Random Writing Prompts
This week’s writing prompts are brought to you by Leslie. Share your stories and artwork with us!
More from Holloway’s Hideaway!
“It’s the hottest night of her cooking career, folks. And we are on the edge of our seats!” the enthusiastic host shouts and the crowd cheers.
“You’re absolutely right, Tony. She needs to tame the flames or she is going to get burned. Let’s take a look at her competition.”
“Alright, Karen, it looks like Michael is confident in the kitchen. He hasn’t wasted any time with his preparations.”
“And Katherine seems to be going for speed to beat the heat of her competitors. I can’t even tell what she’s doing!” Karen, the bubbly blonde host, laughs in disbelief.
This is it, this is your last chance to give the judges the best cake they have ever eaten, the chef tells herself.
The oven timer dings and all three chefs look up.
“That must be our champion’s cakes! They are always perfect in every way, Karen.” Tony leaned forward to get a better look as the chef took the pan out.
Oh no! No no no! They’re not done!
“It looks like you spoke too soon, Tony. Our chef’s cakes are still gooey in the center. She’s going to put them back in — wait — Katherine just stole the oven! Can you believe it?!”
“Oh my gosh, folks. I don’t know if I can handle this!” Tony cried and brought his hands to his face and peeked through his fingers.
“ONE MINUTE REMAINING,” a deep voice over the speaker announced to the chefs and the crowd gasped.
“Our champion is going to need a miracle if she wants to pull this off,” said Karen.
Okay, the middle isn’t done. What to do? What to do? the chef thought as she paced the kitchen. I got it!
“Don’t look now, Tony, but I think our chef has a plan. It looks as if she’s… scooping out the gooey cake batter!” Karen said, shocked.
Tony looked with a grin, “It’s like she’s cutting the crusts off and… keeping them?”
“THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING.”
Fruit, fruit, I need fruit. And jam. Where’s the jam?
“Would you look at that, I think she is making a fruit filled cake!”
“Honestly, Karen, I don’t care what it is, I want to eat it!” Tony laughed.
The audience began counting down from ten, “NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN,”
Come on, come on! the chef stacked, stirred and poured as sweat beaded on her brow.
“THREE, TWO, ONE!”
The buzzer sounded as the clock clicked to zero. The three chefs stood back to look at their finished products.
“Who will be our winner?” Karen turned to Tony. “Weeks of challenges have led us to this moment. The judges will now decide who will be the next World’s Greatest Chef!”
A woman in a sparkly red dress took plates of each dessert to the judges’ table. One judge was the guy that drove around and ate at different restaurants for a living. The lady was a singer. The last judge was just some old British guy that was really mean and didn’t like anything.
“The judges are sampling the desserts and writing in their answers. Who will be the World’s Greatest Chef?” Karen asked into the camera as Tony bit his nails.
The lady in the sparkly red dress took the judges answers to the hosts, Tony and Karen. “The votes are in people!” Tony screamed as he took the envelopes. “And the winner of this year’s title World’s Greatest Chef goes to–”
“Bonnie, it’s time to come in.”
“But Mom, they were going to say who won on The World’s Greatest Chef show,” Bonnie explained, sitting in the grass surrounded by mud pies.
“What if the world’s greatest chef washed up and helped me with dinner?”
“Really?” Bonnie jumped up and ran to the house.
“Whoa, miss chef, you need to clean up first.” Bonnie’s mother walked over to the water hose and let Bonnie spray the mud off of her toys, hands and feet.
“I’m going to be the greatest chef in the world!” Bonnie shouted and her mother picked her up and carried her inside.
“You most certainly are.”
This week’s writing prompts are inspired by our most recent viewing habits. We have completed all of The Last Airbender and are currently on season three of The Legend of Korra. Below, you will find a writing prompt for each of the four elements the Avatar is capable of bending!
Updates! The bathroom project has been placed on a slight hold. We have been going through all of our possessions and sorting them into two piles: staying and going. Soon, the going pile – which has consumed a shed and our dining room – will be moved to the front yard to be sold and/or given away to whatever strangers show up.
As for the writings, the first three chapters of the Brix & Gregor novel are now typed into Scrivener! Maybe I can finish that thing one of these days. I wrote a story in the form of a poem for last weeks Flash Fiction. Is that something you would like to see more of or should I stick to the more standard prose? Let us know what you like and want more of! And don’t forget to share your stories and artwork with us!
