Prompt: Write the last line of a story about an animal-like character.
Source: None
Response:
The breeze that kicked up the edges of the tent ruffled the hair on Sidney’s face as he lay behind the imposing bars of his personal stage; he smiled slightly as the cheerfully haunting music began outside and Burke’s eerie, booming voice lured the spectators in to see the freaks.
Notes: This marks the beginning of finals week. I have a final every day for the next school days so I decided to carry that theme a little farther. This week every prompt will be a finishing part of a particular type of story.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
John
Prompt: Write about a group of people dressed entirely in red.
Source: None
Response:
John peered through the trees. He watched the people milling in the clearing. They were silent – the noiselessness made the hair at the back of John’s neck stand up. It was so unnatural how they were standing there so quietly, all of them dressed in red.
The clothes fit perfectly against their bodies as if they were a second skin – the men and women and a little blond-haired girl. The red clothes as if they were covered in blood.
John crouched down, afraid that they would see him, but they seemed distant. They did not look toward him.
Source: None
Response:
John peered through the trees. He watched the people milling in the clearing. They were silent – the noiselessness made the hair at the back of John’s neck stand up. It was so unnatural how they were standing there so quietly, all of them dressed in red.
The clothes fit perfectly against their bodies as if they were a second skin – the men and women and a little blond-haired girl. The red clothes as if they were covered in blood.
John crouched down, afraid that they would see him, but they seemed distant. They did not look toward him.
Penance: December 10, 2010 - Like
Prompt: Write about a character who says "like" too often
Source: None
Response:
She used her hands when she talked. And she told lots of drama war stories and swore to emphasis her point. She was really entertaining to listen to, but you could never take her serious - she said "like" every other word, sometimes more.
Source: None
Response:
She used her hands when she talked. And she told lots of drama war stories and swore to emphasis her point. She was really entertaining to listen to, but you could never take her serious - she said "like" every other word, sometimes more.
December 10, 2010 - The Coin
Prompt: Use all these words in a story or poem: preacher, coin, stairwell, comb.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response:
She pressed her fingers against the sharp teeth of the comb in her coat pocket; it pinched the cold-numb skin, hurting more than the nervous motion usually did. The stairwell echoed with the noise of her footsteps. She looked down at the paper in her hands again. Preacher Gorse, eleven o’clock.
Her chest hurt. She wasn’t sure what the father wanted, but it probably had something to do with her mother. And her mother being dead.
She sighed, looking down at the paper again, double checking what she had already triple checked. A few stairs above her, she saw a penny, face up. The coin was shiny, like a little piece of a sunbeam lying on the ground.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response:
She pressed her fingers against the sharp teeth of the comb in her coat pocket; it pinched the cold-numb skin, hurting more than the nervous motion usually did. The stairwell echoed with the noise of her footsteps. She looked down at the paper in her hands again. Preacher Gorse, eleven o’clock.
Her chest hurt. She wasn’t sure what the father wanted, but it probably had something to do with her mother. And her mother being dead.
She sighed, looking down at the paper again, double checking what she had already triple checked. A few stairs above her, she saw a penny, face up. The coin was shiny, like a little piece of a sunbeam lying on the ground.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
An Encounter with Old Man Sun
Prompt: Write about a god of sunlight who takes the form of an older man.
Source: Modified from seventhsanctum.com
Response:
Old Man Sun sat by the side of the road, stroking his long beard and squinting into the distance. He slouched on the big rock, his feet braced up and his clothes draped over his bones like gauze curtains.
He watched the road, sitting except for the incessant stroking of his beard while the wind blew his hair and clothes. A figure appeared in the distance and he hobbled down the rock, his body bent over.
The man saw him from a distance, but he pretended that he had not. The traveler was young and straight-backed. Old Man Sun smiled. His teeth were perfect, flat white pearls.
The man slowed. He seemed to want to move to the other side of the road, but he was afraid of appearing afraid. Old Man Sun watched him unblinkingly, unapologetically.
And when the young man was abreast of him, head down, walking fast, Old Man Sun stuck out his ankle and tripped him. And Old Man Sun laughed and his face shone like daylight itself.
Source: Modified from seventhsanctum.com
Response:
Old Man Sun sat by the side of the road, stroking his long beard and squinting into the distance. He slouched on the big rock, his feet braced up and his clothes draped over his bones like gauze curtains.
He watched the road, sitting except for the incessant stroking of his beard while the wind blew his hair and clothes. A figure appeared in the distance and he hobbled down the rock, his body bent over.
The man saw him from a distance, but he pretended that he had not. The traveler was young and straight-backed. Old Man Sun smiled. His teeth were perfect, flat white pearls.
The man slowed. He seemed to want to move to the other side of the road, but he was afraid of appearing afraid. Old Man Sun watched him unblinkingly, unapologetically.
