Writing Prompt #16

Once again, it's been a really long time since I did a writing prompt post. This time, I'm borrowing one of the ones I suggested in the fifteenth post, but I'm actually doing it myself too, just to make this post a little more fun. :)

Prompt: Grab the closest book to you, set a predetermined page number and line number, then turn to that page and use that line to prompt your story. Then set a timer for 5 minutes, and write away.

My book:

My page and line numbers: 44, 7

The line (partially taken from the line above): "...since I've never seen her picture or anything."

My response to the prompt:

Since I've never seen her picture or anything, I have no idea what Yolanda Soto-Rivas looks like. You'd think in 2019, the foreign exchange student programs would send pictures or at least social media handles. And maybe they do. But Yolanda has been sprung on us at the last minute since Katie Sandwell's family backed out. My Instagram searches have turned up nothing, but maybe Yolanda doesn't use her full name. I certainly don't.

Mom and I are hovering by baggage claim while Dad waits in the cell phone lot outside. Bluegrass Airport is tiny, but two flights have managed to come in at the same time, so the luggage carousels are a bit chaotic.

I peer over the heads around us and step aside to avoid a frat boy charging ahead with his massive suitcase. I roll my eyes at his retreating back.

"Do you think that's her?" Mom asks. 

She's too polite to point, so I follow her gaze to carousel 2, where there's a petite girl with dark brown hair and bronze skin. The girl, who looks about my age, is clutching a carryon bag and staring anxiously at the suitcases coming around.

"Maybe." 

I scan the crowd one more time. It's starting to thin now as the crowd from the Dallas flight dissipates. It's just the Atlanta flight left, the one Yolanda was on.

Aaaannddddd that's as far as I got before my timer went off. Feel free to share your prompt results with me, or if you'd like to suggest a writing prompt, I'm all ears. :)

Writing Prompts #15

It's been a REALLY long time since I did a writing prompt post. Most of my writing this fall has been centered around my novel and a few short stories. (Those stories did start with a prompt from my prof, but they've grown too long for a blog post.) But I have a couple for y'all now!

Prompt #1: Write a letter to your book and/or your main character(s). Talk about the story and your frustrations and joys with writing it. Feel free to vent, since no one but you is going to read this letter. And you never know; it may help you if you've hit a block in writing the book.


Prompt #2: My profs love to give us ekphrastic prompts (that is, prompts inspired by pieces of art). A lot of them are actually fun to write about! So this prompt is that you are to write either a fiction piece or a poem inspired by the following painting:

"Nocturne in Black and Gold - The Falling Rocket" by James Abbott McNeill Whistler.
c. 1875
Detroit Institute of Arts

OR you can write something inspired by this painting:

"The By Road at the Roches-Cortaut Woods - Indian Summer" by Alfred Sisley
1881
Montreal Museum of Fine Arts


Prompt #3: Last one for this post! This is one of my favorite types to do in a promptathon with Elise. Pick up the closest book to you. Either use the first line of the book, or choose a page number and a line number (before flipping to that spot in the book) and use that to start your story.


Good luck, and happy writing! Let me know if you do any of these prompts and how they turn out.

Writing Prompt #14

So the following bit of writing didn't have a real prompt, per se (I kind of ignored my prof's real prompt, oops), but I think I can kind of make one up for y'all.

Prompt: Make the first paragraph to your story about something your character hates, and why they hate it.

Nora hated snow. If it hadn't snowed February 9, 2007, nothing bad would have happened. Her mom and dad wouldn't have died. She wouldn't be in foster care. She'd know where her little sister was. Most of all, she never would have been in the wrong place at the wrong time on April 17, 2015.

I don't entirely know where I was going with that tiny piece of writing, but I'd like to maybe pursue it for a future workshop piece. We'll see.

If you use this prompt, please let me know what you wrote about! I love to hear how writing prompts inspire others.

