365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

It has been 12 days. They still have not noticed that I am haunting them. I'm running out of ideas; I mean, how original can a ghost be? It's all been done before, and nothing is working. They never look up from their phones long enough to see objects moving "on their own." They don't turn down the music or the videos quiet enough to hear the chains rattling or things going bump in the night. Not even my cold spots make a difference: they just shiver and move on.

I'm going to change my tactics. Instead of acting like a ghost, I'm going to act like one of them. I will sit at their table and eat breakfast cereal with them. I will sit between them on the couch while they play games on their tablets. I will join them in the shower. I will take out the garbage with them. I will sing along to their songs.

And if that doesn't work, I could always play with the power lines and the cell phone towers. Bring it on, humans. This is war.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Tear-Jerker

Millions of people--all of China, in fact--bowed to their savior, Mulan. She held back warm tears until the emperor leaned in to whisper in her ear. The threat of execution for breaking the law would never leave her.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Memory Lane

Memory Lane is a quiet street in the suburbs of Seattle. There you will see a house painted the color of chocolate milk and filled with dusty cupboards and bald eagle droppings. Most of the rooms house toys and games and schoolbooks, but don't go into the room at the end of the hall on the second floor. It used to be a bathroom.

The girl who lived there now haunts it. That mirror is where she first tried to summon Bloody Mary with her friends. A vicious Tyrannosaurus Rex waits for victims behind the shower curtain. The gaping maw of the bathtub drain screams. The toilet bleeds. All because she dreamt it, imagined it, played with her own horror.

Memory Lane is a quiet street in the suburbs of Seattle, where the rain never stops, never stops, and the ghosts never sleep, never sleep.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Sunrise/Sunset

The burning starts at sunrise. They don't put you out until the sun goes down behind the mountains. You burn all day and then you steam in the quiet hours of the night. I used to live for the nighttime, for the cool breeze and the dew. Now I live for the morning, when the demons set my flesh aflame. Daughter of the Sun, they call me. Watch me burn.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Just Say No

"How did your performance go, Miss Patty?"

"I've done better, but I've also done worse. It was a fair night. I was a little sharp on that high note, but the rest of the song was something to be proud of."

"Were you nervous?"

"Not really. I've sung on that stage for twenty years. It's practically home."

"How was the audience tonight?"

"Here and there. They didn't ask for an encore, but they didn't boo me. It really was a rather normal night."

"Then why are you here?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"I'd like to see what you know about what happened."

"I only know what I heard in the whispers."

"And what did the whispers say?"

"They say that someone died."

"Is that all they say?"

"I didn't listen too closely. Maybe something about a performer. I was on my way out the door."

"Which door did you leave from?"

"I don't remember. Must have been the one that leads right out into the parking lot."

"But you don't remember exactly."

"The lights were bright on the stage, and I sang my hardest. I was tired."

"How tired were you?"

"Well, I don't think I was falling asleep during my own performance. My chest felt a little tight, like it often does after a long day."

"Did your chest pains go away after you sang?"

"I don't know. Sure."

"Do you feel them now?"

"I don't think so."

"Let me get this straight: you don't really remember what happened after you got off the stage."

"That's right."

"But you remember everything that happened before and during your performance."

"That's right. Where is this going?"

"Miss Patty, what if you didn't leave the stage tonight?"

"What do you mean? I'm here, aren't I?"

"Where is here? Have you even wondered who I am?"

"I don't understand. What is happening?"

"Don't panic, Miss Patty. I have one last question for you. I think you know the answer."

"Hurry up. I want to go home."

"Miss Patty, did you leave the stage tonight?"

"I--what--"

"Think about it. Did you leave the stage?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I died."

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Joke Poem

Why do the campus ghosts congregate in the university library?

...

Because they enjoy conducting BOOlean searches. Hardy har har.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Stars

I was looking at the stars when I died. The snow was soft underneath me. I didn't feel cold or wet; I only felt...astronomical. For as long as I had breath, as long as my heart pumped blood, I kept my eyes open and trained on those glittering freckles in the sky. There was Orion, the wintry hunter. The North Star, guide of the sailors. The Dippers, endlessly pouring celestial water onto the earth. And below them all, a dying girl who kept discovering new stars only to have them melt on her face.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Light Switch

First, there was darkness, and that was all that I knew. I could feel it, smell it, breathe it into my lungs, feel it bind to my blood like oxygen. The darkness was life-giving and life-thieving. Though my heart beat, I felt frozen in time--and what kind of life is that?

Then, there was darkness and something else. Something was burgeoning from the darkest shadows, born from the life-giving elements that I breathed. It started small and grew until it began to condense the darkness, to squish it, to press it back. I had to blink my eyes. Time was moving. I finally found the word for it: light.

I could feel the light, could smell it, breathe it into my lungs--but I coughed. Coughed again. My eyes stung. Where the darkness was forgiving, was like oxygen to my body, this light was stealing the oxygen away from me. It was piercing and horrid and hot, so hot.

My skin curled away from the light, and the darkness tried to protect me. It covered my skin with a crisp black suit. I became the darkness, fused with the darkness. I burned.

At last, there was darkness, and that was all that I knew.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dirty

It was dark and cold and the mud rose in the garden as the river rose at the edge of the woods and the rain pelted the side of the house and I checked out the attic window one more time. IT, a twisted creature I had never seen before and which I wished I would never see again, was still crawling through the black sludge that used to give life to Mama’s gourds. I shivered.

The lamp at my feet flickered, and I tightened the quilt around my shoulders, turning away from the window. Mama would be home soon, I thought. Mama would take care of the thing in the garden, crawling crawling like a slug.

Only it wasn’t a slug. It was far too big, more the size of the dog that lived next door which would sometimes lick my hand through a hole in the fence.

Only it wasn’t the dog. From my window up above, I had seen the neighbor bring him inside when the rain started.

When the wind shifted, and the other side of the house began to get soaked, I checked the garden again. Crawling crawling, this way and that—and then it stopped and raised a swollen head to look up at me peering down through the attic window.

I scurried back, accidentally knocking over the lamp and extinguishing the flame, and I was crawling crawling to the attic stairs and screaming for Mama but I knew, I knew that Mama wasn’t coming and Mama wasn’t going to take care of the thing in the garden.

Because Mama was already in the garden, crawling crawling, in the mud.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Mirror, Mirror

My mirror is a puddle of water that dries up every afternoon with the heat of the sun and collects again every morning after the midnight rain. If you scoop away the slime and push aside the mosquitoes, you can catch an uncanny vision of yourself. It's enchanted, this puddle of water. The images therein can speak. When I look into that stale water, I can hear myself talk. I can hear the words I've longed to say but couldn't. I hear the opinions and wishes I have saved up for years. I hear the scriptures and the lullabies and the incantations I have memorized. And it is a miracle to hear these things, for I cannot voice them myself.

You see, my image in that magical mirror has a mouth that smiles and opens and shouts, but my mouth was sewn shut years ago by a lover who wished me not to talk.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Insults

You stitch-pulling, beetle-faced harpy!

You lightless, skull-stealing dust bunny under my couch!

You corrosive, bronze-leafed, frozen-livered, cattle-kissing mushroom!

365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Sound of Silence

When he was born, he didn't cry. So, they named him Silence and thought it was cute. He thought it was a muzzle. As he grew, so did the muzzle. When he finally learned to speak, they would laugh at his attempts.