She wiped the sweat from her brow.
The unforgiving midday heat
made the days all seem the same now
while she hid from the people on the street.
The shadows of the alley
did nothing to conceal the grime.
She knew not to dally
for her presence was considered a crime.
The life of a Forgotten,
even one so young.
The streets were hard and rotten
for the Forgotten on the bottom rung.
Flashing lights of blue
announced a returning threat.
The child’s dread grew.
There was but one place to hide, with regret.
The plastic bags clung to her skin.
The pungent stench
stole her grin,
but she did not dare to flinch.
“Hey, kid,” called a voice.
“They’re gone, man.
A bedraggled man leaned against a garbage can.
“Once I’m grown,” she said.
The man cocked his head, “What’s that?”
“My mom.” She looked away. “She’s dead.”
He removed his too large hat.
“So sorry, child.
Such an unkind world.”
It was forced, but he smiled.
His coat flapped as he twirled.
She cried out.
“There’s no time to hesitate!”
He led her through a most confusing route.
After years of isolation,
she clung to the hope of kindness.
The man disappeared into an old gas station.
She followed with utter blindness.
She continued, ignoring the rust and dust.
but if there were any she could trust
she hoped it was another Forgotten.
At the back, she found a flight of stairs.
Soft voices and a dim light below,
she found a large room with beds and chairs.
She was welcomed by a trio.
“Come here, little one,
and have a seat,”
the old woman begun.
“We haven’t much, but you’re out of the heat.”
Cautiously, she sat upon a bed.
Out popped a small dog from beneath.
She patted its head.
It smiled, even showing teeth.
The dog was as soft as cotton.
“What is this place?”
The woman smiled. “A home for the Forgotten.”
And there was such kindness on her face.
Although troubled by sadness and memory,
this was the best day she had ever gotten.
She allowed herself a bit of reverie,
for she was home among the Forgotten.
A bit late on the upload this morning. I was watching the Wimbledon Final and eagerly awaiting the announcement of the next Doctor. Spoilers are everywhere, but I won’t share them here. Just in case you’re somehow viewing this while hiding from the new information. But, we’re excited.
Anyway, if you’re a frequent visitor of our content, you know we are undergoing several projects this summer. You can catch up on some of them by reading Les’s Tipsy Scribbles post from a couple of weeks ago. As for updates: the shower is now tile-less, but the divider wall is still up. We’ve had to add a beach umbrella to our garden. Our poor Japanese maple saproling is struggling with too much sun exposure. The purging of unnecessary clutter in our house continues and a yard sale is inevitable.
When reality becomes too much, it is common to find comfort in the worlds of fantasy. Therefore, we offer up three new fantasy writing prompts to start your very own story. These can also offer up new plot directions for your favorite roleplaying game. As always, we would love to see your stories and artwork. You can connect with us on Facebook and Twitter!
The corridor swayed unnaturally under his steps. He knew the gravity generators were functioning properly, as was his own balance. Yet the massive bulkheads and metallic floor rose and fell gently like an ancient rope bridge.
The power surged and the lights grew intensely bright before overheating. Darkness consumed the area until the emergency lights flickered on. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, urging him to turn around and run as fast as his legs would carry him, but he ignored that feeling.
His drawn firearm grew heavier as he neared the door to the command bridge. His muscles ached under its weight and his arm began to shake as his gun was being pulled down to the floor by an invisible force.
You won’t need that. The voice echoed into his own mind. It will serve no further purpose. Leave it. His muscles strained to maintain a grip on the firearm as its weight increased exponentially. Within seconds, he could no longer support it, and the gun melted into the metal flooring under his feet. The surface rippled out from the impact.
He was now inches away from the ships command deck, weaponless and weak. Do join me, Captain, the cool voice in his mind beckoned. He placed a quivering hand on the metal door and it undulated at his touch. He recoiled, not understanding what his own eyes were seeing. The waves continued to ripple from where he had placed his hand until they reached the edges of the door, then retracted into the wall.
