation, a mind-over-matter technique where the fluid “touches without touching” the commode. You can always tell when one of them’s been around.

As long as she stared at me, I wouldn’t be able to pee. I had to make her leave. Taking a wild stab, I said, “You know Chartreusse will be furious when he learns that his new wife never legally divorced her first husband.”

She shrugged. “What I did to him was just as effective and far more affordable.”

While I pondered that ominous remark, my hopes for privacy were further dashed by the arrival of her father. The old man and Hildegard launched into their peculiar shared greeting ritual right there in the bathroom doorway. But, at least they were paying no attention to me. Perhaps this was the opportunity I needed. I had never timed their intricate salutations, but I knew they wouldn’t be done until she pulled his silk handkerchief over his head.

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The Disco Artist She was Talking About

  • by jenthat’s just how my throat works
  • sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow
  • elegance without pomp
  • A bear!
  • what kind of fish to put in the moat

Tune in next time part 635      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The disco artist she was talking about was Chartreuse’s brother, Deuce. Deuce Pamplemousse had a huge hit with “Hop on my Caboose.” It was an insidiously catchy number, and once you had it stuck in your head, the only way to exorcise it was to sing a snatch of it backwards. I did that now, hoping to banish the tune before it lodged itself deep in my psyche.

“What was that?” Hildegard demanded. “That noise — is that what you call singing?”

“Don’t get so worked up,” I said. “That’s just how my throat works. I never claimed to be a singer.” I took a deep breath and tried to relax and pee.

“But your twin is America’s number one wedding rapper!” She grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around to face her. “Your identical twin!”

“Rapping is not singing.” I tried to remain calm. I looked out the window where the morning sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow over the fresh snow. The sulfurous emissions from the nearby valley did strange things to the sunlight.

I shrugged away from Hildegard and sat on the toilet. So much for the elegance without pomp that standing urination embodied — I was desperate for release and didn’t care how pompous I looked. My innate elegance would have to carry me through.

Hildegard’s eyes widened in alarm. “What are you doing!”

“I told you I need to go.” My voice sounded more pleading than elegant.

“But, as you Americans say, does not a bear shit in the woods?”

“A bear! Are you calling me a bear? I’m not that hairy. And unless you want to witness what an American does in the bathroom, you’ll give me some privacy.” I didn’t actually have to poop, but Hildegard didn’t have to know that. “Give me five minutes, and then we can talk about whatever you want — what to have for breakfast, what kind of fish to put in the moat, who your favorite disco artist is — anything. But please, five minutes.”

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10,000 New Writing Prompts

We spent the summer carefully curating a new collection of text snippets to add to our Stichomancy Writing Prompt Generator. For those of you who are new around here, stichomancy is the art of divination through random passages from books. You grab a book, close your eyes, riffle the pages, and poke your finger (or a pin) into a page at random. You then read the sentence or paragraph that you stabbed and figure out how it relates to the question that’s eating at you — sort of like a horoscope. In our case we dispense with the whole fortune telling aspect, and simply use the phrases that the universe thrusts upon us to inspire quick fiction pieces. And with our handy dandy Writing Prompt Generator, we dispense with the whole “shuffling through books” part of the process, too. And so can you!

Head on over to the SkelleyCo Amalgamated Fiction Enterprises LLC Stichomancy Writing Prompt Generator today, and begin your journey into the world of chaotic inspiration! You’ll be glad you did.

“Look,” Hildegard Said Raggedly

  • by Kent“Ahh, but we do.”
  • sex with you when it was convenient
  • Perhaps I don’t need to say this
  • aggregated skill, luck, laziness and chutzpah
  • was once a disco artist

Tune in next time part 634      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Look,” Hidegard said raggedly, “we don’t need to hang around in here.”

“Ahh, but we do.” I winced. “Or, I do at least.”

“We didn’t get married just so I could have sex with you when it was convenient,” she replied. “We also got married so you could have sex with me when it was inconvenient.”

“Perhaps I don’t need to say this. Well, clearly I do. Inconvenient is one thing. Right now it’s impossible. Even with my lifetime’s worth of aggregated skill, luck, laziness and chutzpah there’s just no getting around certain biological necessities.”

She hadn’t been listening. She was mumbling and staring off into space. The only words I caught were “Pamplemousse” and “was once a disco artist.”

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When Your Bladder is Really Really Full

  • by jenwhere your imagination goes
  • took up napkin folding
  • and that is not what I do at all
  • but that’s only true if you’re cold
  • as big as golfballs

Tune in next time part 633      Click Here for Earlier Installments

When your bladder is really really full, but you can’t relax enough to pee because there’s a crazed woman lurking behind you with a puppet, it’s amazing the places where your imagination goes. The last time it happened to me, back at the Academy, my mind took up napkin folding. Creating intricate origami animals out of linen squares is very complicated, and that is not what I do at all in my day-to-day life, but in that instance it worked to distract me from my angry bathroom companion and I was able to attain the relief I sought. Hildegard’s enraged panting was too intrusive for that trick to work for me today, though.

“I’m having a little trouble here,” I told her. “Please give me a minute of privacy.”

“A little trouble?” She looked at my crotch. “Shrinkage? But that’s only true if you’re cold. And anyway, they’re as big as golfballs and a seven iron right now. I’d hate to see them when they weren’t giving you a little trouble.” She smirked. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t *hate* it.”

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“The Show Was Called…”

  • by Kentlike to eat in the nude
  • applied his forefinger to his forehead
  • “You’re not going anywhere!”
  • open shirt and hairy chest
  • how big and bulgy

Tune in next time part 632      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“The show was called Bouillabaisse Cowabunga,” Hildegard said, “officially. But the kids all called it Bullabunga, so by the third season that became the title.”

I had faint recollections of a ‘Bullabunga scandal’ in which someone was quoted as saying “I like to eat in the nude.” I assumed it was the old sea captain. As these misty memories returned, I had an image of someone frowning through a painted-on smile as he applied his forefinger to his forehead with his thumb jutting out to complete the capital L.

“But that wasn’t a doll,” I said. “It was an actual, live clown.”

“It was German!” Hildegard shrieked. “It had no soul!”

“Okay,” I said with a wince. I gestured to the toilet. “Sorry, but I’m still trying to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere!” She stood panting, the latex puppet waving uselessly beside her right ear, staring at my open shirt and hairy chest as if unsure what they were.

I turned my back on her, trying to capitalize on her distraction in order to empty my straining bladder. Trying to relax, and think of anything other than her manic face, and how big and bulgy her eyes had become.

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I Didn’t Like the Way Hildegard Kept Insisting We were Married

  • by jenattempting to impose a sense of order and restraint on what is inherently an indulgent act
  • I was in a very famous TV show
  • a clown doll that sings
  • took them to a houseboat
  • complicated and bizarre

Tune in next time part 631      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I didn’t like the way Hildegard kept insisting we were married, but I liked even less how she kept trying to help me pee. She assured me she was merely attempting to impose a sense of order and restraint on what is inherently an indulgent act. I disagreed that solo urination was indulgent at all. If we were, in fact, legally married, this was proof that it would never work.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said, hoping she’d get distracted and I’d be able to pee in peace.

“When I was a child I was in a very famous TV show here in Bumpengrynd. My costars were a clown doll that sings German folk songs, and a little old sea captain. The sea captain collected orphans, including myself and the singing clown doll, and took them to a houseboat in the lagoon where he made us all wear wooden shoes while he cooked spaghetti, wrote sinister poems, and painted imaginary landscapes.”

“It sounds complicated and bizarre.” I said. “What was it called?”

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