Writing Prompt Set 1

Hello and welcome back! For today’s post, I thought I would share some writing and a technique I use for finding inspiration when I don’t want to work on a long project.

Writing Prompts.

Tumblr and Reddit are my go-to sites for these (though I’m sure there are many other sources). Often, someone posts a scenario or sentence and writers respond. The response are usually short, but they are good practice. Here are some I did (with the prompt included for context)

Writing prompt #1:  You don’t have a shoulder angel and shoulder devil. You have an Angry Viking and a 50’s House Wife.

My response:

“Chop his head off!” The voice screamed.

It seemed to boom all around me, bouncing off the walls. I was amazed the poor man couldn’t hear it, but he seemed unfazed.

“Ingrid, please–” I whispered, hoping to reason with her.

“It’s alright, dear, she doesn’t mean any harm, I’m sure. Perhaps she’s just frustrated from the lack of a good man in her life. Maybe this gentlema–“

“Silence! How dare you insult my bloodline with such a suggestion? Look at this weakling, he couldn’t even lift an axe!”

The bickering began again, to the usual tune. I sighed and gave my lawyer an attempt at a smile. He was annoying, smug and had just suggested that I continue to share living arrangements with my deadbeat ex, because it was easier than going to court.

But he didn’t deserve beheading. Unfortunately, when you have a Viking with anger issues living rent-free in your head, it’s hard not to think such things. So far this week, Ingrid had suggested I behead my ex, a parking warden, two police officers and the lady in the corner shop who had trodden on my toe. It was only Tuesday.

Mind you, Mabel wasn’t a lot better. For one thing, she kept suggesting that my relationship issues might be down to the fact that my cooking leaves a lot to be desired, rather than the fact that my ex prefers cigarettes and porn to a job and regular dates. She also tended to pass comment on the cleanliness of places, and I could recall her being most unimpressed with my lawyer’s office.

She had a point. But then, sometimes Ingrid did, too. I still wasn’t going to chop anyone’s head off.

But I did need to come up with an appropriate response to this situation, preferably without anyone else’s input. I opened my mouth to formulate a polite response.

“Hon varr Draconian, gamla vis Hruga uskit’r!” Was all that came out, and it came out in a rage-filled scream.

“Oh my!” Mabel gasped.

———————————————-

Writing Prompt #2: 

“You want this love potion to save your marriage, don’t you?” the witch asks. “Yes,” you say “because I want to drink it to love my wife again.”

My Response: 

His hands curled around the bottle. “I need it. I need to love her.” He whispered desperately.

“Are you sure about this?” The witch watched him curiously.

He nodded, staring at the bottle in his hands. He finally had the solution to all their problems.

“May I ask why you need my help? After all, should you not love your spouse already?” She enquired. Her love life may not amount to much, but the witch knew the basic principles of romance.

“I did when I married her. But I’m afraid I can’t love her anymore, not without your help. Not without this.” He lifted the bottle.

“Why not? Does something stand in your way? Has your marriage been cursed in some way?” The woman leaned closer, concerned and intrigued by the man’s unusual tale.

“No, no,” He shook his head. “Worse.”

“What could be so terrible that it could destroy all natural feelings?” The witch demanded to know his burden.

“She…” He hesitated, unsure if he should speak the awful words, “She puts pineapple on her pizza.”

Writing Prompt #3:

It’s surprisingly useful having a real witch helping out around the village. Plagues, sicknesses and animal attacks haven’t been a problem ever since Old Mabel started practicing openly. So when some out-of-town witch hunters want to burn her at the stake, the villagers are none too pleased.

My response:

A crowd had gathered around the clearing where the stake had been erected. They were jostling and shouting. The witch hunters were used to this.

What had them uneasily conferring in a corner was the fact that they were shouting in the witch’s defence.

“Here, you can’t burn her! She cured my smallpox!” A peasant shouted.

