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