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Dirty Deeds (Writing Prompts)

Writing Prompts

 I can't speak for you but the title of this week's writing prompt definitely starts AC/DC going in my head, which starts me singing Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, which starts me channeling Angus McKinnon Young duck-walking across the stage only I'm still in jim-jams not a velvet school boy uniform.

Hmmm. I feel some part of all of that is going to influence what I write for this week's challenge. Should it do so with you I will be delighted to see what we each see on imaginations stage.




Dirty Deeds (Writing Prompts) 

Did Last Week's Prompt Collide With Intestines?

Actually no, it didn't but I wanted a title that amused me and anyway there were, however, a sort of intestine in last week's writing prompt except not and bellow is but a small quote from one of the prompt fills, you really need to go read the rest.

You don't know what you're missing.

You get up to leave the room and I run after you and we collide in the doorframe and tumble into the kitchen. I slip on the cool kitchen tiles and slam into the fridge and somehow the door opens and the stupid thing spills leek and carrots like intestines.

You look at me and shake your head with a small sigh before closing the door again. Once my clumsiness used to make you laugh. I wonder if I should tackle you to the floor, but that seems a tad excessive 
It didn’t take long to get the guy alone, he had a bounce in his step that took him pretty far pretty fast. When we were just coming up on a pet store I like — they don’t sell living things, just feed and toys galore — and though it was shut-tight for the night I called him and pointed into the store’s interior.

By reflex he looked in and quick-as-blinks I pushed my hoodie back until Estheriel, Meshana, Reav, and Clovom hissed out, tongues flickering.
And served up with a clever, sly
Pre-determined alibi
That under stress will hold.
Resist the worn out metaphors
Equating stealth with padded paws
Find other ways to stalk
Bide your time and make your plot
Until you think that I’ve forgot
Your will to do me in


All right, it's your turn to turn a phrase, write a vignette, craft an intriguing grocery list for a the snails that live in your garden, it is utterly up to you what inspiration you take from these prompts, so long as they inspire you to write, create, imagine, potter, putter, cogitate, craft, or whatever the hell they can do for you that's a thumbs-up good thing.

G'wan, write some little thing or other. No one's looking. We're all just—*whistles*—hangin' out with the snails.

(I don't know, it's just…what occurred.)

More Writing Prompts
Don't Go
I haven't forgotten
Other Stuff
Warthogs and All: Researching Prey, a South African Thriller
Books Inspiring Us Right Now
(Comments moderated to foil the spam bots.)

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  • Anarion on

    The cleaning person who comes in the evenings is my favourite one, because she always dances while sweeping, hips swaying gracefully to music I only feel the beat of.

    But now she has left and the huge room outside my little enclave is only filled with dim light and silence.

    I carefully open the tank’s lid and climb out, quietly making my way down to the ground. Opening the other tank is a bit of a challenge, because I need to awkwardly jam myself between it and the wall. But then it opens and I slip in. It’s cooler here and murkier. But I know where I need to go anyway, I have been making these trips for a while now, ever since I started wooing you.

    I’m carefully digging around in the sandy ground, because that’s where you can find the dead ones and you only like the dead ones. I brought you a live one, once, and you ignored me for way too long. Not making this mistake again. Anyway, I’m here, digging, when someone suddenly knocks on the glass. It’s the cleaning person and I’m startled so bad; I almost make a mess.

    She stares at me, I stare back. Then she waves, actually waves, at me and what does she think I am going to do? Wave back?

    I wave back.

    She grins and moves away.

    ‘Yeah, showing real stealth here, buddy!’ I cynically think to myself, before grabbing my loot and clambering back towards my own tank.

    When I reach your dwelling, I carefully set my offering down in front of the entrance and prepare to wait. You like to make me wait, but I don’t mind. I look at all the pretty dead ones I have brought you and I wonder if maybe this time you will finally accept me.

    Usually you just reach out and pull my offering inside, but this time, you glide out and I can’t believe my luck! You wrap your two longest tentacles around me and pull me into your den and I can only hope that it will not become my gave, that I will survive this mating season as I have survived the ones before.

    The beautiful tiny shell I brought you lies outside, forgotten.

  • Kaz Langston on

    Green and green and green and then – a chasm!
    Emptiness beneath my blackened fingertips as I trace the wound.
    This won’t stand. It’s not what I’d bargained for, this angry heartbreak, weeks ago when I made my offering to the earth.
    He won’t get away, not this time.
    There’s no sun, not for this wicked deed, but my bright light shines on green and black, shadows playing against the wall.
    I have him.
    A pinch of white trickles from my fingers.
    Sorry, slug. You shouldn’t have eaten my seedlings.

    (No slugs were harmed in the writing of this piece, I haven’t caught the little sods yet. I hope they consider this a warning.)

