I've decided to discontinue writing prompt Wednesdays for the time being. They were fun for a while, but now they're feeling more like work and I've got plenty of other work to focus on.
Thanks to everyone who played along!
Showing posts with label Writing Prompt Wednesday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing Prompt Wednesday. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Everything Is Relative
Sasha: How'd it go last night?
Phil: Well, a lot of things were broken, sinks were puked in, people were punched in the face, and there was a minor incident where the end table caught on fire.
Sasha: Pretty quiet then.
Phil: Downright mellow, even.
Phil: Well, a lot of things were broken, sinks were puked in, people were punched in the face, and there was a minor incident where the end table caught on fire.
Sasha: Pretty quiet then.
Phil: Downright mellow, even.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Smile, INC.
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
They ask me why I'm not smiling. As if it's some kind of sin to sit at my desk, focus on my work, and not smile. As if sitting here with a straight face is as bad as going around, smacking people on the back of the head. Not, mind you, that I'm particularly opposed to the idea. They're all a bunch of mouth-breathing, pen-clicking, fish-microwaving imbeciles who wouldn't know a 10-14 form if it punched them in the eye.
Yet, here I am, restraining myself. If those losers really want me to smile, there need to be a few changes around here. As you may imagine, I have quite an extensive list of said changes. But, to be honest with you, all I really need, and I mean bare essentials here, is a completely working espresso machine. I've got the perfect one all picked out and it's on sale for eight grand. All they need to do is put that beauty in the break room and then I'll love everyone. I don't think that's so unreasonable, do you?
They ask me why I'm not smiling. As if it's some kind of sin to sit at my desk, focus on my work, and not smile. As if sitting here with a straight face is as bad as going around, smacking people on the back of the head. Not, mind you, that I'm particularly opposed to the idea. They're all a bunch of mouth-breathing, pen-clicking, fish-microwaving imbeciles who wouldn't know a 10-14 form if it punched them in the eye.
Yet, here I am, restraining myself. If those losers really want me to smile, there need to be a few changes around here. As you may imagine, I have quite an extensive list of said changes. But, to be honest with you, all I really need, and I mean bare essentials here, is a completely working espresso machine. I've got the perfect one all picked out and it's on sale for eight grand. All they need to do is put that beauty in the break room and then I'll love everyone. I don't think that's so unreasonable, do you?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Dark Moment
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
We zoom in from above, the camera whizzing down, going from a view of the world, to the outlines of a country, county, neighborhood, until finally we're in a living room, face to lens with the protagonist. A man in his mid-thirties with a receeding hairline and a knife in his hand stands over a body with a pool of blood spreading beneath it.
This is the moment he surrenders to despair, certain that there is no way out. He's standing over the body of a man he killed and there is no way the police will believe it was self defense. He could try to explain that the dead man was going to kill him tomorrow, that he saw the scene in a vision and came here to turn fate, that the only reason he broke into the house and stabbed this man was to save himself. No, the police won't buy a story of pre-emptive self defense.
The protagonist drops the bloody knife. His hand is shaking, but his knees refuse to bend and even now he can hear, far off in the distance, the sound of sirens. The dead man's wife must have escaped. She can identify him, too. The sirens grow louder and the protagonist's legs hold him firm to the spot with his prints on the knife and his hands covered in blood.
We zoom in from above, the camera whizzing down, going from a view of the world, to the outlines of a country, county, neighborhood, until finally we're in a living room, face to lens with the protagonist. A man in his mid-thirties with a receeding hairline and a knife in his hand stands over a body with a pool of blood spreading beneath it.
This is the moment he surrenders to despair, certain that there is no way out. He's standing over the body of a man he killed and there is no way the police will believe it was self defense. He could try to explain that the dead man was going to kill him tomorrow, that he saw the scene in a vision and came here to turn fate, that the only reason he broke into the house and stabbed this man was to save himself. No, the police won't buy a story of pre-emptive self defense.
