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Come On (Writing Prompts)

Writing Prompts

Last writing prompt was an especially goosebumpy one for me. I'm besotted with every tale told, they are indeed gems, rare and shiny and precious.

Come On (Writing Prompts)

Each time I post one of these prompts I hope, I sincerely, so very much hope you'll them, or the stories others write for them inspire you to write. Look for that inspiration, seek it, for you, you, you are your own muse.

How you see the colour of the water, how you hear the chitter of a squirrel, what you smell and taste and touch—all of it is water to grow your ideas, all of it helps you spin tall tales and true.

'Wernt the whify workin'?' — A Writing Muse

Here are the jewels from spin a tale that I love so much. Go read the full wee stories, please. They're truly wonderful.

45 minutes later, still sitting on my purple carpet, my router cradled in his lap, Jake throws a lengthy explanation at me, but the only thing I hear is… what? “Are you saying that my wifi is sentient?”
When grandma was a young woman, she was out on her fishing boat one early summer day and when she hauled up her nets there were not just fish wriggling, all sparkling silver in the sunlight. There was a man. At least, he looked enough like a man.
Do you want to escape? This life? This moment? This noisy world where no sound I make can be heard? Where I shout into the void and nobody listens and nobody cares? We care. We will listen.
"And you know what they did?” A hushed “no” came from several of the littles mouth’s. “They all lost their shit and bought so much wipey-paper, there weren’t none to be had, no where, no how. Not even the Amazon could bring it to ya.” One little raised his hand and aksed, “Wernt the whify workin’?”
What I do isn’t much, but it’s what I have to give and some people out there need it. I can literally count my listeners on less than two hands but how many hearts do I need to touch for it to be worth it? Empathy comes in all sizes, hope comes in all sizes, too.

Your turn. Every single week it'll always be your turn. Post a story here or don't, but let the images, the colours, the words amuse your muse (which is you, remember, it's always you). And write.

More Prompts
Spin a Tale
Into the Light
The Weirdest Thing You've Ever Written
As a Writer, I Don't Want Characterisation to Be Easy

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  • Anarion on

    Filidan crouched down next to his cousin, and the heavy backpack almost tipped him over.

    “The heck are you dragging around in there? That’s where the statue is supposed to go!” Merek was clearly not happy.

    “Don’t worry. It’s going to go in there.”

    “What, you’re taking out the trash while we’re working?”

    “No…” He ducked his head and peeled back the flap of the backpack far enough for Merek to peek inside.

    “Why is there already a freaking statue inside?”

    “I just thought the lady might be sad when we steal her fancy statue.”

    “So you made a replacement?”

    “Yes. Your sister helped.”

    „My dude, I love you, but you are seriously weird! Come on, let’s go!”


    10 minutes later they were inside the very impressive mansion.

    “Holy shit. This lady is loaded! I wish we could take some other stuff too!”

    Filidan was tempted to kick his cousin’s shin. “We are trying to build a profile as professional and specialised art thieves. If we loot, we are no better than… well, not-professional and specialised thieves.”

    “I know, I know. I’m just saying! She probably wouldn’t even miss… Is that a Samurai uniform?”

    While Merek stared at all the other treasures the old lady had, Filidan grabbed the statue and replaced it with his own. Then the two men disappeared as quickly as they’d entered.


    The new statue was appreciated way more than even Filidan could have guessed.

    Lady Molton-Treble had seriously disliked her late husband and therefore the statue (although if not for that connotation, it could have been a lovely thing), but, as a serious cake lover, she very much did like the new one, all covered in glitter and sprinkles.

    She gently patted the statue’s head and grabbed her purse. It was time to go to the insurance company and rake in her money. She’d already picked 5 organisations she was gonna donate the lion’s share to.