"Oh, look. Silence is trying to say something," they would mock.

At every turn, there they were, trying to keep him within the realm of his name. He stopped trying. But soon, stopping him from speaking was not enough. They stopped talking around him. Let him live in true silence, they thought. It's only appropriate. After all, it's in his name.

With a grim satisfaction, they held their tongues around Silence. And one day, with a grim satisfaction, he held their tongues, too. Sliced clean through the meat with a knife.

Cat doesn't got your tongue; Silence does.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Warehouse

The warehouse on the corner of 5th and Main bears a sign that reads, "Caution: No Trespassing." It seems like an unnecessary sign. A slice of the warehouse was scooped away by the tornado of '56, exposing the rotten guts of the building. No one bothered to clean up after the storm, and the city lacked the proper funding for repairs or even just demolition. Generally, people ignore this eyesore. You would think that no one dares to trespass; no one bothers.

Except for the town historian.

He was not elected or nominated for the position. He volunteered, like many of the failing city's officials. He thought a glimpse into the city's past would revitalize the city's future. So one day while walking past the warehouse, instead of looking away, he looked up. It was like he noticed the warehouse for the first time--and realized its potential value for the city.

Here was history preserved. The warehouse was a symbol for the city and its ailments: a prosperous city, torn apart by trouble and left to rot, but still standing. Maybe he could arrange to clean up the warehouse to represent the possibilities for the city.

With buckets of hope and a flashlight, he entered the warehouse one windy night to see what story the building told. He walked in with confidence. He never walked out. The warehouse ate him and left no trace. To be more accurate, it was the fall into the deep basement that killed him. The floors had long before caved in, and his broken body landed in a pile of other bodies that the warehouse had claimed over the years, almost 200 of them. In fact, the warehouse was not a symbol of the city's downfall; it was the cause. It's hard to run a city of skeletons.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: What You Don't Know

My first support group meeting was...revelatory. At the opening of our session, each person stood and said their name and shared why they were there. Things went smoothly until it was my turn. I was by far the youngest person. Everyone else was at least a septuagenarian.

"Hi, I'm Alice," I said.

"Hi, Alice," the group said in unison.

"I'm here because I was murdered when I was fifteen years old."

Boom.

A few of the group members looked so shocked that, if they hadn't already been dead, I would have thought they were having heart attacks. But a heart attack is impossible without a heart.

One old man--the one who died of a complications with diabetes--raised his hand. "What happened?"

The group leader winced. "George, we're not supposed to pry here. This is a safe place."

"It's okay," I said with a shrug. "I was run over by a car."

"That's not murder," someone mumbled.

"Seven times," I added.

More gasps. More shock.

George raised his hand again. "Who did it?"

"I don't know."

The woman who died in her sleep asked, "Shouldn't you know? You are dead, right?"

I shrugged again. "I don't know."

"Why would someone kill a fifteen-year-old girl?"

"I don't know."

We spent the next half hour debating the details of my death. How could I not have known? How did I know that I had died? Would I find out the truth if the living find out the truth? How was I supposed to guide the investigation if I didn't know where to guide it?

At the end of the meeting, I returned to my family home where my great-grandparents and my mom's cousin were gardening.

"How did it go, Alice?" Great-grandpa asked. "Was the meeting helpful?"

"I don't know," I said.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Car Keys

When the only car in your family is a big black hearse, you learn not to complain about having to drive it.

"Would you rather sit in the back?" Dad said.

"At least there is a car for you to learn on," Mom said. "Some kids only get the cars at driver's ed."

When the only car in your family is a hearse, you learn not to complain about the bulk or the smell. Instead, you learn to drive.

The hearse itself was not the only nightmare about learning to drive. My older friends told me horror stories about the nasty, strict DMV lady who evaluates your driving test. They said she stank and spat and tsked every time you made a mistake.

"She's like the Wicked Witch of the DMV," they said.

"Oh yeah?" I said, feeling a strange sense of pride suddenly. "I think the Wicked Witch will meet her match."

You should have seen the look on her face when I took her out for my driving test. She sat with such pallid stillness in the passenger's seat that she didn't notice when I drifted across a lane or rolled through a stop sign. I passed with flying colors; she just passed out.

I don't complain anymore. I drive my hearse with pride.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Coffee and Tea

I set the cup of coffee down in front of him. He didn't even look at it, just gulped down half of it and continued talking excitedly about his next project.

"It's going to be a murder mystery," he said, wiping the creamer from his upper lip.

"Will we know the killer?" I asked. I liked the way the steam rose from his cup, unfolding like a summer storm.

"Oh, you'll know the killer, but you won't know that she's the killer. She's the secretary of an eccentric writer, and she can't stand it--only the audience gets bits and pieces of her disdain for the man. And she'll be so likable that you'll feel betrayed when you realize what she has done."

"Did she murder him?"

Another swig, and the coffee was gone. He made it look so easy. It probably didn't even have time to burn his tongue.

"You bet she did. Right there in chapter two, and you see her do it but you don't realize what happened, of course."

"Oh, of course not. Do I get to know how she did it?"

He dabbed the sweat off his ruddy cheeks with a napkin. "Is it hot in here?"

"No, but you did just swallow a hot coffee in two gulps."

He finally looked at the cup, furrowing his brow.

"Is something wrong? Should I get you more?"

"It doesn't taste right," he said. He crushed the paper cup in one hand. Sweat continued to drip off his face.

"Well, do I get to know how she did it?" I pressed. I could already smell the sourness of his skin.

He looked me in the eye. "She poisoned his coffee."

"That sounds familiar," I said, as his body slipped out of the chair and onto the floor. I got up from my seat and stepped over him. "A little cliche, don't you think?"

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Fire-Starters

Beware the fire-starters. They are small, hairless creatures that skitter about in the dark, shedding sparks and starting fires. They shiver nervously in their little lights, searching for you with weak eyes. 

You are superior, but do not get caught in their trap. Protect yourself from the flames. Not only could you get burned, but you could expose yourself to the fire-starters. Hide yourself at all costs, for our advantage is the element of surprise. It's not easy to hide, either. A single spark could be all the warning you have before a flash of light is cast upon you. And if they see you in that flash of light, the fire-starters might scream. You'll have to dispose of them more quickly than usual, before they warn the other fire-starters.

Only the best monsters take on a fire-starter. If you're fast enough, you just might rule the dark. Let those sniveling humans be afraid; their fire won't stop you.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Puzzle

I love puzzles, but my hands shake as I pick up these pieces and try to fit them together. Do these edges match? I can't tell through my tears. Is this color the same as that color? Is there a piece missing? I usually enjoy those mysteries, the challenge of seeing the big picture and the little picture at the same time. But normally there is a box with the end goal plastered on the front. Normally, the pieces don't stink of death and rot. Normally, it's not a person that I'm trying to piece back together. Normally, I warn him before he does something stupid like lean over a candle or step on a landmine.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Frame It

Carpe Noctem

Seize the Night

A Ghost Haunts This Home

There's No Place Like Tomb

We're Dying to Have You

Memento Mori

Remember, You Die

365 Creative Writing Prompts: War and Peace

Prowling creatures circled, hissing and howling and screeching. One set of teeth got too close to another, and blood escaped the confines of its veins and flowed freely. The carcass in the center of the pack lay with ribs cracked, steam rising from the moist innards. Lips licked. Skin scratched. Bones broken.

