You should see me when you write.
It's like there's two of me. There has to be, because I'm constantly beside myself. Completely on the other side of myself.
I love that you're finding inspiration in these prompts. I love that for some of you you're writing now for the first time in a little while.
Please…keep going. I'm ready.
Space Stories and Writing Inspiration
Only a few words here, just saying do it. Give me wonderful quotes for next week's writing prompt. Please. Write anything. Any length. Tiny. An ode. A poem. Let it be just for you or share it here with us.
Below are some lovelies from last week's con job prompt:
The captain says we’re landing. I think we’re crashing. Into some rocky moon or an asteroid field, and this beautiful lie is how they’re making it easy for us…We survivors. We can’t survive everything.
*
Ben stayed silent, ashamed of every moment that had led up to this one.
‘We have a name for it here,’ continued Amber. ‘Con job. Like blow job, hand job…only with con job you do nothing. But you can tell your friends.’
*
He’d had a pilot, of course, one of those things bred in a lab for this purpose alone. You were always just a thing he used. The day I offered to take the pilot’s place, offered to be yours, I was so scared that you’d reject me, I almost threw up on you.
*
The barkeep asked again what I wanted to eat. “Glowblue noodles, please.”
“Sure thing, darlin’. What’s your name?”
“Kel. Short for Kelar.” Stars, was I blushing?
“Sure thing, darlin’. What’s your name?”
“Kel. Short for Kelar.” Stars, was I blushing?
*
They say we're killing the planet and y'know I'm not falling for that. It's a con job from the uppity-ups. This heap of rock'll thrive long after the fire's been doused in the last of us.
Oh Christ, he’s singing again. I can ignore the mess in the kitchen, we can give each other space while we’re trapped in isolation, but the singing… The singing!
“Papa, can you hear me? Papa, can you see me? Papa can you find me in the night?”
Listen, I’m as much of a fan of Babs as anyone else but I swear to god I’m going to snap if he…
“Mem—reeeeees. Light the corners of my miiiiind.”
Aaaaaaagh!
“Scattered pictures, of the smiles we left behind…”
Flipping Streisand. I’ve still got the scar tissue on my arm from when I was bowled over in the queue for the special edition limited print vinyl.
He didn’t mean to, obviously. And I do love the idiot. But flipping Streisand man!
I’ll be buried six feet deep in a shroud before I ever understand his obsession. At least it makes him happy.
I’ll just have to break out the Demis Roussos after dinner and give him a taste of his own medicine. Now there’s an artist!