His stomach lurched and bile spilled from his lips, splattering the tops of his boots. The command bridge was worse than he expected. The crew members’ bodies were slumped and deflated versions of their previous selves, a macabre mockery of the positions they held in life. Warning indicators flashed out of sync on their consoles.
She reclined in his chair, legs crossed in a way that was somehow familiar and yet unsettling. Her lips were stretched so thin they had split in several places, oozing dark blood droplets. Spikes and new bones jutted out from around eyes as dark as space itself, while the now useless skin of her nose and neck dangled loosely.
Such an unnecessary burden, guns. She turned away to look through the ship’s viewing panel. The curve of a planet appeared. A vast canvas of blue with hints of green and white.
Recognition seized his features and his body became rigid. Fear froze his thoughts. There was nothing he could do to prevent the terror that was about to unfold.
I’m pleased you are familiar with this world. Her focus remained on the approaching planet. This body is ignorant of its history.
Her body rose silently from the chair and hovered toward him. The woman’s boots squeaked at they drug across the metal floor. Thin sheets of blonde hair fell to the floor in a trail.
He wanted to run, to scream, to fight. Anything. Instead, he only watched motionless as she placed a graying hand on his chest. The endless void of her eyes consumed him. This will do nicely, the thought floated into his mind as the woman’s body collapsed in a pile.
A hologram screen flickered onto the viewing panel. A woman in an suit like that of the crew members shown on the screen. “Permission to land granted, Captain,” the voice said through the overhead speakers. “Welcome home.”
This summer has been non-stop for the Holloway’s. From the garden project to home renovations, the Hideaway has been buzzing.
Our hummingbird feeder has finally attracted a visitor! But all other outdoor projects have been halted for this year until next spring.
Our house has also had a burden lifted, literally. Just a note to folks out there: a lot of weight in one small area can have disastrous consequences if not supported properly. Although we did not weigh all of the tile and concrete removed, we have guessed this one shower weighed several hundred pounds.
Another burden that is currently being lifted is some clutter from our overgrown stash of crap that has accumulated over the years. What people don’t warn you about marriage is the clashing of each other’s stuff. You don’t realize how much you have until you need to find a place to put it all. My husband has listened to the book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo. Hopefully this will help guide us through the monstrous task of organizing our home.
Another thing I have personally been working on is my pastel skills. When I started painting with chalk pastel, I only had YouTube and several online articles as a guide. I could see some improvements in my work, but I felt as if I had hit a wall. I didn’t see me going any further with my skills without some type of guidance. I needed a teacher. Thankfully Marla Baggetta, a pastel artist, offers free mini lessons on her website, along with full length lessons. I have only completed a handful of lessons, but the amount of knowledge I have acquired is astounding. That wall of ignorance is crumbling away and I am getting a glimpse of the artistic future I was beginning to think was an intangible dream.
To start off the month of July and the holiday weekend, we make a return to our child friendly writing prompts! A talking animal, a princess with treasure, and a road trip to space are what awaits you this week. Have your children tell you a story or create your own story to tell your children. Either way, share them with us!
As for the update, Brix and Gregor are being added to Scrivener and I’m fixing a little here and there as I go. Now that I’m getting the hang of Scrivener, I plan to start writing from the beginning on the program. I’m most comfortable writing on paper by hand, but the program makes it so easy to start from scratch. Which would eliminate the current step of typing up the first draft. It’s a constant learning experience. Speaking of which, I’m reading up on screenplay writing and will begin working on Bayview soon. And a heads up: Flash Fiction Friday will feature an all new story this week!
Hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday weekend!
This week, Les recommended we try something new. We have done several writing prompts for settings in which you could place your characters. But what if I don’t have any characters? you may be asking. Worry not, for we have you covered with three unique characters this week. Perhaps in your story these three know each other? Let us know! We look forward to reading your stories. If you’re more art inclined then please share your artwork with us!
I have finally got back into the rhythm of writing every day, at least for the last three or four days anyway. I have a main idea worked out for Detective Peirson’s first novel length case. Yesterday, I had an unrelated scene stuck in my head. 1100 words later, I realized that it could be a fitting introduction to a major character in the world first introduced in our flash fiction, The Ceasefire. I have also been wanting to expand on the story told in Bayview, and I believe I have decided on the format. Screenplay. Something completely new and frankly terrifying to me. So, would any of you be interested in reading or eventually (fingers and toes crossed) watching Bayview?