  • The Honeyed Moon on

    Getaway. Yeah. that sounds good. Just… Get. Away. From all of it. The sameness, the crushing beige mundanity of it. A getaway.

    That’s the challenge though, isn’t it. How? Where? Where to go and how to get there. It didn’t have to be far away or expensive to get to. It just had to be away, somewhere. That’s the thing. Not here. Here is DULL. Here is whining and complaining and endless loads of washing. Meals to cook and dishes to be done.

    I’m not usually a cynical person, but for just once, can I put myself out front and be the one that gets taken care of? To not be the one doing everyone else’s dirty deeds? If you’ve ever had the unenviable task of doing a 13 year-old boys laundry, you understand where I am coming from. Talk about funky.

    Tea and a cookie or two (or four), a book or my crochet. Someplace quiet, that has a locking door, and that isn’t the bathroom. That’s not too much to ask for, surely.

    Locking door. A door with a lock. A place no one will think to look for me.

    The travel trailer. The vacation home you can take with you. It’s got comfy places to sit, windows that open for a breeze, and, with a little help from an extension cord, it’s got power for a teakettle. The best part though? It has a door that locks. Twenty-two feet by 8. 176 square feet of private space. Why the fuck didn’t I think of this sooner?


    (NOTE: I am okay. Really. Mom just needs a break now and then. Especially with the remote learning and the “Hey Mom!” eleventy gillion times a day. My 11 year-old feels the need to speak every word that there is, twice. I love the folks I’m quarantined with. Unfortunately, we sold our travel trailer 3 years ago.)

  • Janet Anderton on

    You poured yourself into my life like honey,
    So slowly, that I hardly noticed,
    Until the days just tasted that bit sweeter,
    And the nights wore a golden hue.
    My mistake, I fear, was blind acceptance,
    I did not challenge your sudden interest, I went with the flow,
    Which was all well and good, until you turned off the tap,
    For someone so slow, you made a hasty getaway.
    Now the days coat my tongue with a cynical bitterness,
    And nights come into a devastating sharp focus,
    But what is worse is the aftertaste,
    Your dirty deed has left me craving for more.

  • Narrelle Harris on

    Jase couldn’t afford a getaway car, and anyway, none of them had a driver’s licence, so his best friend Max waited outside the ratty house on a getaway bicycle.

    Once Jase did the deed, he came belting out of Greasy Don’s house at top speed, the ill-kept puppy clutched to his chest. The puppy had yelped once, when Jase yanked the brutally short chain and the wooden stake out of the ground. Jase yelped too, because of the splinters, but he grabbed the dog close, even after it peed on him in terror, and ran for his – and more literally for the dog’s – life.

    Mounting the bicycle was a challenge, even though they’d rehearsed with a loaf of bread in Max’s back yard. But Jase got on behind Max and Max took off, dinking Jase and the rescued puppy, as though Greasy Don was in hot pursuit.

    Greasy Don wasn’t. Greasy Don was snoring in front of the television in the front room of his neglected house. Greasy Don didn’t have much going for him, but at least he was an equal opportunity slob, neglecting the house, his own hygiene and sobriety and his health in general, as well as the puppy. He possibly had forgotten he even had a dog, which would explain the poor animal’s state.

    Jase, cynical about adults even at thirteen, assumed Don enjoyed his power over the weaker creature.
    The puppy shivered against Jase’s chest as Max pedalled his bike through the streets and back alleys – he was so good at shaking any pursuers that it was almost a shame they had none – and finally slewed to a halt in his own back yard. He held the bike steady while Jase clambered off with the puppy.

    Jase was covered in mud, blood and puppy pee. The rescue had indeed been a dirty deed. But they had rescued the animal. Jase put the puppy down and offered it the bowl of water and dog food he and Max had prepared earlier. They watched, happy and proud, as the puppy drank and ate its fill, and then clambered all over them, wagging its tail and licking their hands and faces.

    ‘Stinky needs a bath,’ said Max.

    ‘Don’t call him that,’ protested Jase. ‘It’s not his fault.’

    ‘You stink too.’

    Jase pulled his shirt out to take a long sniff, and his whole face wrinkled in disgust.

    After they bathed the puppy – who frolicked in the water like it was the best game ever, delivering a series of high happy yips – he earned the name Flipper. Jase showered too, and then presented the now fluffy white dog to his father.

    ‘He followed me home. Can I keep him?’

    Jase’s father was fully aware of the drunkard four streets away and the poor neglected dog chained in his back yard. He knew right from wrong, of course, but like his son, he didn’t consider a rescue the same as a theft.

    ‘You can,’ he said. ‘And if Greasy Don shows up and wants it back, we’ll say we bought you the dog for your birthday.’

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