“And what about our Timmy?” His wife prodded him in the back, encouraging him.

“Him as well!” The peasant nodded firmly.

Another man pushed his way to the front of the crowd, “He’s right, you know! My leg was gonna drop off, and Mabel fixed it!”

There were some doubtful mutterings at this point. This man was counter-productive, but then he was generally considered to be the village idiot.

Eventually, the witch hunters presented their own spokesperson. The woman was a feared bounty hunter, but at the moment, she looked nervous. No one had ever objected like this before.

“But look,” She began as reasonably as possible, “You can’t like her. She’s a witch! She casts spells on people!”

“Bloody good spells they are too,” One peasant nodded, “If she hadn’t cast a spell on me, I’d never have found my lost coins.”

“What about the potions?” She continued to confront the crowd.

A woman clutched her vial close, “Nothing wrong with some good potions! This will find me my true love, and you can’t take it, so clear off!”

This got some cheers. The bewildered woman turned back to her friends.

“She doesn’t appear to have actually done anything wrong.”

“I told you that. You just want to burn me because of the old trope that witches are evil, I said. You shouldn’t be doing that, I said. But did you listen?” Mabel started to object.

One of the hunters prodded her, “Shut up, you.” He was irritated. This had been his idea.

“But you’ve got to burn witches.” He protested. “It’s customary.”

“Not round here it isn’t! Buzz off!” A peasant threw a stone. The hunters reached for their swords. But the villagers found a lot more stones than there were swords, and were a lot quicker.

Writing Prompt #4:

“Technically, I used my head. Not the way you wanted me to, but I did use it anyway.”

My response:

“Headbutting the bully in the nose does not count! The boy is in hospital!” Her purple-faced mother thundered.

“You said using my head was the only way to get the better of him,” Mia pointed out again. She was quite calm about the whole ordeal, despite having blood on her forehead, being suspended and probably being about to give her mother an aneurysm.

“You know that’s not what I meant!” The woman snapped at her daughter. “You can’t just–”

The girl didn’t appear remotely flustered. She simply cut in. “He had it coming. I won’t apologise for giving people what they deserve.”

The older woman didn’t know how to respond to that. “Enough of this! Go to your room!” She yelled.

After her daughter had stomped away, she flopped down with a sigh and rubbed her temples. What was she going to do with this child? What would she become? Some kind of vigilante, perhaps, or something worse.

But at the moment, she certainly didn’t seem like she was going to become a normal member of society.

Writing Prompt #5: Write a reverse-murder mystery story where one person is reanimated and everyone else needs to find out who’s the necromancer.

My response:

“Goddamnit, who revived Grandpa? The man’s falling apart!” Sandra waved an accusing hand at exhibit A, an old man lounging in an armchair. His suit was filthy and bits of his weak, grey skin were flapping around loosely.

“Eh?” He questioned her.

Her sister shifted uncomfortably. “This is weird…” Cassie moaned.

“Oh, shut up, what’s wrong with him being around again? He’s not doing any harm and maybe he’ll help us find his will!” Their younger brother, Tom, was way too enthusiastic.

Sandra narrowed her eyes. “Did you do this? What did Mum tell you about borrowing her magic books for self-indulgent necromancy?” She scolded.

“It wasn’t me! I’m just saying, why not take advantage of the situation?” He protested.

Cassie let out another groan, “Maybe because he stinks! And anyway, he can’t tell us anything, he’s deaf!”

“I can still lip-read, you rude, ungrateful little tyke!” Grandpa protested.

Cassie flushed.

Sandra whirled around and subjected the old man to an interrogating glare. “So why don’t you tell us who did this? What did you see?”

“Well, it was Mary who dug me up,” The man revealed.

His grandchildren looked at one another, one question on all their minds.

“Who the hell’s Mary?” Tom demanded to know, voicing all their thoughts.

“Did your mother never tell you? Your half-sister, Mary.”

And just like that, they had another family mystery to solve.