Writing Prompts!

Here, have some writing prompts to get you in the groove of writing! Use the quote or setting and write something - anything! It doesn't matter what you write as long as you start writing and don't stop!

Not on the Market

So, someone walked up to me today and she told me that she was getting married. This was a friend that I’d known since middle school and she’d know the boy since high school. I looked at her and while my face showed excitement, my heart screamed out to her “don’t do it! It’s a trap!” Speaking from experience, of course, and my abundance of marriage knowledge.

Later that day, she told me that even though I wasn’t really dating anyone right now, I’ve probably already met the person I’m going to marry. She also said that by age 16, 80% of people have already met the person they’re going to marry. Well, listen here, Girl Scout, I’m not buying your cookies. There’s no way that’s true. Let’s think about this for a minute. By age 16 and I’m 23, now? I don’t think so…

There’s Jim. We go to the gym together. Funny, I know. But I met him there one day, I was running on the treadmill and he thought that it would be smooth to come up behind me and check. Out. My behind. No, no, no, Jim, that’s not very nice. And while we had coffee once in the lounge area, thanks for spending that $0.75 on the K-cup for me, and the conversation was semi-intelligent, I don’t think I would want to marry you.

Well, there’s always Max. There’s a good man. But he’s 34 with two kids and I think my father would him through a wall before he let him marry me. But he’s always been a gentleman. We met at my niece’s dance recital. His daughter was in it, too. We got to talk during intermission and we ended up exchanging information. Now we email back and forth, mostly when we’re putting off doing our work and want to look like we’re busy. No, Max, I’m sorry, but despite what my father would say, I don’t think that you’re exactly the one for me.

Who else? Oh! Mr. Radley down the street? Although, I’m not too sure about him. I don’t think that I’m quite his type. He often has bikes parked out side his house. No, not bikes like motorcycles, but bikes like with the hand brakes that the neighborhood boys would ride. Well, I know that he bakes a lot and does make some good lemonade, but let’s just say that I was never invited inside.

Roger, what about you? You’ve got the damaged rocker air about you. And if I’m being honest, my track record does show that I like damaged men. I want to fix them somehow, but I don’t think I could fix you. You’re sweet, and I’d definitely like to drink a lot of tequila with you and make that same mistake over again, but I think I’d rather have you as an affair – not a husband.

So that’s only four, but I can’t count all of the men I’ve come across since I was 16. I do know, however, that if they’re in the past teenage years, it’s probably for a reason and well, if I’m not dating them now, then that’s probably for a reason, too. So from now on, when someone asks me if I’m in a relationship, then the answer is yes. It’s a long distance one because my boyfriend lives in the future and I live in the present.

Hide it Now - Drink it Later

Know what’s great about vodka? Vodka doesn’t have a scent if you mix it with the right thing. I usually go for some Cyrstal Light; the fruit punch flavor. It’s pretty good and almost tasteless. It’s good in orange juice, too. That’s how I start a lot of my mornings. Cereal and a screwdriver. Vodka does a great job at letting the mixer overpower its flavor. It’s not really cocky like other hard liquors that just have to be present and give the back of your throat that tingle that makes you wonder if you’re going to throw up. But vodka doesn’t affect me the way other alcohols do.

Know what’s great about rum? Rum can go in anything and rum gets me drunk faster than any of the other liquors. From juice, just like what I put the vodka in, to coke. That’s usually what I drink at the bar, rum and coke. It’s sweet, but not too sweet and the bubbles are a bonus. They’re a new refreshing feeling going down my throat and mix well with that tickle. I only need about four rum and cokes to get me under the table, but I usually have a few more because I’m dancing and sweating it out. Don’t want that buzz to wear off before I go home.

Know what’s great about baileys and peppermint schnapps? Baileys goes well in my morning coffee and with the right creamer can’t be detected by someone that walks buy and catches a whiff of my coffee. I usually get compliments on “how good it smells” and they often ask, “what’s your secret?” I tell them it’s just my mixture of creamer products. Peppermint schnapps goes well in hot chocolate. On those mornings that I start with a vodka and orange juice, I don’t start with coffee. Instead, I bring some hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and little marshmallows that float on the top. Mmm. Those are my favorite. And on those days, I bring a flask filled with a little extra. They’re not particularly strong, so I have to have enough to get me through the day without killing someone at work.

Know what’s great about beds? Beds have storage underneath, but my bed is especially genius. It’s not meant to have storage underneath, but if I lift my mattress, there are slats and I can see the carpeted floor. That storage underneath is awesome for hiding my bottles of vodka, rum, baileys, and peppermint schnapps. But really, that’s the beauty of it all. No one has a fucking clue what I’m hiding.

Serious Moment

Before I get back to writing my fiction and fiction writing tips, I want to talk about something that's very real and close to me. Yesterday, my heart broke, hearing about the bombings in Boston. That's too close to home for me. I'm from the North Shore area. I'd like to say that all of the families and friends that were affected by this tragedy are in my heart and prayers tonight. I haven't even begun to wrap my head around this, which is why it's taken me so long to even begin responding to this. I'd like to send this song out to all of you in the area, whether you were hurt, not hurt, helped, donated blood, had family or friends that were hurt, or are still waiting for someone that was in the area. God is with all of you. Remember that there are ways to help. Red Cross is always accepting blood donations. And here are some helpful links: Google Person Finder and Red Cross Safe and Well. Stay safe and God bless.

Definitely Not Toys for Tots

I sit in the corner of the room. He sits on the edge of the bed. We’re staring at each other. His phone is ringing in the other room.

Then it stops.

Then it rings again.

Then it stops.

Our eyes don’t leave the other no matter how much that stupid, 8-bit audio file of Mozart’s Requiem disturbs the heavy silence. This staring contest feels like it’s been going on for days, but I don’t dare to break it for a quick and useless glimpse at the clock. When I look at him, all I see is a liar. When he looks at me, all he sees is a broken toy.

First I thought that I was his GI Joe figure that he would keep under his pillow every night and show off to all of his friends. I quickly realized that I was the life-size Playboy that he stashed under his mattress.

I lost some pieces along the way. Like his Tonka truck lost wheels in the dirt outside. Or his yellow digger lost its front shovel in the sandbox. Each piece that I lost of me in him is probably buried out there in the backyard with the rest of the mutilated toys.

The pieces that I do have left of me seem like they’re in a different spot. It’s like Mr. Potato head with his arm in his eyehole and his feet where his hat should be. I was like a slinky in his hands. I bounced back from one hand to another and after all was said and done, I felt like I’d gone down the stairs a few times, too.

He molded me like PlayDoh. Made me into what he wanted, what would make him happy and then instead of putting me back in the jar, he left me out to dry. Where I cracked and eventually fell off the shelf and shattered.

In the end, I just blew him like he blew bubbles. And he violated me like I was Barbie.

His phone rings again.

Then it stops.

Then it rings again.

Then it stops.

I'm blocked!

So, someone asked me today "I've been staring at a blank page all day. I'm sitting in front of my computer, ready to write, and nothing comes out. What do I do?"

I can't answer for everyone, but I can tell you what I do. I write what happened that day, I make lists of things that made me happy, made me mad. Whatever it may be, you can turn it into fiction later.

If that doesn't help, I look for anything and everything that can be used as a prompt. Maybe the water bottle on my desk or my keys in my pocket. I use pictures and quotes. Anything that will draw some inspiration.

If I Had a Son

If I had a son, he’d be a pilot. He’d be flying and soaring higher than any of his friends. I’d have a bumper sticker that says “My son is an honor student.” He would climb the tallest peaks of the mountains of his dreams, hop up a few clouds and bang on the biggest doors, demanding to be let in and he wouldn’t stop until he was allowed over the threshold.

If I had a son, he’d be a baseball player. He would be the best player that little league ever saw because he would strike the others out with each pitch. And every time he swung and hit the ball with a loud crack, the bat would splinter. He would be the fastest runner, rounding home base at least three times before the other team even got the ball to the infield. The rest of the team wouldn’t be needed; he’d be a one-man show.

If I had a son, he’d be a thinker. He would tell me that he has a new idea every day. And on a normal Tuesday afternoon, he would tell me that he needs a hat and a flag and when I ask him why, he’d tell me he’s going to have a parade. When he gets older, he would have more sophisticated ideas. Ideas that are of him owning his own business, or ideas that benefit others.

Because if I had a son, he’d be selfless. He would cry whenever the ASPCA commercials came on and when he sees the ones for the less fortunate children, he would say “Mom, we need to send them money so he can have the race car track like mine.” And if I tell him that it’s not in our budget, he’ll take that racetrack and tell me that we need to go to the post office so he can mail it to them.

If I had a son, I would love him so much that it hurt. I would work three jobs if I had to, so that he would want for nothing. He would have the strong will that I’ve instilled in him. He would be independent, but he would still happy to come home for Sunday dinners.