The overwhelming stench of onions and maple syrup wafted through the air, assaulting my nose and waking me from a cold sleep. From the ringing in my ears, I wasn’t sure if I had been drugged or knocked unconscious. Either way, I was in Saving Time’s basement with that spineless Blue Tie and Jack Acetone.
My eyes were squinting tight in an effort to focus. Jack Acetone paced the dingy room. He was scrolling through a partially broken phone, my phone, with a furrowed brow.
Namer and Darlene’s ATM flanked either side of me. A ribbon of paper slowly printed out of the ATM’s receipt slot. Large block letters of blue ink: “Who did you call?”
“Don’t waste your time, sweetheart,” Acetone said. “She called Conscience Cleaners.” He let the phone drop to the floor and slowly crushed what was left of it underneath his shiny leather loafer. “Really?” he asked me with a chuckle. “What’s a bunch of janitors going to do? Mop me to death?” He broke out into an echoing and sinister laugh. The Darlene ATM rattled with amusement. “People are so unreliable. Unlike machines.” He had crossed the small room to place a hand on the ATM, patting it gently.
“Why are you turning these people into machines? They have families, kids!”
His smile darkened into a sneer. “Because, my dear, people, for the most part,” he said glancing at me bitterly, “don’t want to think. They want to do as they are told. I just help them get rid of that annoying ‘free thinking’ crap.”
The door opened slowly behind me letting in a beam of florescent light. “Hey, Dad? What’s the WiFi password? I tried typing ‘boobies’ upside down, like usual, but that didn’t work.”
“Not now,” Jack Acetone growled.
“Well, well, well. So we meet again,” Jack Jr. leaned casually on the door frame and shot me a wink.
“Fine,” Jack Jr. sighed. “Call me, babe!” and the door slammed.
Jack Acetone mumbled under his breath and shouted to no one in particular, “Melt down the last bin of gold parts and let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Gold?” I asked. “This is about money?”
“Of course it’s about money. Everything is always about money,” Jack snapped back at me through gritted teeth. “I already own this crummy town. Pretty soon I’ll be so rich, I’ll own this entire greasy state.”
“There’s a problem with the, uh, gold parts, Mr. Acetone, sir,” Blue Tie said quivering.
“What now?” Jack yelled.
“The, uh, parts were sorted,” Blue Ties eyes darted to me, “by design instead of by color.”
As Jack Acetone spun on Blue Tie, the door opened again. “Never mind, Dad. I figured it out,” Jack Jr said without looking up from his phone. “Oh and the janitor is here.”
A tall and heavily muscled man in a navy blue jumpsuit strode across the floor with casual steps.
“Who the hell are you?” Mr. Acetone growled.
The man sauntered passed Mr. Acetone and stood in front of me with an outstretched hand. In a thick Italian accent he asked, “Are you alright, signora?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but swept me up in his arm. He guided me toward the door pausing momentarily face to face with Mr. Acetone. “It would appear that you have made a mess of things,” he purred with his rich accent.
I retreated a few steps closer to the exit.
“Get outta my face, mop jockey,” Acetone’s face reddened with anger.
The man held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Don’t worry, Mr. Acetone. We’ll get this mess cleaned up.” He smiled at Mr. Acetone and winked in my direction.
A dozen men and women, all in matching navy blue jumpsuits, flooded into the room and seized Jack Acetone, his son, and Blue Tie. A few even took the opportunity to land a cheap shot or two to a solar plexus or kidney.
A middle-aged woman entered the now crowded basement room. She was clad in the same uniform, except hers had a strange insignia with an Italian flag on her chest and back. “The family is angry, Mr. Acetone. I doubt this slight will be forgiven.”
Mr. Acetone remained silent, despite the angry glare aimed at the woman.
“Thank you, miss,” she said to me. “I believe you have our number if you need anything.”
I nodded and backed slowly up the stairs. No one attempted to stop me, so I turned and fled Saving Time.
On the sidewalk outside, a man stood between the two entrances with a look of confusion. He held a package under his arm.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” he said. “My boss asked me to deliver this part for a, uh,” he looked at the label on the package, “Separator? Do you work here?”
“Hell no,” I said. “I quit.”