Writing Prompt #13

Ready for another writing prompt? This one is brought to you by a prompt set I found on one of my favorite prompt blogs on Tumblr. The prompt was thus:

"It's what it looks like but with..."
(And then you choose something from this list.)

“Ugh, this TV show looks so lame,” says my best friend, Dora.

“Give it a chance,” I plead.

“Look at the promo picture,” she says, pointing at her laptop screen. The main character, Jules, is posed between two attractive guys, and they all look like the type of actors you’d find on the CW. They’re all supposed to be teenagers, but they’re clearly in their twenties.

“Okay, it is what it looks like,” I admit. “But with Shakespearean references! The show isn’t a direct retelling of any of his plays, but there are a ton of name drops, plot references, and quotes. You’re a drama club kid; you’ve gotta be a sucker for Shakespeare.”

“I am,” she concedes before sighing. “Okay, I’ll give it a chance. Is it on Netflix?”

“No, the first season is still airing. But most of the early episodes are still on the channel’s website.”

Dora goes to grab snacks, and I pull up the website and get comfy on her futon while I wait. This is going to be fun.

So what word/phrase would you choose from the list?

Writing Prompt #12

Here's another prompt from my fiction class! My professor is/was a big Gene Wilder fan, so she gave this one right after his death. She gave us a line from one of his movies and told us to go from there.

Line prompt: "My name is Jim, but most people call me...Jim."

She slid into the chair across from the brown-haired guy. He wasn't bad-looking, although maybe a bit scrawny. His black-framed glasses stood out against his pale skin.
"Ok, hi," she said. "I'm Lucy."
"I'm Dean, but most people call me, well, Dean," he replied.
Laughter bubbled up before she could catch it. Thankfully, Dean seemed glad they were off to a good start.
"I'm a nurse practitioner," she told him, running through the basics she'd already covered with seven other guys. "I have two cats, Jazz and Foxtrot, and I love the beach."
"Nice names," he remarked. "I don't have any pets at the moment--landlord doesn't allow them--I like the beach too, and I'm a high school math teacher."
"So do you like teenagers then? I always thought high school teachers had the hardest jobs."
"They can be difficult, but I try to make it interesting for them." He'd come right from work, she could tell, based on his slacks and short-sleeved polo shirt.
"Do you have a favorite local restaurant?" she asked. "I'm new to the area, and I love recommendations."
Dean raised an eyebrow. She knew she was practically begging him to ask her out, but she didn't care.
"There's this place on Stanley Street--Granddaddy's Porch. It's good if you like Southern cuisine. Their catfish special on Fridays is my favorite."
That told her all she needed to know. The bell chimed, and she stood to move onto the next table--but not before she slid Dean a Post-It with a phone number.
"Call me sometime," she said, sashaying to the next table.
She barely dialed it in with the next several guys. Her mind was too wrapped up in what Dean had said. Her heart raced. She hadn't expected to find her target so easily. Now she just had to wiggle her way into his smuggling ring, and it would be smooth sailing to bust the whole gang from there.

Writing Prompt #11

This is another writing prompt from my creative writing class. We had to read the novella Train Dreams and the class after we finished it, my prof started us with a prompt inspired by the novella. Basically, she told us to write something inspired by the title and it could go wherever we wanted it to. My piece is very vague, I know, and it's not really finished. Anyways, hope you enjoy and, if you use this prompt, feel free to let me know what you wrote about!

Margot. She heard her name rustle through the air over and over in time with the clack of the train wheels against the rails. Stepping out the door, she left the car with green wallpaper and plush red seats. The wind rushed around her, shoving her back into the doorframe. She could still hear the voices, whoever they belonged to, chanting her name.

Behind her, the train was empty and the lights were dim. She wondered if the other passengers were in their…what were they called? Bedroom cars? Sleeping chambers? She couldn’t remember if she had one.

Margot. Whispery air trickled down her spine. Goosebumps rose all over her skin, and she wiped sweaty palms on a dress she was sure she hadn’t been wearing only seconds before. What had happened to her favorite jeans?