And then Dad said grace.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Sounds

The sounds outside my window would make a news anchor flinch. Semi trucks barreling down the freeway. Screeching brakes from the college students on their phones. Sirens from the fire station down the road. The crunch of cars as people stop paying attention. And once, a wailing tornado siren, though it was a clear Saturday morning with not a cloud in the sky and no one seemed as disturbed by the alarm as I did. It made me miss the blazing chainsaws and tortured screaming of my dreams.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Jewelry

Welcome to our Jewel Emporium. Can I interest you in one of our blood rubies? They're made from the distilled blood of freshly washed swine. Or how about the Locket of a Thousand Screams? Don't open it. You could burst every eardrum in a mile's radius. Maybe something a little less destructive. Ah, this bracelet is my personal favorite. Perfect for a dainty wrist and made from the knife that killed Caesar. It is slightly used, so I'll offer it at a discount. The previous owner brought it back; she'd lost a hand in some horrible accident. I think she actually tried to wear the bracelet. What a moron. Wait--where are you going?

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Rewrite a Short Story

A Rewrite of Ray Bradbury's "The Small Assassin"

The baby was born fat and red, and his mother was afraid. Most mothers experience some fear for their infants. Will she be able to care for the child? Will the child survive? Those fears are normal, but this mother felt something different. 

She wasn't afraid for the child; she was afraid of the child.

She sensed it before he was even born: this baby was aware. He had the thought process of an adult and the body of a newborn. From his bassinet, his milky eyes focused on her with an eerie accuracy, and she knew that he hated her.

"What's wrong?" the doctor asked.

"What's wrong?" her husband asked.

She tried to explain what she knew, what she felt, but the men did not believe her. They had not carried that claustrophobic fetus. They had not shared blood with it. They had not fed it with their own bodies. But Mother knew.

The men whispered behind her back. It was normal for mothers to experience changes after the baby was born, they said. Some medicine would do her good, they said.

But no medicine could protect her from her baby, who was already rising into a sitting position before the blood of his birth had even dried. She cried out, but by the time the men returned to the room, the baby had lain back down. He flashed her a vicious grin, which the doctor dismissed as a reaction to a bellyache. 

"You should feed the infant," the doctor said.

She would not. She refused. 

"Then get some rest," he said.

And the men left the room again, no doubt to discuss how to fix her. Once more, the child sat up, but he did not stop there. He climbed to his feet and launched himself onto her bed, saliva dripping from the fangs in his newborn gums.

There was only one way to solve this problem, the mother thought.

Lots of babies don't live past their first day.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Professor

We unearthed the professor in April, just after the snow melted. His unmarked grave, supposedly dating back to the 16th Century, posed a mystery that tempted local historians and genealogists. One man even went insane trying to figure out who lay under the dirt in that dark corner of the cemetery. He was institutionalized with his homemade metal detector firmly in his grip. After years of technology developments, we X-rayed the site. Still, we had no answers, save that we knew a body indeed lay in that spot. We finally assembled a team and got approval to disinter the unknown inhabitant.

I stood aside from the rest of the group and daintily held my mask over my mouth. Not only was I avoiding the bacteria and diseases surely present in such an old grave, I was also concealing my reactions. No one needed to see a grown man weep over the unfolding of such an elusive mystery. I had spent my entire life's work searching for this dead man's identity, and now I would finally know.

There was no coffin protecting the corpse, so the excavators turned off their machines before they got too deep. Out came the shovels and picks, and a few men--who promised to be gentle--climbed down into the grave to clean away the mud.

After an hour or so, one of the men shrieked. Then all three of them scrambled out of the grave. They didn't stop scrambling until they were a hundred feet away. One man was crossing himself with broad slashes of his hand.

I stepped forward to see what had scared them, perhaps a snake or a rodent, but there was no need. A head popped up over the edge of the grave. Scraggly white hairs floated from his head as if underwater. His flesh was dried and shriveled, a color between yellow and green. He peered around the scene with eye sockets that still seemed to flick back and forth though empty of eyeballs.

With a voice as deep and rough as a dry mountain cave, he asked for assistance. No one moved. He asked again, ever so politely. I hesitantly extended him a hand, which he took with a slimy, bony hand of his own. I was surprised by his strength, considering the decomposition of his muscles.

When he rose from the grave and planted his feet beside me, totally naked, he introduced himself as the professor. I didn't think to ask what he studied. More pressing questions were on my mind, but I didn't even ask them. The mask fell from my face.

He asked for my coat, which I shakily handed to him. Then, without another word, he strode off, out of the cemetery, past the stop sign. He walked until we could no longer see him. The entire team stood, almost paralyzed, at the graveside.

Finally, one of my colleagues spoke.

"Richard, I think you just gave your coat to a dead man."

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Shopping

Me: Did you find everything you needed?

Him: Yes, thank you. Actually, do you have any more chains in stock? I could use a few spares.

Me: We don't, but I can call our sister store in San Francisco.

Him: Don't bother. It's not a big deal. It's just, you never know when you're going to need to chain someone up. I like to be prepared.

Me: I understand. Is this a screaming melon or just a whispering melon?

Him: Did the sticker come off? It should be a screaming melon.

Me: Got it.

Him: Do you have all the produce codes memorized?

Me: There is only one produce code. 666.

Him: Clever. Oh, and are these Demonic Doritos on sale? The sign was folded over, so I couldn't tell.

Me: Yes, they are still on sale.

Him: Great.

Me: Let me just reach over to your cart so I can scan in the sledgehammer and the ax. Alright, sir, is this all for today?

Him: Should be.

Me: Then your total comes to $1296.14.

Him: ...

Me: Is there a problem?

Him: ...

Me: Sir?

Him: I'll...just...go--

Me: What? Sir, don't you dare leave! I will call the hordes of flying flesh down upon you and SO HELP ME they will peck out your eyeballs before you can say, "Poltergeist!" You--stop throwing flaming toilet paper at me; I have fireproof skin! Sir! ...can't breathe...phew... Sometimes, I hate working at Terror-Mart.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Good Vibes

My momma was a seamstress. She used to sit at the kitchen table with her sewing machine on a summer's day, when a breeze through the open window billowed the curtains and carried the scent of fresh laundry through the whole house. Even from the backyard, I could hear the hum and whir of her machine shuttling back and forth across fabric. My sisters and I would pretend the noise was a monster hidden inside a dark cave, and we'd brandish our homemade swords and bear our homemade shields and shout our homemade battle cry before plunging into the house to slay the beast. Momma would shoo us back outside, encouraging us to climb the trees or wade in the stream so she could get her work done.

But one day as we were reading library books, one sister in each branch of the biggest elm tree, we heard the noise of the machine stop. Momma often stopped the machine for a few minutes to change out the fabrics or stitch something by hand, but the noise would eventually resume. This time, it did not.

We could not read in peace without the comforting noise of Momma's sewing. I don't remember which sister suggested it first, but all five of us dropped our books in the grass and grabbed our swords. Something was wrong.

Being the middle sister, I was the least valuable and the most carefree, so I went inside first. The lights were all turned off, even though Momma needed them to see her sewing. I cautiously moved forward, Mary hot on my heels.

I yelped.

"What is it?" Mary asked.

"My foot slipped," I said, examining the evidence.

"On what?" Jane asked.

I lifted my bare foot for them to see. "Blood."