And when the young man was abreast of him, head down, walking fast, Old Man Sun stuck out his ankle and tripped him. And Old Man Sun laughed and his face shone like daylight itself.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Duchess
Prompt: This is a tale about xenophobia. The story is about a duchess who fears non-human beings. The effect of magic on technology is a major part of the story.
Source: Modified from seventhsanctum.com
Response:
The windows were all black, like the world had closed in around us. I sucked in a breath, bracing myself before I left the kitchen. I knew the main room would be loud, too-warm. It would be bustling with people who smelled like alcohol and hard labor; people with no sense of personal space. A room full of strangers.
“Get on with it,” the grating voice of the stove was flat, impatient.
I looked over at the appliance. “I’m going. Shut your door.”
The belligerent, metallic clang startled me as I turned away. Stupid stove – total jerk.
Tyrone called out as I entered the room, his dread swinging as he swayed with drink. “Duchess! Where’s my drink?”
I could feel the entire room staring my way. I ignored Tyrone completely. I delivered my drinks and left the room.
The stove greeted me with a petulant command – probably telling me I should interact with the customers – but I ignored it too. I went up the stairs, out to the roof. I could remember when the stove did not talk and when only regulars came to the tavern; before the magic had poisoned everything.
The sky was as black as the windows had suggested, lit only by the faint glows that marked streetlamps. I breathed out a coughing laugh. They had had to bolt the streetlamps to the street so that they would not walk away to pursue other things. One of them was missing – it had figured out how to detach itself and no one had seen it since. It was as warm outside as it was in the kitchen several floors below – heavy, putrid warmth.
I could remember when the sky was never darker than indigo blue and sometimes we could see the stars; before the furnaces had refused to hold the filth inside them and spewed it into the sky. They had called me duchess back then too – called me aloof and snotty – but I had been happy, or at the very least free from fear.
I looked out into the black, dirty sky. I saw strangers walking toward the tavern. Strangers. And bile rose in my throat. I could tell from their dress that they were from the Distant Country, where the magic had come from. And I was afraid.
Source: Modified from seventhsanctum.com
Response:
The windows were all black, like the world had closed in around us. I sucked in a breath, bracing myself before I left the kitchen. I knew the main room would be loud, too-warm. It would be bustling with people who smelled like alcohol and hard labor; people with no sense of personal space. A room full of strangers.
“Get on with it,” the grating voice of the stove was flat, impatient.
I looked over at the appliance. “I’m going. Shut your door.”
The belligerent, metallic clang startled me as I turned away. Stupid stove – total jerk.
Tyrone called out as I entered the room, his dread swinging as he swayed with drink. “Duchess! Where’s my drink?”
I could feel the entire room staring my way. I ignored Tyrone completely. I delivered my drinks and left the room.
The stove greeted me with a petulant command – probably telling me I should interact with the customers – but I ignored it too. I went up the stairs, out to the roof. I could remember when the stove did not talk and when only regulars came to the tavern; before the magic had poisoned everything.
The sky was as black as the windows had suggested, lit only by the faint glows that marked streetlamps. I breathed out a coughing laugh. They had had to bolt the streetlamps to the street so that they would not walk away to pursue other things. One of them was missing – it had figured out how to detach itself and no one had seen it since. It was as warm outside as it was in the kitchen several floors below – heavy, putrid warmth.
I could remember when the sky was never darker than indigo blue and sometimes we could see the stars; before the furnaces had refused to hold the filth inside them and spewed it into the sky. They had called me duchess back then too – called me aloof and snotty – but I had been happy, or at the very least free from fear.
I looked out into the black, dirty sky. I saw strangers walking toward the tavern. Strangers. And bile rose in my throat. I could tell from their dress that they were from the Distant Country, where the magic had come from. And I was afraid.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Entitled
Prompt: Write about the relationship between two brothers
Source: None
Response:
Cambian collapsed into a chair, kicking off his boots. “That was ridiculous,” he huffed, indignant and out of breath. “Father had me riding by Andrid and refused to let me converse with anyone else the entire afternoon.” He looked over at his brother who was standing by the window of their shared room, as if expecting a sympathetic grimace.
Candel glanced at his older brother, expressionless. Cambian was sprawled in his chair, sweaty and rugged. Candel supposed that was the way a man returning from a hunting trip was supposed to look; the way the first son was supposed to look. Candel looked out of the window, watching as servants loosed the animal carcasses from where they lay draped on the party’s horses. He wished he had gone, but he had not received an invitation; he could not remember the last time he had spoken to Andrid, or his father for that matter. “That must have lightened the mood slightly.”
Cambian scoffed, “The girl is a harpy.” He retrieved an apple from the bowl on the table and took a too-big, smacking bite. “Father only keeps her on hand because her father has a particularly large purse.” He took another bite. “And a title – Duke,” he snorted.