  • The Honeyed Moon on

    “Hey Kl’yd? We’ve got to get a move on if we’re going to make it there before daybreak!” Kel was moving through their shared quarters above the bar, gathering her wrap and her satchel – the big one. They were headed out to the junker’s market, and she’d need the big bag. “We need to get there early if we want to get the best deals. And I want to get some breakfast too. They’ve got the best fried skillet bread in, like, the whole system. Oh! And I want to get some of those blue and silver candies too… C’mon!” She loved the junker’s market and was beyond anxious to get going. “Kl’yd?”

    A clunk came from the ‘fresher, giving away Kl’yd’s location.

    “There you are,” she said to the room, “Kriff’s sake, for a large human, you can be really hard to find somet…”

    Her monologue cut off mid-stream as she opened the ‘fresher door.

    “What?” Was all she managed.

    Kl’yd was standing at the sink, still as a statue, with the skin on his left arm peeling off. Or on? It was hard to tell. The exposed part was a complicated snarl of wires and support structures. He looked embarrassed, and like he’d been caught in a lie.

    “I’m, um. It’s not what ya think?” He pulled the skin up above his elbow like he was putting on a sock. As the synthetic skin met the edge of his natural skin, there was a little hissing sound as it sealed itself in place. “I, uh. Had an accident. Long time ago.”

    She reached out and touched his forearm, running her fingers lightly over the synthetic material. It humped up into goosebumps under her touch. It was warm and the little hairs whispered when she brushed her thumb across them.

    “Kl’yd, do you think I’m angry with you?”

    “I dunno, ya looked kinda karked-off for a second there.” He turned his hand over so it was palm up, and held her hand lightly. “I’ve been meanin’ to tell you about this for a bit now, but the right time just never seemed to present itself. I cut through my thumb last night at the bar. This is my last sleeve.” He gave her his lopsided smile and shrugged.

    Kel took her hand back and brought his to touch her face. “It’s so warm, it feels so real. It’s amazing!” She kissed his palm, and he blushed. “What happened?”

    “I was playin with my little sister. Mama told me to ‘watch out for her ‘cause she’s littler’n you Kl’yd’.” He reached for a shirt that was hanging on a hook on the door. “There was a jungle out behind our little patch of cleared land. We were playin’, havin’ fun, ya know?” He pulled the shirt on and tied the laces at his collar closed. “A runyip came out of the underbrush and ran at my sister. Usually they keep to themselves and don’t bother folks, but this one musta been injured or sick. Anyway, it took a run at Me’lee and I pushed her outta the way, and it got me instead. Caught me by the arm with its horns and flipped me right over its back.”

    Kl’yd was leaning against the sink recounting his tale as Kel stood there, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “It turned and made another charge at me and trampled the arm it had already busted when it tossed me for a loop. It was so pulverised, the docs couldn’t save it so it had to come off.” He held up his arm, turning it this way and that, “And they gimme this.”

    Kel, let out a whistling breath, jumped into his arms and hugged him tight. “You saved her, you’re a hero!”

    Kl’yd blushed some more, but accepted the compliment. “Yeah, I wish you’d tell Me’lee that sometime, if you ever get to meet her.” He kissed Kel, a quick peck, but sweet. “We’d better get to gettin’, like my mama always used to say. Don’t want all the good stuff to be gone before we even get our chance at it.”

    Smiling, he took her right hand in his left, and led her out of the little apartment over the bar.

    He held her hand in his the whole day.

  • hardboiledbaby on

    “Come on!” Aggie says, laughter with a touch of impatience in her voice. “Let’s go, Gran!”

    She tugs at my hand—gently, because her mama told her to be gentle; yet insistent, because she is four years old, and my namesake to boot. She simply cannot help herself.

    I need both my hands to rise from my chair, so she graciously relinquishes. The seat is low to the ground, and getting up takes longer and more effort than it used to. Aggie bounces from foot to foot, then takes my hand again as soon as I am standing.

    She drags me (gently, but oh so insistent) to her favorite spot down along the river’s edge, a sandy pocket where the water is shallow and clear, and colorful stones sparkle like gems beneath the surface. Large rocks guard the little pool from the casual picnicker’s view. Aggie, upon first discovering this fascinating place, immediately claimed it for her own secret hideaway.