The protagonist drops the bloody knife. His hand is shaking, but his knees refuse to bend and even now he can hear, far off in the distance, the sound of sirens. The dead man's wife must have escaped. She can identify him, too. The sirens grow louder and the protagonist's legs hold him firm to the spot with his prints on the knife and his hands covered in blood.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The First Line
Spurred on by getting a story accepted, I've been cruising duotrope, researching more places to submit. I want to pass on one particular publication, because I think it'd be a fun adventure. It's called The First Line and it's rather reminiscent of WP Wednesdays. They provide a first line, you write a story to go with it, and the ones they like the best are published in the next issue.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
WPW: Alice
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
He calls her Alice
because he likes the sound of the name slipping through his lips
shimmery and smooth like a fish.
He whispers the name to himself
saying, "Alice" so soft that he's the only one who hears it.
The name is like a present he gives himself and he says it slowly,
letting the sounds of the letters go out and out like kite string.
He calls her Alice
even though Alice is not her name.
He calls her Alice
because he likes the sound of the name slipping through his lips
shimmery and smooth like a fish.
He whispers the name to himself
saying, "Alice" so soft that he's the only one who hears it.
The name is like a present he gives himself and he says it slowly,
letting the sounds of the letters go out and out like kite string.
He calls her Alice
even though Alice is not her name.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
WPW: Keeping Time
Lucinda is a brilliant time keeper. And then she draws up the tops, and makes a little lid, and there is a little moment of time preserved. The time keeps for at least a decade, longer if you store it somewhere cool and dark. Others, the best they can do is two years, tops. Lucinda, though, she's got them all beat. One of these days, I'm going to learn her secret.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
WPW: Voicemail
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
9:18 p.m.
"Danny? Danny, are you there? Pick up the phone. Please, Danny, answer. I need your help."
9:21 p.m.
"Where are you? You're the only one who can come get me."
9:26 p.m.
"Oh God, I just heard a noise. Is that just the wind? Please tell me it was just the wind."
9:32 p.m.
"Danny, when you get this, come straight over. I heard that noise again. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone."
9:39 p.m.
"Where are you?! I saw it, I saw it. It's real. I'm hiding in the guest room. I can't call 911, they'll think I'm crazy. I think it's a werewolf."
9:44 p.m.
"Danny! It's breaking down the door! I can't hold it much longer. Danny you have to-"
9:18 p.m.
"Danny? Danny, are you there? Pick up the phone. Please, Danny, answer. I need your help."
9:21 p.m.
"Where are you? You're the only one who can come get me."
9:26 p.m.
"Oh God, I just heard a noise. Is that just the wind? Please tell me it was just the wind."
9:32 p.m.
"Danny, when you get this, come straight over. I heard that noise again. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone."
9:39 p.m.
"Where are you?! I saw it, I saw it. It's real. I'm hiding in the guest room. I can't call 911, they'll think I'm crazy. I think it's a werewolf."
9:44 p.m.
"Danny! It's breaking down the door! I can't hold it much longer. Danny you have to-"
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
WPW: Invisible People
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
The invisible people walk in soft soled shoes
with scarves around their necks that reach down to their waists
wearing big fuzzy sweaters
and pants made of anything but courdoroy.
The invisible people lean against walls,
blending in by not moving
until you pause, just close enough
for one of them to whisper in your ear.
Listen close.
They will only say it once.
The invisible people walk in soft soled shoes
with scarves around their necks that reach down to their waists
wearing big fuzzy sweaters
and pants made of anything but courdoroy.
The invisible people lean against walls,
blending in by not moving
until you pause, just close enough
for one of them to whisper in your ear.
Listen close.
They will only say it once.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
WPW: MLIA Homage
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.** Today's WPW is brought to you in the style of My Life is Average
Today, I spent the morning wandering around the house unshaven, in my oldest dressing gown, feeling vaguely scary, like a crazed uncle who has escaped from the attic. And then I remembered, I do that every day.
Today, I spent the morning wandering around the house unshaven, in my oldest dressing gown, feeling vaguely scary, like a crazed uncle who has escaped from the attic. And then I remembered, I do that every day.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
WPW: *Sort of
*The pressure of the contest is catching up with me, so I'm interrupting your regularly scheduled Wednesday programming and, following Boudreau's lead, proffering an excerpt from my contest writing rather than the typical WPW fare. This bit comes from Oracle:
He broke the seal on the card, knowing full well that Nonna already knew exactly what it said. One of the luxuries her clients enjoyed was a private telegraph office operated by one of Nonna's staff. The seal on the card did not mean no one knew the message, but that only Nonna and her telegraph operator did. The message was from the Ordish temple and was one word long, “Come.” One could always rely on Corin for his elegant manners and courtesy. Arnell debated ignoring the summons, but if the matter warranted a midnight telegraph, there was a strong possibility it had to do with the trip Arnell had just returned from which meant Corin would be most displeased with being ignored.
Corin's displeasure, in and of itself, did not bother Arnell. He was about as concerned with the man's feelings as fuck all. However, Corin often made his displeasure felt in inconvenient ways. Last time Arnell irritated the high priest, Corin had sent the city guard after him, claiming Arnell had stolen five hundred coin from the temple vault. At the time, Corin had just paid him five hundred coin from the temple vault. Five hundred coin Arnell had on him at the time of his arrest. The city guard did not look kindly on the coincidence and the result had been a very unpleasant night for Arnell as he was roughed up by the guard and tossed in a dank cell to stew. Corin visited the next day and cleared up the “misunderstanding,” but the point had been made. The high priest was not a man to irritate lightly.
Arnell climbed out of the bath. “Duty calls.”
He broke the seal on the card, knowing full well that Nonna already knew exactly what it said. One of the luxuries her clients enjoyed was a private telegraph office operated by one of Nonna's staff. The seal on the card did not mean no one knew the message, but that only Nonna and her telegraph operator did. The message was from the Ordish temple and was one word long, “Come.” One could always rely on Corin for his elegant manners and courtesy. Arnell debated ignoring the summons, but if the matter warranted a midnight telegraph, there was a strong possibility it had to do with the trip Arnell had just returned from which meant Corin would be most displeased with being ignored.
Corin's displeasure, in and of itself, did not bother Arnell. He was about as concerned with the man's feelings as fuck all. However, Corin often made his displeasure felt in inconvenient ways. Last time Arnell irritated the high priest, Corin had sent the city guard after him, claiming Arnell had stolen five hundred coin from the temple vault. At the time, Corin had just paid him five hundred coin from the temple vault. Five hundred coin Arnell had on him at the time of his arrest. The city guard did not look kindly on the coincidence and the result had been a very unpleasant night for Arnell as he was roughed up by the guard and tossed in a dank cell to stew. Corin visited the next day and cleared up the “misunderstanding,” but the point had been made. The high priest was not a man to irritate lightly.
Arnell climbed out of the bath. “Duty calls.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
WPW: Thesis Progress
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.** (Yes, even with the word count contest, I'm still doing WPW. Of course, it is brief. (No, it doesn't count toward my word count.))
Nelly: How's things? How goes your thesis?
Ben: Well, you know that weird pull to have everything spotless that I always get when there's something else that really needs to get done?
Nelly: Not going so well, then?
Ben: Well, let's just say, you could eat off my dog.
Nelly: How's things? How goes your thesis?
Ben: Well, you know that weird pull to have everything spotless that I always get when there's something else that really needs to get done?
Nelly: Not going so well, then?
Ben: Well, let's just say, you could eat off my dog.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Samoas Incident
Betsy had just woken up from sleeping in and was still wearing her gray terrycloth robe. She still had curlers in her hair, the fuzz of a dream in her head, pillow creases on her face, and an empty spot in her stomach where breakfast was soon to go. In short, she didn't especially feel like answering the door.
But, there was always a chance it could be Publisher's Clearinghouse and the allure of a comically oversized check with lots of zeroes outweighed her vanity. She pulled the door open.
"Good morning Mrs. Sebastianson," said a little pig-tailed girl with a big smile full of braces.
"Er," said Betsy.
"My name is Sally. I live up the street." Sally pointed. Betsy waited for her to get to the point.
"The reason I've come today is I'm doing a fund raiser for school to help raise money for new basketballs for my gym class." Little Sally fumbled with a catalog.
Fund raiser? Betsy perked up. "Got any Samoas?"
"What?"
"You know, Samoas. Cookies with caramel?"
Sally looked blank, then she held up the catalog. Page after page of stationary and flower bulbs. "You see, this is what we're selling."
"No Samoas then?"
"No, I guess not."
Betsy sighed. "Well, then." Betsy closed the door on little Sally. Maybe Publisher's Clearinghouse would come tomorrow.
But, there was always a chance it could be Publisher's Clearinghouse and the allure of a comically oversized check with lots of zeroes outweighed her vanity. She pulled the door open.
"Good morning Mrs. Sebastianson," said a little pig-tailed girl with a big smile full of braces.
"Er," said Betsy.
"My name is Sally. I live up the street." Sally pointed. Betsy waited for her to get to the point.
"The reason I've come today is I'm doing a fund raiser for school to help raise money for new basketballs for my gym class." Little Sally fumbled with a catalog.
Fund raiser? Betsy perked up. "Got any Samoas?"
"What?"
"You know, Samoas. Cookies with caramel?"
Sally looked blank, then she held up the catalog. Page after page of stationary and flower bulbs. "You see, this is what we're selling."
"No Samoas then?"
"No, I guess not."
Betsy sighed. "Well, then." Betsy closed the door on little Sally. Maybe Publisher's Clearinghouse would come tomorrow.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
WPW Round Up: 9/3/2009
Boudreau had another go at WPW this week, with a post about Dora the Explorer and other adventures.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
WPW: The First Entry
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
Dear Diary,
Before we begin, there is something you should know about me, your narrator. You should know that the narrator a selfish asshole. It's all me, me, me, all the time. My therapist, or, rather, my ex-therapist, foolishly suggested that there was some kind of problem with this. But, what does he know? It's not like a Ph.D from Harvard suddenly makes you king of the universe. Jackass.
Anyway, Diary, now it's just you and me. Well, I mean, me and you. Except, really, you're just an extension of me anyway, so when you get right down to it, it's just me and me. And that, that is the way it should be. So, today is the first day of me telling myself all about me. I can't wait to get started.
Dear Diary,
Before we begin, there is something you should know about me, your narrator. You should know that the narrator a selfish asshole. It's all me, me, me, all the time. My therapist, or, rather, my ex-therapist, foolishly suggested that there was some kind of problem with this. But, what does he know? It's not like a Ph.D from Harvard suddenly makes you king of the universe. Jackass.
Anyway, Diary, now it's just you and me. Well, I mean, me and you. Except, really, you're just an extension of me anyway, so when you get right down to it, it's just me and me. And that, that is the way it should be. So, today is the first day of me telling myself all about me. I can't wait to get started.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Blind Date
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.** (P.S. Yeah, I know I'm early, but I'll be doing professional development all day tomorrow and won't have time.)
So he said we'd meet a Mulligan's, and I said I love Mulligan's. I mean, they have an awesome wine list there. What's not to love, right? Right. So, we were off to a good start, I can tell you. Then, when I get there, he's already waiting at this cute little table in the corner and, lemme tell ya, he is looking good this dark brown shirt that totally shows off his pecs. He even holds the chair out for me when I sit down. Way classy, right? Then waitress comes over and we order and, here's the horrible part, he orders a Cosmopolitan. I mean, a Cosmopolitan? You've got to be kidding me. What else could I do? I let him buy me dinner and then I got the heck out of there and blocked his number on my phone. There's only allowed to be one person in a relationship drinking chic drinks, and that person is me.
So he said we'd meet a Mulligan's, and I said I love Mulligan's. I mean, they have an awesome wine list there. What's not to love, right? Right. So, we were off to a good start, I can tell you. Then, when I get there, he's already waiting at this cute little table in the corner and, lemme tell ya, he is looking good this dark brown shirt that totally shows off his pecs. He even holds the chair out for me when I sit down. Way classy, right? Then waitress comes over and we order and, here's the horrible part, he orders a Cosmopolitan. I mean, a Cosmopolitan? You've got to be kidding me. What else could I do? I let him buy me dinner and then I got the heck out of there and blocked his number on my phone. There's only allowed to be one person in a relationship drinking chic drinks, and that person is me.
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