She stepped across the shaky divide between train cars and pushed against the other door. It opened only after she exerted great effort. This car was empty of people, but rows of crates lined the aisle. She peered at labels as she passed, but they were all in a different language. Something from Eastern Europe, she thought.

Margot. She quickened her steps. The voices were chasing her.

Writing Prompt #10

This is another prompt from earlier in the semester. My prof showed us a time-lapse video some photographers took at a fort (I think) on one of the Florida Keys. She said we could use it to inspire whatever we wanted and, as I was watching it, I started thinking about "Starry Night" and "Starry Night Over the Rhone." (Side note: if you haven't seen the latter painting, look it up. I like it way more than "Starry Night.") Anyways, here's my short piece (with a bit of editing).

Aviana felt the grass bend beneath her as she shifted on the worn afghan she’d pulled from her parents’ cedar chest. She breathed in the night air and gazed up. The stars moved like a Van Gogh painting, all loops and whirls and dreams come to life. That could be a line in a poem, she realized, and she reached for her notebook before realizing she’d left it in Sam’s car. She clung to the words and prayed she wouldn’t forget them.

Sam’s hand reached for hers, and she slipped her fingers through his. The field was quiet enough that she could hear his breaths, punctuated by insect chirps and shrieks.

Did bugs shriek? she wondered. There was probably a better word to describe the high-pitched noises they made, but ‘shriek’ sounded pretty accurate.

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing. It was good to be away from the craziness of life. She and Sam hadn’t had much alone time lately. She scooted closer to him, and his arm moved to envelop her shoulders.

The stars danced overhead, a private ballet for just the two of them. A winking light, an airplane, jetéd across the blue-black stage as delicate constellations pirouetted and performed arabesques. The cricket orchestra could’ve been better, but Aviana didn’t want to be anywhere else at the moment. Sam kissed her cheek, and she had a feeling he agreed.

Writing Prompt #9

Hey, y'all, the following prompt was given to me in my intermediate creative writing fiction class early this semester. What's great is that my prof is pretty loose about us following the prompts she gives. This was a one-liner, and I changed it slightly so it sounded more natural in the dialogue of my piece. Hope you enjoy!

Prompt: "It may not have been a child."

Marco stared at the destruction he’d once called his room. His posters were torn, clothes were everywhere and trampled, and his priceless comic book collection...well, he didn’t even want to talk about that. He knew whom to blame for the wreckage, though.

“Kate!” he bellowed.

A moment later, his sister’s head came into view as she climbed the stairs. Her brown eyes were cautious, and she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Look! Look at this!” Marco said, gesturing towards the doorway. “Ever since you and Adam moved in, it’s been a nightmare. I don’t care if he’s my nephew; he’s a wild animal. He whines all the time, he terrorizes the dog, he wakes me up in the middle of the night for glasses of water even though you’re his mom, and now this!”

Kate surveyed the damage. Her jaw was clenched, but her breathing remained calm. Her eyes were tired, though, and Marco felt sorry for his big sister. It couldn’t have been easy, going through a divorce and getting stuck with a Tasmanian devil for a son.

“Marco,” she said finally. “I don’t think a child did this.”

“Then who did? Quincy couldn’t have; he doesn’t have opposable thumbs. Besides, he’s trained.”

Kate turned to him. She had to look up to meet his eyes—she’d had to for a couple years now—and she crossed her arms over her round body. She said, “I think someone broke in. Did you even notice the broken window? You were robbed, little brother.”

Marco felt his cheeks flush. “Oh,” was all he could manage to say.

“I’ll call Mom and Dad. You call the police,” Kate said with a sigh before disappearing back downstairs.

Marco pulled out his phone. He scanned his room again, and his eyes lingered on the filing cabinets where he’d kept his comic books. He suddenly had the idea that he hadn’t been a random target; the burglar had wanted something very specific from his collection.

So...what did you think? Do you think I should continue this piece?