    It was, however, a bit too secret, too hidden. No one in the park could see that stretch of shore unless they walked right up to the edge where the land fell away towards the riverbank. Too dangerous for the child to venture there alone.

    But she is four, and my namesake. “Let’s go!” she cries, and I go with her. I cannot help myself either.

    Aggie splashes and stomps in the water, laughing at the droplets she tosses up into the air and at the ripples they make when they land. She has made up a game of some kind, I am sure. If I watch her long enough, I might even be able to figure out the rules.

    The early afternoon sun makes me squint, even through my sunglasses. My shoulders are sunburnt and my nose is peeling. My presence is all but forgotten, but I don’t care. She is happy with her own play, and her happiness is my joy.

    The splashing suddenly stops. Curious, I follow her gaze as she stares into the water. Little silver flashes, darting to and fro around her ankles and toes.

    “Fish,” I whisper.

    “Fishies,” she whispers back, awestruck. For once, she is silent and still, a living statue. We exchange a glance of pure delight.

    The moment passes and she is running, off to collect the prettiest stones she can find. I get to my feet slowly, reluctance rather than stiffness hindering my movements now. Summer is all too short, and time—time with her—is fleeting and precious.

    “Come on, Gran,” she calls.

    “Coming,” I reply.

    She is already halfway up the bank, but waits there until I catch up. We climb the rest of the way together, hand in hand.

  • Ali Coyle on

    The palest cornflower sky stretches wide, unbothered by drifting wisps of dove-grey cloud. Deepest turquoise water, streaked and spotted with sparkles where sunlight glitters on the smallest wavelets, winks and blinks too fast to follow. Heat makes dancing shimmers above sand already so scorching that she had to lurch across it.

    A breeze plays with the light fabric of her dress as she stands on damp-dark sand with white sea foam tickling over her toes, still as a statue, gaze fixed on the water, one arm shielding brown eyes half-shut against the glare.

    A head breaches the surface, a joyful whoop carries across the water and two arms send water droplets flying like scattered gemstones. She gives the slightest quirk of coral lips and incline of her chin, then she comes alive with laughter and waves back.

    Both arms gesture to her again then punch the air. “Come on!”

    “I don’t have a costume,” she calls back, but looks up and down the deserted beach. In a second she’s peeling off the dress and throwing it to the sand before she thinks far too hard and changes her mind. She runs forward, awkward and ready to fall, screaming with shock and delight as cold water laps up her legs and splashes her belly. But soon she dives, pulling strong arms in perfect time with her kicks, ducking under when she can to show off the underwater moves she’s been practising for a year.

    The siren’s arms wrap her waist and warm lips steal a salt-flavoured kiss as scales rub her thigh. “Your swimming has improved, love. Anyone would think you’d earned your fins already. Have you come to stay for good this time?”

    Before she thinks too hard about those she’s leaving and changes her mind, she pulls her siren in for another kiss.

    “Yes,” she says, then bubbles out a laugh and flexes her new tail as if she’s always had it but no one else could see.

  • Atlin Merrick on

    Holding her cake up high with one tentacle, Talla started peeling seaweed from her neck with the other. “I don’t see why I have to justify this.”

    Look, I’m a medical professional for people, not octomers, but biology is biology. “Come on, I’m just asking you to have a little moderation.”

    The tide got all frisky again, bouncing my boogie board, and Talla and if I could have seen below the waves I’d bet T was standing on tip-tentacle. Didn’t matter, a sludge of seaweed hit her in the neck again. High tide brings out mers and sea muck.

    “I am moderating” T said, flinging more cake into the water; tiny mer-seahorses darted through the water gobbling up the soggy crumbs.

    I don’t know why I complain, it’s me who brings the cake every single high tide, and it’s me who always takes the conversation this far and no farther, then I enjoy the baby ‘horses twining round my fingers as they nibble sweets, grinning at Talla as she eats a solid inch of cake frosting but not before nibbling off a hundred sprinkles one by one by one.

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