Author: Writing Prompts

Regular

You accidentally join a vampire coven, thinking they’re just hardcore goths. Tell us about your experience.

Regular

There is an urban legend where once a certain household object reached and survived 100 years, it will take human form for a week. You are that object. What were you and how was life for you as a human in that week?

Regular

image
image

Regular

Everyone is born with scars, and they show where one will get hurt at one point in their life. You friend for example has had scar on their elbow, and they just recently fell badly skateboarding and needed stitches on their elbow. You are born with a few as most people are, except you have one on your left hand that spells out “I must not tell lies.”

Regular

One day, out of nowhere, Death approaches you. He has not come to reap you. The very first thing he says to you is “I’m sorry”.

Regular

pippinhotkangaroo:

writing-prompt-s:

You have been selected to take part in a Hunger Games-esque battle royale against twenty opponents. The last one standing is set free and given enough money to make Donald Trump blush. Before entering the arena, you are presented with a wide variety of weapons. After choosing your weapon, you proceed to the arena. However, you stop short upon seeing your opponents, who have also entered. They’re you. Exact copies of yourself, all with different weapons and with equally confused faces. The horn signaling that the “game” will start sounds, and the door behind you closes.

Man I’ve always wanted to beat the shit out of myself

Regular

Leonardo da Vinci, Picasso, MC Escher, all the famous artists and painters? They’re all Bob Ross. He is an immortal shape-shifter that has learned all manners of artistry and continues to spread his art and wisdom. Write about how it is to be Bob Ross in either a previous disguise or his next one.

Regular

writing-prompt-s:

A serial killer pretending to be a Door-to-Door salesman knocks on the door of a serial killer who kills Door-to-Door salesmen.

Regular

You live in a world where every criminal/hateful thought/act is physically manifested on someone’s skin and every thought/act is custom. Greed manifests pig-like characteristics. Wrath as oozing scabs. You have never had a physical malady in your life as you say you’ve never done, said, or thought anything hateful. But one day, you wake up and find that your entire body is covered in these physical injuries/transformations. 

Regular

im-your-paladin:

writing-prompt-s:

When you applied, you thought it was a joke. Maybe the eerie directionless light or sulfur-scented mist at the interview should have tipped you off, and maybe the fact that the interviewer seemed to be a bleached skeleton holding a scythe and wearing a torn black robe should have given you second thoughts, but hey, the pay is good, and if you don’t get many vacation days, at least the health insurance is excellent. You’ve just arrived in the Underworld and seen the last guy’s records. (They seem to date back to at least 500 BCE, but there wasn’t time to look at them all.) Describe your first day on the job as the afterlife’s receptionist.

The first person I met on the job was a sailor man, a grizzled old whitebeard who had drowned at sea in bright yellow waders and a sou’wester hat. He came into the reception office soaking wet and smelling like brine, and there was a haggard, wild look in his eyes. I took a look at the Date of Death calendar on my laptop, and found his picture on today’s entry.

“Harley Pinecrest, age fifty-six?” I asked him. His head snapped up, as if he couldn’t believe I’d just said his name.

“How’d you-” he spluttered, confirming my theory.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I apologized, “but today is your Date of Death. Your boat capsized out in a storm, and you drowned.”

Harley looked down at the beads of water sliding off his raincoat and falling to the floor. “Explains why I’m soaked,” he muttered. “So I finally kicked the bucket, huh? Is this Davy Jones’s Locker, then? Looks like the damn DMV.”

“This is the Hereafter Reception Office, sir,” I explained. “I’m, uh, new.”

Harley snorted a bit. “Right,” he said, a little scoff in his tone. “So now what, now that I’m off the mortal coil?” He took a seat in one of the mildly uncomfortable waiting room chairs with his arms crossed, apparently not caring that everything from his hat to his boots was getting water everywhere.

I checked his file. He had been a hard working man in life, a family man who fished to support his loved ones. Gruff with those he disliked, generous with those he was fond of, and his chief vice in life was nipping down to the bar when he should have been taking care of more important things. He was an Irish Catholic, but not particularly spiritual- mind more on his family than on Heaven and Hell. Hmm.

“Well?” he muttered, glaring slightly at me like it was my fault he was a goner. I shrugged.

“You have options, sir,” I said. “You can either take your eternal rest in Fiddler’s Green or the Catholic Quarter of Heaven. Alternatively, you can choose to reincarnate, simply cease to exist, or…”

“Or…?” Harley repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“Or,” I disclosed, “you can go on a Redemption Quest.”

The sailor’s brow furrowed. “And what, in the name of McAlpine’s Fusiliers, is that?”

I ran him through the process: a soul with unfinished business on earth could undertake a Redemption Quest once in their eternal lifespan. If they did, they would be restored to life, ferried to safety, and allowed the rest of their natural lifespan, with one condition: they had to complete a personal goal they had left undone by the time of their death, within the next twelve years of their life. If they failed, it was back to the Hereafter once the time was up.

“Sort of like a high stakes bucket list,” I summed up. “That said, it’s entirely your choice, sir. You can do anything you want.”

Harley frowned and rubbed his scruffy beard, thinking hard. It was sort of a weird experience for me, seeing him thinking about how he wanted to spend the rest of his death. I wondered how easy the decision would be for me, whenever my own time came.

Eventually, he answered. “Put me down for that Redemption thing, lad. I promised my son and daughter I’d get them to his boyfriend in Spain and her gal in the States, and by God I’ll do it. I can’t bear seein’ either of them sad without their dad.”

I smiled. Harley was starting to grow on me. “Right away, sir,” I chirped, pulling open the drawer for Redemption Quest files and getting out a packet.