25 + 5 points
thirteen writing prompts by The Real Starchy Grant
June 10th, 2006 7:09 PM
1. Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.
The television hums, flickers, shows an ad for beer. It follows this with an ad for an automobile. The television does not recognize the sinister connotations of this sequence. The television finds itself turned off, and shaking for a moment. The glare of the overhead light on its darkened screen is briefly eclipsed by an upward motion. The television is turned on once again. Its volume is turned up unusually high. The television reports the score.
2. Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and shit. Throw some birds in there, too.
Yeah, that's right I flipped you off, you little fucking pussy. I saw you looking at my daughter. Oh you are, are you? Do you know how old she is? Yeah, that's fuckin-a right you don't. You got until the count of three to get your pasty little ass out of my sight. One. Two. Ow, fuck! That's it!
3. Choose your favorite historical figure and imagine if he/she had been led to greatness by the promptings of an invisible imp living behind his or her right ear. Write a story from the point of view of this creature. Where did it come from? What are its goals? Use research to make your story as accurate as possible.
Emperor Norton actually was led to greatness by an invisible imp living behind his right ear. Look it up.
4. Write a story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.
Debra gave head to a hand grenade before pulling the pin. Debra smelled like something you would find in your garage. Debra made her first million at the age of twenty-two. Debra smiled like she meant it. Debra fetched a fortune on the open market. Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.
5. A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.
I still remember what my mama told me: "The tarantula hawk wasp reproduces by paralyzing helpless tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Maria, this is why you must never fuck a white Protestant." I know she was only trying to scare me, but still.... It might be against my religion, but we're using a rubber, okay?
6. Imagine if your favorite character from 19th-century fiction had been born without thumbs. Then write a short story about them winning the lottery.
It is widely known that Monsieur Swann was a great admirer of Vermeer. It is not so well known that this admiration came less from the aesthetic qualities of Vermeer's work than from the, in Swann's estimation, great use to which the Dutchman put his thumbs. Swann, you see, had none. It was because of this unfortunate deformity that the French government saw fit to enter him gratis into the country's very first national lottery. As we all know, he was the winner; as Swann will never forget, his wife Odette took the money and ran off to Nice with a young painter. We all saw that one coming.
7. Write a story that begins with a man throwing handfuls of $100 bills from a speeding car, and ends with a young girl urinating into a tin bucket.
A flurry of green, a screech of brakes, the smell of charred rubber and the sound of impact. As fresh blood and dirtied motor oil flow, the street becomes a carnival and a pit fight as dozens of the dispossessed race to make this mysterious currency their own. Their donor is now a victim, and his cries are ignored. Just out of sight in the alley, these sounds give way to that of piss on tin. Jenny doesn't yet understand either death or hundred-dollar bills, let alone that either one one could lead her away to cool, glorious porcelain.
8. A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.
Forty percent of this, seventy percent of that, snrk, fuck, man, I bet you anything they won't be leaving fifteen percent. Snrk. Snnf. Ahh. They should have fucking lawyers, not aperitifs. You need a bump?
9. Think of the most important secret your best friend has ever entrusted you with. Write a story in which you reveal it to everyone. Write it again from the point of view of your friend. Does she want to kill you? How does she imagine doing it? Would she use a gun, or something crueler and more savage, like a baseball bat with nails in it?
How could he do this? All the shit I've never told anyone about him-- well, at least he didn't use my name. At least? Ha. This isn't the first time he's betrayed me. Was it worth it just to get a good story? How about before? Was it worth it then just to get into a doomed relationship? If he were here I'd just deck him like I wanted to way back when. If I had the money, I'd fly out there to do it. Christ, what if my kids were to read this? Would they figure it out? This is horrible. Okay, okay, what do I have around here I can sell?
10. Popular music is often a good source of writing inspiration. Rewrite Bob Dylan's "Visions of Johanna" as a play.
BOB: Smmmmnrrumuferm a zuh whoozey no dee
LOUISE: Aaaaah temmmyootafiiiii
BOB: Lifluhhh frobbot, a zuh woooo
RADIO [barely audible]: gobbamoosinnaboo
JOHANNA: Imma connnnnayooomine
11. Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.