“Perhaps.” Candel kept his voice even. He knew that their father planned for Cambian to marry Andrid – the plans had been in the works longer than Candel could remember – but it would not do anything to contradict Cambian, it never did.
Candel turned to leave the room. He knew Cambian would stop him, interrogate him, but his brother said nothing until he had almost left the room. “Where are you going?”
Candel tried to offer his brother a quick, noncommittal smile. He was not sure how it came across. “Help the servants,”
“Ah,” Cambian nodded. “Could you polish my armor after – tournament tomorrow.”
Candel inclined his head, turning before his face could register the resentment he felt at being treated like a servant. It had been happening all his life, but Candel could not help feeling irritated by his brother’s arrogance. He walked out of the manor quickly. He had intended to help the servants, but he could not stand to be around them – his equals – at that moment.
His mother was scrubbing the floor, on her creaking knees with her skirts hitched up and hair falling into her face. She looked up as he came in “My boy, what brings you home so early? Your father and brother are well?” her eyes were instantly worried.
Candel sighed. “Yes, mum, fine. You should let me do that.”
He knelt down next to her, reaching over to take the scrub brush, but she would not relinquish it. She looked into his face, holding onto the brush tightly. “What’s wrong, Candel?”
Candel stood. “Nothing, mum.” He went to leave but his mother’s voice stopped him.
“It’s your brother, isn’t it?”
Candel hesitated. He was not sure he could explain the anger he felt seeing Cambian mistreat his betrothed and run wild at their father’s expense. Only that morning he had seen Cambian roll his eyes as his mother kissed him goodbye before the hunt. He had felt so furious at how his brother took everything for granted, how he felt so entitled, while Candel’s own mother was forced to live away from the manor house, supported but hidden. He could not express how he felt acting the part of a servant while his brother took and wasted his inheritance.
He smiled at his mother, reassuringly. “I’m fine, mum.”
Source: None
Response:
Cambian collapsed into a chair, kicking off his boots. “That was ridiculous,” he huffed, indignant and out of breath. “Father had me riding by Andrid and refused to let me converse with anyone else the entire afternoon.” He looked over at his brother who was standing by the window of their shared room, as if expecting a sympathetic grimace.
Candel glanced at his older brother, expressionless. Cambian was sprawled in his chair, sweaty and rugged. Candel supposed that was the way a man returning from a hunting trip was supposed to look; the way the first son was supposed to look. Candel looked out of the window, watching as servants loosed the animal carcasses from where they lay draped on the party’s horses. He wished he had gone, but he had not received an invitation; he could not remember the last time he had spoken to Andrid, or his father for that matter. “That must have lightened the mood slightly.”
Cambian scoffed, “The girl is a harpy.” He retrieved an apple from the bowl on the table and took a too-big, smacking bite. “Father only keeps her on hand because her father has a particularly large purse.” He took another bite. “And a title – Duke,” he snorted.
“Perhaps.” Candel kept his voice even. He knew that their father planned for Cambian to marry Andrid – the plans had been in the works longer than Candel could remember – but it would not do anything to contradict Cambian, it never did.
Candel turned to leave the room. He knew Cambian would stop him, interrogate him, but his brother said nothing until he had almost left the room. “Where are you going?”
Candel tried to offer his brother a quick, noncommittal smile. He was not sure how it came across. “Help the servants,”
“Ah,” Cambian nodded. “Could you polish my armor after – tournament tomorrow.”
Candel inclined his head, turning before his face could register the resentment he felt at being treated like a servant. It had been happening all his life, but Candel could not help feeling irritated by his brother’s arrogance. He walked out of the manor quickly. He had intended to help the servants, but he could not stand to be around them – his equals – at that moment.
His mother was scrubbing the floor, on her creaking knees with her skirts hitched up and hair falling into her face. She looked up as he came in “My boy, what brings you home so early? Your father and brother are well?” her eyes were instantly worried.
Candel sighed. “Yes, mum, fine. You should let me do that.”
He knelt down next to her, reaching over to take the scrub brush, but she would not relinquish it. She looked into his face, holding onto the brush tightly. “What’s wrong, Candel?”
Candel stood. “Nothing, mum.” He went to leave but his mother’s voice stopped him.
“It’s your brother, isn’t it?”
Candel hesitated. He was not sure he could explain the anger he felt seeing Cambian mistreat his betrothed and run wild at their father’s expense. Only that morning he had seen Cambian roll his eyes as his mother kissed him goodbye before the hunt. He had felt so furious at how his brother took everything for granted, how he felt so entitled, while Candel’s own mother was forced to live away from the manor house, supported but hidden. He could not express how he felt acting the part of a servant while his brother took and wasted his inheritance.
He smiled at his mother, reassuringly. “I’m fine, mum.”
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