A trail of blood led from the kitchen table to the staircase. We all stared after it, afraid to move. Where had Momma gone? Why was there blood leading upstairs?

"Maybe we should look for her," I said.

"We're overthinking this," Lizzy said. She cupped her hands around her mouth. "MOMMA!"

The breeze picked up a little, swirling around our bare legs, but otherwise there was no sound. I glanced at the sewing machine, the monster of my youth. It sat there, innocent and harmless, awaiting its next assignment. I pointed my stick-sword at it.

"What have you done with my momma?" I said.

My sisters finally agreed to search for her. We looked high and low, inside and outside and even upside down. We checked cupboards and closets and loose floorboards. Momma had vanished. The only trace we found was a half-sewn dress on the roof, the red dress she had been working on all that afternoon. None of us could explain how it got there, or why it appeared that the dress itself was bleeding. But we never saw our momma again.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Shadows

I am a shadow. I belong to a girl who's about 7 or 8. She's afraid of me, calls me dark and spooky, but I don't know why. I'm only ever out during the day when the sun is shining brightly and she has a skip in her step. Of course, I'm always with her, even at night, even on a cloudy day. When she can't see me, it's because I'm under her feet, bearing up her weight and propelling her forward.

I love my girl, but she's afraid of me.

She got on stage once for a school play. Her sheep's costume made me expand and grow lumps, and then something strange happened: the lights hit her from several angles and I split into three parts. We each mimicked her every move. I was threatened at first, worried that one of them would try to replace me. Then I grew fond of them. Being a shadow can be lonely work. But just when I was excited to spend the rest of my life with them, they faded away. She retreated off stage, and it was back to just her and me.

I love my girl, but she's afraid of me.

Someday, she'll die. Shadows never die. What will I do then? Shall I lie between her and the satin lining, cushioning her into the afterlife? Shall I mourn her for eternity? If she turns to dust and blows apart, I will blow apart, too. I'll spend my time in a million different places, watching other shadows with their girls, knowing that someday they will share my fate. I'll try to warn them, but it's not like they can do anything.

I am a shadow. I love my girl, but she's afraid of me.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Closed Doors

Closed doors mean that I am safe. Nothing can get in to hurt me. Each latch and every lock add a layer of protection. I keep every door in my house closed until it is absolutely necessary that I reach into the fridge for chilled food or go into the bathroom to relieve myself. Some doors, like the ones protecting me from the computer room and the basement, have not been opened in ten years.

Which is why I was alarmed one morning to discover the computer room gaping at me. I was shuffling down the hall in my slippers, and there was the door, slightly ajar. For twenty minutes, I stood frozen in my spot, imagining every death possible. Inhaling too much dust or electrocuting myself on computer cords or getting crushed by the now-antique computer monitor. When my senses finally returned to me, I hurriedly closed the door.

I was safe again.

But the question remained: Who or what had opened the door? I was still pondering this problem a few weeks later when another door opened of its own accord. I awoke at 3am to the distant sound of the front door creaking open.

First, I la in bed and cried. Then, at 4am, I summoned what was left of my courage and got up to shut the door. Each closed door that I passed added strength to my heart and speed to my slippered feet. I slammed the front door shut, slid every bolt into place, latched every latch, and turned back towards my bedroom.

But now, the shadows of every door reached out to me as they slowly opened all at once. The bolts fell from their moorings. My guardians were abandoning me. Fear flushed all the courage from my body, and I screamed, placing myself against the one door that was safe, the one door that was not open, the door I had just closed.

And then I realized. My hand was being forced. Somehow, despite all my efforts, the evils of the world had gotten inside my house. They surrounded me, invisibly, approaching from every corner. I only had one escape.

I opened the front door.

Instead of a wide, open world, I was confronted by another hallway lined with closed doors. As I stared, the doors began to open.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Fear

The young officer tried to catch his breath. It was dark and cold, and the assailant had outfoxed him. He had heard the other officers complaining about the labyrinth of downtown alleys, but he had not believed them until now.

A woman screamed and came skittering toward him in glittery heels.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" he asked.

She was shaking, out of breath. "You have to help me!"

"What's the problem?"

"That man--that man was chasing me!"

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know; it was dark. He could have been you."

"Which way did he go?"

She was forgotten the moment she pointed. The officer took off running. Before him, the alley curved, but he thought he could see a sparkle of light from shoes just ahead of him, He ran harder, but the street came to a three-pronged fork.

He stopped and tried to catch his breath. It was dark and cold, and the assailant had outfoxed him. A woman screamed and came skittering toward him in glittery heels.

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

"You have to help me!"

"What's the problem?"

"That man--that man was chasing me!"

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know; it was dark. He could have been you."

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dread

In the vastness of deep space, there drifts a dark ship. With its matte black panels, the ship is nearly invisible. No beam of starlight reflects off its surfaces, and it flashes no signals at passersby. Hundreds of years ago, if a ship on the sea had drifted as waywardly and as eerily as this one, it would have sparked legends of a ghost ship. Tattered sails. Seemingly unmanned. Only glimpses and dread.

And there are glimpses of this massive ship.

Passing pilots are startled to find such a large anomaly on their radars. Its mass registers on their mechanical instruments even though the instruments of their fragile bodies cannot find it. Most pilots mark the aberration down in their ship's log and hasten away. Those too stupid or too curious to leave are never heard from again. Entire ships and crews have disappeared. Back home, there are reports of "assumed accidents" or even "undiscovered wormholes." But the answer is much simpler than that: murder. A drifting ship is not self-sustaining; it must support its crew, which is exactly what this ship does.

For, you see, the black ship of the unmoving sea is still trying to provide resources for its dead inhabitants. They died years ago when a hull breach whisked all the oxygen out of their bodies. The ship, designed for stealth and self-repair, fixed the breach without noticing the real damage. But there are still programmed feeding times, programmed refueling checkpoints, and the ship runs faithfully.

It is Dreadnought. It drifts along, inspiring dread and dreading nothing.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Numbers

99.

When the cotton factory at the edge of town caught fire, only 99 people died. Soot-covered survivors wandered around the ruins, wailing about the cruelty of the universe. I couldn't agree more: how could the universe be so unfair? Why not a more exact number, like 100?

Some woman handed me a flier advertising a memorial for the victims.

"Will you come to the candlelight vigil?" she asked.

"Don't you think that's a little ironic?" I said.

She furrowed her brow and moved on to the next person. But as she walked away, I decided to attend. The event sounded...promising.

Sure enough, that night at the vigil, with tiny flames held aloft, dozens of burn survivors and grieving family members gathered to bemoan the loss of their loved ones. They were there to mourn. I was there to fix the injustice of the universe.

100.

There would be exactly 100 victims.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Sugar

It's just so sweet how much my family loves the man in the mask. From the moment he showed up on our doorstep in the pouring rain, we accepted him as one of our own. He joined us at the dinner table that night--he even offered to carve the ham with the giant knife he had with him. Though he never speaks, we love his company.

We love how he embraces his individuality by wearing the hockey mask all day and all night.

We love how he flinches when he hears sirens.

We love how he insists on staring out our windows at the neighbors.

We love how he sharpens everything he can get his hands on into a fatal point.

He's just amazing! How lucky we were that he chose our house to break into and our privacy to invade. There is nothing sweeter than the looks my children give him. I wish you could see their faces.