When I came to, I was bound to a metal chair in a dank, concrete room. Must have been in a basement somewhere. There was a portable movie or slideshow screen set up in front of me; I couldn't turn my head far enough to see what was behind me pointed at it. After a few minutes a man came in, wearing a mask, and walked around behind my back. The lights went out, and I heard the hum of a small machine started up, throwing an image I never wanted to see and now could not escape onto that screen. A corpse, mutilated. His corpse. Then it was true after all. All I could do was to know this, and to cry.
12. Your main character finds a box of scorched human hair. Whose is it? How did it get there?
He's toying with me. I say he, but it could very well be a she. Who knows? This is all just insane. The pattern of victims lines up in the shape of a clown face on a map of the city, so he or she (they?) must have been planning it this way from the first. Now this-- it's just too much. A box of singed hair delivered to the station house. That, let me tell you, is absolutely the last straw. I will put the beauty parlor arsonist behind bars if it's the last thing I do.
13. A man has a terrifying dream in which he is being sawn in half. He wakes to find himself in the Indian Ocean, naked and clinging to a door; a hotel keycard is clenched in his teeth. Write what happens next.
Despite the unpleasant taste of plastic, the splinters in his hands, and the deadly chill of the waters, Alan couldn't help but admit that the sunset over Sri Lanka was among the most beautiful he had ever seen.
The television hums, flickers, shows an ad for beer. It follows this with an ad for an automobile. The television does not recognize the sinister connotations of this sequence. The television finds itself turned off, and shaking for a moment. The glare of the overhead light on its darkened screen is briefly eclipsed by an upward motion. The television is turned on once again. Its volume is turned up unusually high. The television reports the score.
2. Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and shit. Throw some birds in there, too.
Yeah, that's right I flipped you off, you little fucking pussy. I saw you looking at my daughter. Oh you are, are you? Do you know how old she is? Yeah, that's fuckin-a right you don't. You got until the count of three to get your pasty little ass out of my sight. One. Two. Ow, fuck! That's it!
3. Choose your favorite historical figure and imagine if he/she had been led to greatness by the promptings of an invisible imp living behind his or her right ear. Write a story from the point of view of this creature. Where did it come from? What are its goals? Use research to make your story as accurate as possible.
Emperor Norton actually was led to greatness by an invisible imp living behind his right ear. Look it up.
4. Write a story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.
Debra gave head to a hand grenade before pulling the pin. Debra smelled like something you would find in your garage. Debra made her first million at the age of twenty-two. Debra smiled like she meant it. Debra fetched a fortune on the open market. Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.
5. A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.
I still remember what my mama told me: "The tarantula hawk wasp reproduces by paralyzing helpless tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Maria, this is why you must never fuck a white Protestant." I know she was only trying to scare me, but still.... It might be against my religion, but we're using a rubber, okay?
6. Imagine if your favorite character from 19th-century fiction had been born without thumbs. Then write a short story about them winning the lottery.
It is widely known that Monsieur Swann was a great admirer of Vermeer. It is not so well known that this admiration came less from the aesthetic qualities of Vermeer's work than from the, in Swann's estimation, great use to which the Dutchman put his thumbs. Swann, you see, had none. It was because of this unfortunate deformity that the French government saw fit to enter him gratis into the country's very first national lottery. As we all know, he was the winner; as Swann will never forget, his wife Odette took the money and ran off to Nice with a young painter. We all saw that one coming.
7. Write a story that begins with a man throwing handfuls of $100 bills from a speeding car, and ends with a young girl urinating into a tin bucket.
A flurry of green, a screech of brakes, the smell of charred rubber and the sound of impact. As fresh blood and dirtied motor oil flow, the street becomes a carnival and a pit fight as dozens of the dispossessed race to make this mysterious currency their own. Their donor is now a victim, and his cries are ignored. Just out of sight in the alley, these sounds give way to that of piss on tin. Jenny doesn't yet understand either death or hundred-dollar bills, let alone that either one one could lead her away to cool, glorious porcelain.
8. A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.
Forty percent of this, seventy percent of that, snrk, fuck, man, I bet you anything they won't be leaving fifteen percent. Snrk. Snnf. Ahh. They should have fucking lawyers, not aperitifs. You need a bump?
9. Think of the most important secret your best friend has ever entrusted you with. Write a story in which you reveal it to everyone. Write it again from the point of view of your friend. