Friday, March 31, 2017
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.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
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.
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
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
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."
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."
Monday, March 27, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, March 26, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Found Poem
from a page of H.P. Lovecraft's "The Colour out of Space"
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
Saturday, March 25, 2017
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
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
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