I'm sure we will carry our love for the man in the mask to our graves!

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Smoke, Fog, and Haze

I thought the world would end with a bright light and a loud explosion. I thought the streets would fill with blood and the seas would heave over their shores and bullets would rain from the sky. I thought the horsemen of the apocalypse would trample the panicked masses. War. Conquest. Famine. Death. I read about it all in the Bible.

It didn't mention what would happen first.

First the bees disappeared. One by one, barely noticed, killed by pesticides and deforestation. Then the flowers shriveled up and the grass refused to turn green. Spring never came, but March stormed in like a lion anyway. Dry, rainless storms hounded the brittle landscape. Lightning ignited fires. The world sat in smoke and the wind stopped blowing.

We didn't see the horsemen when they arrived. They rode about on empty streets, cutting paths through the listless haze and crying out for terror. No one responded. No one was afraid.

We had already died. Slowly.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Foreclosure

The neighbors gathered around the small gate on the white picket fence. From there, they could barely read the sign posted on the front door of 536 Pleasant Lane.

Foreclosure.

They gossiped about the neighbor that they had never gossiped about before. He'd been pretty normal: brought hot dogs to the block party, set off fireworks for the kids on the Fourth of July, kept his lawn nice and trim. None of them had been inside the home, and he didn't extend invitations. But the foreclosure notice sparked their imaginations.

"I heard his investments went awry."

"He's old. Maybe he just forgot to make payments."

"He embezzled from his company, and he's appearing in court soon."

"Counterfeit money."

"Identity theft."

"Fraud."

Their guesses escalated, but their imaginations weren't dark enough for the truth. They didn't know that a few days later, the bank would enter the house and discover a smell. They didn't know that the police would be called in to investigate. They didn't know that investigators would find blood in the floorboards and bones in the basement. Saws, hatchets, hooks.

They didn't know any of that, so they simply gossiped about the house with the white picket fence, blissfully unaware (for a few more weeks, at least) of the deaths behind the door.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Missed Connections

I saw you washing you Cadillac ,wednesday about 7:00 pm
we make contact eye twice please tell me what I was doing so I know it's you
I wait for you

found in a Craigslist Missed Connections post

I read the post a fourth time. It couldn't be true. How had he seen me? Most people's vision slips around me. They can tell that something is there, but their eyes never focus on my features. I'm like soap: a slippery and unnoticed essential of living. Yet he made "contact eye" twice. I remembered him well.

I wiggled my fingers over the keyboard, preparing my response. I had to tell him what he was doing. With a tug of my black hood, the perfect words flowed to me.

You were vacuuming out the back of a dark suburban, ignoring the "Wash Me" sign written in the dust on the back window. You were right. You wait for me. I'll meet you during rush hour tonight at Point of the Mountain. Go fast.

I posted the response, grabbed my scythe, and headed out the door.

Because I could not stop for Death--

He kindly stopped for me--

Emily Dickinson

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Great Minds

Calliope has a beautiful mind, Darren thought. He would like to see it up close. He peeled back her skull so that it unfolded like a flower. Wow, what a beautiful mind.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Cleaning

It's not easy cleaning up after monster children. The sludge alone--literal sludge--is enough to make a human faint. But it doesn't stop at the sludge. That would be too easy.

My children leave cold spots and trails of slime all over the house. I can't slither ten paces without gagging or getting chills. Corpses and legos are strewn across every surface. Guests never come over, but that's nothing new. It's the wide berth the neighbors give our house that truly hurts my feelers. I suppose the stench is too unbearable for humans.

When the kids are loud, I know they're making a mess. When they're quiet, I know they're making a bigger mess. You know how it is.

Dominic wears destruction like a dirty diaper. If I feel the howling wind in my scales, it means another room has blown apart. Half the house has been rebuilt thanks to his little toy bombs. He's a one-man wrecking crew and a mad scientist stuffed into one body.

Coral leaves crumbs of rotting flesh everywhere she goes. Her appetite is insatiable. Another neighborhood dog has gone missing? I think I found his foot on Coral's pillow. People should really stop naming their pets "Cookie" and "Cupcake."

Then, there's Butane Bruce. He propels himself around the house on gas emissions. If I can't find Bruce, I simply light a match and follow the flames. I also hold my breath. (We suspect that Bruce is the source of the horrid smell of our house, but we haven't hearts black enough to tell him.)

And finally, the baby. Rosalie is small and sneaky and there are currently a dozen warrants for her arrest. Murder. Attempted murder. Grand theft auto. We would turn her in to the police if we could catch her, but she is a slippery eel. Most people think it's her teeth you should be afraid of, but I recommend staying away from her toenails.

I have to clean up after all of them: droppings, sheddings, bleedings, vomits, comets, all of it. They leave behind skin, fur, claws, earwax, and snot. But I wouldn't trade any of my monster children for the world. I would trade them for about five bucks.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dictionary Definition

Aptrganga: noun, again-walker
Old English Dictionary

Aethelflaed waited at the edge of the village until well past sunset. Outside small buildings, oil dripped from the last few torches like fiery rain falling to earth. In that one moment as the fire splashed down, all the elements converged: water, fire, air, and earth. Still, Aethelflaed waited.

A sleepy chicken peered at her from behind a wagon wheel. The animals were nervous, Aethelflaed noted. Everyone was nervous. Tales of the nightly terror had spread quickly. Livestock shredded. Homes painted with blood. The torches burned longer tonight than they had before. Families huddled together, sleeping or waiting like Aethelflaed.

Gaest, some called it. Aptrganga. A spirit. Seeking revenge.

The aptrganga was coming.

They speculated who it was and why it was there. Perhaps the boy torn apart by wolves. His mother and sister felt such shame and guilt for not watching him more closely. Or perhaps the old man who had starved last winter as he begged for food. He'd been burned hastily since the ground was too frozen for burial. Or maybe the girl whose father broke her legs because she ran away from her groom. Unable to walk, she had dragged herself to the sea to drown. Maybe the recent storms had washed her angry spirit ashore. Maybe.

Aethelflaed waited until the last torch died. She could almost hear the hiding villagers gasp in fear as their light vanished. Then she hefted her ax and stiffly moved one mangled leg in front of the other. This time, she would go for her father's prized pig. Or maybe for her father himself.

The aptrganga was coming. 

She was already here.

Aptrganga: noun, a wronged spirit returning for justice

The Dictionary of a Thousand Truths

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Addict

When the residents of Overhill Road awoke on Sunday morning, they shivered in their beds. A few got up to investigate: why had the summer night left them so cold? Gregor Nox, a shoemaker, made it all the way to his front door before he discovered the source of his discomfort.

The thick doors of all the houses on Overhill Road had fallen down flat on their thresholds.

Gregor mused over this. Had he slept through an explosive blast? Had rats chewed through each door? Had thieves dismantled their only security measure? Overhill Road was on the way out of town, so they frequently saw travelers on horses, in wagons, or even on foot. Anything could have happened. Anyone could have done it.

He picked up the door to examine it. A splinter pricked his wrist, spilling blood. He found nothing there and dropped the door. Across the road, his neighbor was also staring at his fallen door and tugging on his beard in confusion.

By noon, Gregor and his neighbors had discovered a clue. The old, rusty nails in the door hinges were missing from every house. Fingernail marks showed where someone had dug the nails out of the wood frame. Gregor felt like he had swallowed a rock. He was afraid of the truth.

That night, he crept out without a lantern from under the blanket that now posed as his front door. He trotted down Overhill Road for a couple hours until he reached a forest village. Only a few hearths still glowed in the village homes. The tiny houses were all lined up along a single lane, much like the houses of Overhill Road. Gregor walked past them all.

At the end of the lane was a lean-to. It smelled of pig breath and mold, and the house it leaned against was abandoned long ago. Gregor traced the marks the fire had left on the outside wall. Years ago, the house had burned to a crisp, along with his wife and son. Penny was buried in the backyard; unfortunately, the son had lived.

Gregor approached the lean-to cautiously.

"Ferrin?" he called softly.

In the dark, a fox skittered over his feet.

"Ferrin?" he called again, even quieter.

Something stirred inside the lean-to. Then a dark body arose and slithered toward Gregor, crinkling and clanking as it went. Skin burnt black. Bones twisted askew. Organs melting into each other. And a stomach full of old, rusty nails.

"Hello, Ferrin," Gregor said.

"Nailsss," Ferrin hissed. "Iron."

"Why can't you just die like you're supposed to?" Gregor said.

Ferrin continued toward him, creeping low against the ground. "Iron."

Gregor stepped back. The blood on his wrist began flowing again.

"Mussst eat iron."

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Eavesdropper

The girl on the corner. She looked cold.

I approached her, rummaging through my pockets for something--anything--to give her. Snow drifted around us. The street was emptied of people and cars. No one comes out this late.

"Hi," I said. "Here's a brownie."

She glanced up from under her fur-lined hood. The streetlamp overhead cast strange shadows across her face. I pushed the plastic-wrapped brownie toward her, and she took it reluctantly.

"What's your name?" I asked.

She stared at the brownie and her bare fingers. They must have been freezing.

"Susan," she whispered.

"Hi, Susan. I'm Carol. Can I share a brief message with you?"

When she didn't respond, I continued.

"Do you believe in God?" I asked.

She stiffened. I rushed through the next bit in case she got angry or tried to leave.

"God is real. He knows you, and he loves you."

"I know," she said suddenly. "I've seen him."

I paused. "You've seen him?"

"Thank you for the brownie," she said.

She turned abruptly and walked down the street. I tried to keep up with her, but I'd been walking all day and just wanted to go to bed. At least I could fall asleep knowing that I had done what I could to share the gospel. Still, I wanted to know her story.

As I watched, the snow swirled around her and she was gone.

On my way back, I passed the street corner where she'd been standing. There was a small wreath of flowers there, dusted with snow. A card lay on the ground nearby.

In memory of Susan, it said.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Found Poem

from a page of H.P. Lovecraft's "The Colour out of Space"

in a dream

very black clouds

tipped with tongues of foul flame

and rustic tricklings

infected the moonlit ground

the last spectator

just ooze and bubbles

screamed

low-pitched

the hapless beast

stirred up something intangible

fiendish contours

grey brittleness

formless reflections

flared with unknown colour

the absence of the lamplight

shimmered

365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Letter Poem

from a letter written by Emily Dickinson to her brother Austin in January 1852

It snows slowly and solemnly
The cold without
The harder it blows
Collision
Spirits
Far away
You must go away

A large cloak
Shivering
Creeps through the flakes

We do not have much poetry

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Greeting

Hello, it is I.
More accurately, it is Eye.
Eye rest in my little cubby in your skull
Above the nose,
The mouth,
The body.
Eye see all you do.
The good,
The bad,
The otherwise.
Eye wish you were cleaner,
Wiser,
Younger,
Taller.
Eye wish you would look up and out more.
Eye want to see the world,
But Eye am trapped in my cubby,
Trapped in your skull,
Trapped behind a thin door of flesh.

Don't be surprised
If you wake up one morning
And Eye am gone.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dragon

I didn't see the dragon until it was too late.

Jim and I were out for a little midnight grave robbing, as you do on a Friday night after it rains. We slipped through the cemetery gates without a problem; not even the sleeping elk were disturbed. When I tugged my hat down over my brows, I noticed the watching eyes of a pair of ravens sitting on a tombstone. They didn't call out an alarm, so we assumed we had their permission.

I followed Jim down a winding path, under bare branches, over snake holes. He stopped to sneeze once, and a whiff of mist swirled around his boots. I passed him my handkerchief.

Finally, Jim planted his feet in front of an old grave. Judging by the rounded, weather-worn edges of the headstone and the coverage of moss, I guessed this was a 16th-century burial. I crouched down to read the name. Most of the letters had been rained away, but I got the gist of it. Some aristocrat named George.

"Jack," Jim said. "Hand me the pickax. The ground is a little rocky here."

From the pack on my back, I unstrapped a short pickax, still crusted with dirt from our last outing. You don't get a lot of rocky graveyards in these parts, but we usually aimed for the oldest and most protected graves. These yielded the best results.

With my work on the shovel and Jim's work with the pickax, we spent barely an hour before a worm-eaten coffin appeared beneath our feet. Jim smashed through the lid and started rummaging through the contents for gold and jewelry. I was startled when he jumped back and pulled his hand out of the coffin.

"What is it, Jim? Did something bite you?"

"There's no bottom."

"No bottom to what?"

"The coffin."

We usually worked by moonlight to avoid attention, but Jim procured a match and lit it against his boot. He held the flame inside the hole of the coffin lid.

"Look, Jack," he whispered. "There's nothing in there. Not gold, not a skeleton, nothing."

I peered in. Sure enough, the bottom of the coffin opened up to a bottomless pit. I could even see the ragged edges of the sides of the coffin where they had been ripped away.

"Jim, it's like something came up from under the ground and ate George."

"Stop talking nonsense, Jack. Who's George?"

"The man we're trying to rob."

"And you think something came out of the ground to eat him? Like what, a big snake?"

We both stiffened as we heard the slithering of scales on the ground above us. The match burned out--or was blown out. I turned as slowly as I could to see what waited for us up there.

At first, I thought it was the two ravens again. But they had never been ravens. The watching eyes I had felt at the entrance had been the four glinting eyes of a grave-dragon. The tombstone, his enormous jaw. As he stood over us, he grew bigger and blacker than the whole night sky. Bones dangled from his teeth. Dirt fell from his scales. A long tail whipped from side to side like a cat's when it spots the movement of a tiny mouse.

Surely, the legends were true. Surely, grave-dragons only ate corpses. They were harmless to the living.

Surely.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Friends

My best friend, Fiona, is dead. But, to be fair, so am I. It was the icy roads of the mountain pass that did us in. That, and Fiona's lead foot.

Still, we were partners in crime while alive, so you better believe that we are partners in crime now that we're dead. We've just moved on from cheating on tests and tossing garbage out the car windows. Now we can't get caught.

Dying with your best friend teaches you something about loyalty. If Fiona gets a crazy idea to haunt someone, I always go along. If she wants to rattle chains or scratch windows or mess with the lights, I'm right there beside her, usually doing it better.

And it goes both ways: when I have a hankering for a bloodcurdling scream, Fiona comes along to spook some unsuspecting victim. When I can't help but make eerie shadows on the wall, her shadows drift alongside mine. We talk about settling down in a haunted house someday, maybe even starting a ghost gang. Sometimes we grow nostalgic for the past or talk about the accident. How the car plunged off a cliff and burst into flames when it hit the ground. She died first, and I followed soon after. When the first responders finally found us, the heat of the fire had melted our bodies together.

