You know you don't have to use every word in these prompts, don't you? I mean unless you want to. Heck, you don't have to use any of them, they're here just to trigger, provoke, encourage.
To start your creative engine, as it were, to get something-something simmering in your head and out your hands, where you maybe share it with us here—yay! I love these stories with a teeth-clenching, jaw-bruising glee, beause that's a thing that is, and that I have, when you share your story here.
Science Fiction Stories, Mysteries, Supernatural
I love all of those sorts of stories and for some reason these prompts bring those out in you. The eerie, the urban, the gritty, the strange. They're delights one and all and I hope they are air for you. A big breath. A release of writerly tension. I hope these writing prompts are pleasure and inspiration, the start of something beautiful, the letting go of something grim.
Whatever they are, thank you for each and every tale. And without further ado, a few fine quotes from last week's Oh, not again…
“Dear sir,” the email began, and he could already hear Armie’s snide tones dripping from every syllable. “I cannot believe that after the box of candy penises and the sample of elephant faeces, that you would escalate to shipping me THIS kind of filth.” Ben wriggled with delight.
“Oi, raven,” someone shouted and she picket at the wood again. “You’re back luck, ain’t you? On a ship? Shoo, off you go.”
I thought women were bad luck, now it’s ravens, too, she thought to herself and looked up at the man who wasn’t brave enough to go anywhere close to where her beak could reach. She decided that they had been sailing for long enough to risk a little magic.
I heard tell there’s this thing called worm charming. Where people can bring the worms up to the earth’s surface from their subterranean homes. Some little girl holds the title…I wish that kid would charm my worms. And by worms I mean brain cells. And by brain cells I mean this.
Tala knows that Dev and Gaz will suffer the ignominious demise feared by all performers. They will die on stage, to the sound of metaphorical crickets, not a laugh to be had. From some quarters, the hostile glowering will make the silence furnace-hot. Dev and Gaz’s double act (misogyny-racism) will die and be buried and there won’t be enough good material in it to nourish the worms.
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