We're inseparable, Fiona and me.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Animals

A seven-legged spider and his reflection live on my bathroom mirror. With all the ants and earwigs around, I haven't the heart to kill my natural defender. He keeps the creeps away, so I leave him be. We have an unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.

He's always perched in the top right corner of the mirror when I get up in the morning. I talk to him as I put my makeup on,

"Why can't I just get this winged eyeliner right the first time?"

"What about this lipstick? Nope, nope. Definitely not."

"Oh no! Wrinkles!"

Sometimes he walks across my reflection as if to say hello. I flash him a smile.

He doesn't judge me when I play on my phone on the toilet. He watches me shave my armpits. He waves a leg when I clean out the sink. He spins his web when I brush my teeth before bed. He's always there.

He's there when I drag the bodies in.

He's there when I wash the blood out from under my fingernails.

He's there when I hang up the severed limbs to drain over the tub.

The constant companion. The silent witness. He has seen it all, but he offers no judgment, calls no police. We live our lives by that unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dream-Catcher

Momma's basement was filled with cardboard boxes. When she moved into this house after retiring 15 years ago, she had packed away her whole life into these flimsy boxes, each one labeled in her font-like handwriting.

Bathroom

Kitchen

Movies

She had only unpacked about half her stuff in 15 years. Now that she was going senile, I found myself clearing out her basement so that I could move in. I spent hours opening boxes and rifling through memories. Momma wasn't a hoarder per se, but she kept a lot of my old things. Report cards, school pictures, a bad love poem I wrote for Valentine's Day in the third grade. I found an entire box of my dress-up clothes and Halloween costumes. Each item contained a memory, which I sat with for a moment before sorting it into one of three piles: Keep, Toss, or Donate. Like the items, some memories were worth keeping. Others were not.

An essay about the American Revolution, C-. Toss.

A Michael Jackson album cover. Keep. Possibly even sell.

A newspaper clipping about the blond neighbor kid going missing. Keep, for posterity's sake.

Behind boxes of old stuffed animals and moldy candles, there was a box that was bigger but lighter than the others. As I moved it off the pile, the contents inside shifted with a hollow thump. I opened it eagerly, expecting some heirloom or a treasure from my childhood. What had Momma kept in a big box all by itself?

Towers of memories blocked the light from this dark corner. I shone my flashlight into the box.

Dominic, my favorite doll from forty years ago, winked up at me. Momma had made him by hand; he was a fine representative of her skills with wax and paint. I had wanted a doll that looked like a toddler, not a baby, and when she couldn't find one in the stores, she made her own. What a special Christmas that was! I felt so generous, I gave all my other toys to my brother Derek and named my doll in honor of the missing kid.

I raised him out of the box. Even after all these years, Dominic still looked and felt so real. We had dressed him in Derek's old clothes and painted makeup on his face to give him life-like color. I ran my finger over his waxy cheek, recalling the Great Rift of '74 when I refused to let my sister Diana play with Dominic. In revenge, she cut my hair while I slept. I laughed at the absurdity of my youth. All that suffering over a simple doll.

When I flipped him over, I noticed that the seam running down his back had pulled apart over time. His little yellow sweatshirt was covering most of the crack, but when I pointed the flashlight, I could see inside. The opening went all the way up his head, where something fuzzy and hair-like stuck out.

I jammed my fingers into the crack and pulled it even wider. The more I saw, the more I stretched the crack. My heart raced. I dropped the flashlight. Sweat poured over my face as I pulled and pulled and pulled. Something was inside.

With a loud snap, the wax shell of Dominic broke in half. I let each piece fall to the floor and screamed, but not because my beloved playmate was beyond repair. No, I screamed because my arms now cradled a small skeleton. Wisps of blond hair still adorned the skull.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Rocket Ship

The ghost of a rocket ship haunts my grandfather's backyard.

He has an expansive woodland behind his two-story, nineteenth-century home. I think the plumbing in his house is older than the forest. At least the upstairs toilet is.

"Jessie," Grandpa calls. "Come look. It's back."

I set down my phone and join him at the back door. He has the door propped on, and we both lean out into the late-summer wind. Before I see anything, I smell smoke and metal. The wind whips sounds through my ears: creaking, steaming, warping sounds.

Then I see it. Just beyond the first line of full, green trees, a machine sits. The engine of an exploded rocket ship landed there twenty years ago. Grandpa remembers when it was removed by a series of black suits and officials in lab coats. But the ghost remains. In August nights, it appears and cries out for its missing parts.

I've seen it four times. Once, I tried to walk out to it, but the heat of the engine was too much. Now, I know that my job is only to watch and witness.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Eye Contact

When Sally first made eye contact with Dave, she looked deep into his pupil. It was the preferred method of the old fortune-teller. In an individual's eye, she could see beyond the material form of a person and into their immaterial existence. Past, present, and future were mirrored back and forth inside the eye until time ceased to matter and there was only soul. She stared and stared into Dave's pupil, searching his soul for cracks or creases, bringing her eye close to his. All sounds and smells from the world around her faded away. She was alone with Dave's soul.

"Your soul is withered, burnt up," she said.

That was all she could see in his pupil: blackness, crispy ashes, death. Dave had squandered away the only thing that was truly him. His life of lies and hatred had destroyed his soul.

Sally pulled away from Dave's eye. The room was empty. Dave had left hours earlier, dragged away by a companion. His optical nerve dangled against her skin as she rolled the eye around her palm, considering its shape and texture. Blood dripped from her long, gnarled fingers.

"Another dead eye," she said. Then she tossed the eyeball into the trash bin under the table. It landed among the other dead eyes Sally had taken that week.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Food

Breakfast will be served.

Gloria Gordon smiled at the sign and squinted at the rising sun. It was the perfect time for a swim: a cool breeze blew over the bay, and the other tourists were still snoozing in their air-conditioned rooms. If only for a few minutes, the water would be all hers.

She slipped an orange out of her bag and dug into it with her fingernail, tossing the peelings into the sand. The fruit felt cool and sweet going down her throat. With the warming sun on her skin, she was cool on the inside and hot on the outside. She licked her fingers, dropped her bag, and stepped into the water.

She walked slowly, sidestepping a crab or two, until the water reached her chest. Then she kicked off of the seaweed and sand and swam out into the waves.

For ten minutes, she swam to and fro as the sun rose higher over the horizon. A seagull circled overhead, casting no shadow on the sparkling bay. Other than the cries of the birds, Gloria Gordon's gentle splashing was the only sound the first tourist heard as he awoke in the beachfront bed-and-breakfast. He shuffled onto the balcony, passed the breakfast sign, and waved at the small figure in the water. Then he retreated to the bathroom.

Gloria Gordon sighed. Her time alone was over. She turned to swim back to the beach, but from the dark depths of the seawater, a long tongue snagged her foot and dragged her under without a sound. The sea serpent swallowed her whole, chewed her apart in its rocky gullet, and tossed up her salty skin onto the sand. Her guts felt cool and sweet going down the serpent's throat. Flicking his tail, the serpent swam deeper under the warming bay.

Back at the bed-and-breakfast, the hostess set out a new sign on the balcony: breakfast is served.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dancing

There are overgods and there are undergods.

The overgods live above Earth in the clouds, where they can look down on the doings of mortals and shower them with praise and criticism as necessary. They dispense wisdom and grant wishes and occasionally exact punishment, but do not be fooled into thinking the overgods keep the world running.

That responsibility belongs to the undergods, the forgotten deities who dwell miles below our feet in a realm of dust and coal. They churn the world's core and feed the world's roots and hold the mountains and the seas in place. Without them, everything would fall apart: forests would collapse, rivers would dry up, even the clouds graced by the overgods' golden sandals would cease to be. Yes, without the undergods, we would have no overgods.

Those dirty, damp beings are essential, so why don't the mortals give thanks to the undergods? No one offers sacrifices to the Under-Dweller. No one praises Gnash the Mountain-Maker or Rootma of the Oak Trees or the Darc Who Hides. No one utters prayers to Carol the Queen of Bats. With the brilliant and flashy overgods to focus on, no one remembers the rest, the unbeautiful, the ungraceful.

 But they will regret that mistake.

If only the surface-dwellers would have remembered Constance the Dancer. Constance, whose eternal dance was the only thing holding back the hordes of demons bristling to overthrow the Earth. Constance, whose tapping toes shut the floodgates of molten iron in the beginning of the world, whose rapid rhythm tormented the hellhounds as they strained on their chains, whose brittle hair swung to and fro to the sound of peace. For thousands of years, Constance's dance kept at bay the forces that thirsted for the golden blood of the overgods and the meaty flesh of mortals.

If only the Dancer had been thanked, she would not have slowed, would not have wearied. The signs were clear, but the end was inevitable. It is too late for prayers now.

There were overgods and there were undergods.

Constance stopped dancing last night.

365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Vessel

Full disclosure: the only way I'm getting out of here is in a hearse. 

When it comes, I'll be waiting on the edge of the sidewalk in the parking lot. A few cars will pass by without a second glance at me, their drivers focused on street lights and lane lines and the occasional text-message-that-can't-wait. Then my ride will come--a long, black, shiny hearse--and I won't be able to see the passengers through the tinted windows, but it won't matter and I'll climb willingly into the back all the same.

My seat will be long and lined with satin, and I'll lie down without snapping the seatbelt into place because there won't be a seatbelt that far back in the car. The manufacturers will have long ago considered such a safety measure pointless, expensive, and too late. They did, however, install a heavy lid onto the top of my seat so that I don't bounce out and frighten the neighborhood children. I'll close the lid and cozy up to the cobwebs and the stench of formaldehyde.

We'll stop at the gas station just up the street to fuel up before the long trek to the cemetery. Blood, not gas, will gush forth from the nozzle, and fat red drops will spill onto the pavement after the gas tank is full. I will peek out from under my lid out of curiosity. Filling up will have cost the undertaker fifty dollars. A sign beside the gas pump will tell me that the blood was oxygenated, but I'll be too afraid to ask where it came from.

The rest of the trip will be smooth until we pass the cemetery gates, where the speedbumps will jostle me just enough to unfold the hands that I will have so carefully crossed over my chest. The door will open a few minutes later, and I'll hear nothing but cawing crows and an occasional elk call (why elk were welcomed into the cemetery and mourners were not, I'll never know). Once the lid is nailed to the coffin, I'll have to imagine the dead tree leaning over my grave dripping bird poop and leaves like tears. The undertaker will lower my coffin into the dirt, where I will be greeted by ancient spiders and newborn earthworms and the skeleton of a saber-tooth cat from the Holocene era. 

And as the first shovelful of earth settles over my head, I'll lie back with my new friends and my old body and my favorite Emily Dickinson poem and drift away into a peaceful, eternal sleep.

Household Demons

I watched a documentary the other day and learned something very disturbing: there are demons among us. Hard-working, dusty demons. At first, they appear to be ordinary household objects; in fact, every home has at least one of these relentless demons tucked away in a corner or a closet. And the homeowners don't notice the dark and murderous presence. There is no screaming or hanging up charms or hiring an exorcist. No, the oblivious go about living their lives on the edge of danger. Sometimes, they even reach out and touch the demon. A few people probably think that they own the demon, that they have enslaved it.

They are wrong.

These demons cannot be controlled. They cannot be killed. They will continue pervading our safe spaces, undermining our security, brushing our surfaces.

You must not let them work. Whatever you do, don't sweep your floors. Never ever touch that sly devil: your household demon, the broom.

Haven't you seen the documentary--what was it called? Fantasia?

Because I used to be afraid of the bathtub drain

I was sitting in the bathtub, staring at the moldy ceiling, as the lavender-scented bubbles of my bubble bath deflated. They weren’t popping with excitement or abruptness, just deflating slowly and sadly and melting back into the oily water. I melted among them, too cold to remain in the tepid water but also too cold to get out and walk across the bathroom for the closest towel.

            

When I finally summoned up the courage to get out, I reached forward and yanked the plug before I could chicken out. The bubbles around me sighed, and then I heard a strange sound. It began as a faint whining noise and got louder and louder. No, not whining. It was like someone speaking underwater, you know that gargling sound that isn’t really a voice but pretends to be. Goosebumps blossomed across my skin. I wanted that noise to stop.

My courage shrank as the tub filled with cold air. The water and all the corpses of the sad bubbles swept past my legs and down my toes into the gaping drain.

I couldn’t take my eyes off that drain, that black hole, that toothless mouth. The more water that went down it, the louder and more high-pitched the sound became. I clapped my hands to my ears, but the sound was still there. I sang a loud version of “God Bless America,” but I could still hear it.

At last, the drain cleared, and through my clenched fingers, I finally recognized the sound. The drain was screaming—a high-pitched scream that told of beached whales and drowned ships and tortured people lost in dark depths. A scream that started in the deep black of ocean trenches and ran all the way up, past ancient wrecks and bloated monsters and rotting limbs, through the river and the water table and out my drain.

I couldn’t take it anymore. My whole body shivered with cold and dread. In one swift motion, I slammed the plug back into the drain. The screaming stopped immediately. I stared at the drain one minute longer, then got out and grabbed the towel. Its frayed red threads dangled around me like tentacles.

Short Fiction from a Writing Prompt

Carolina walked into the rain and didn’t look back. That was the last time anyone ever saw her.

But it was also the first time they had seen her, so they took some comfort, as they rolled their pumpkins back home, that some people come and go, some people are just passing through. The old Filipino proverb had never been proven wrong: if things are meant to be, they will never happen. Fate has a funny way of denying herself a future.

Carolina may not have looked back, but Katie did. She did not join the rest of the village in their long walk back home. She stayed there, holding the torch so high that the flames licked against the feet of the crows swooping over her head. She stayed there and she watched the darkness envelop Carolina. She watched the rain fill Carolina’s footprints so that the next morning wild foxes and daring cats would lap up a cool draught from the rainpools. She watched, knowing that life would go on even if fate did not.

Finally, when the rain had stopped, and the moon had set, and the fog of a new day was beginning to settle, Katie lowered her torch. It had stopped burning, stopped steaming, hours before, but Katie had not noticed. She had not noticed the dark or the cold or the droppings from the angry crows. She had only noticed the absence of the strange, tall girl—the girl who had been fated to be her friend. Betrayed by a fate that could never happen.

So Katie walked into the rain and only briefly looked back. That was the last time anyone ever saw her.

Flash Fiction

My widow's family does not like having me around, no matter how hard I try to get close to them.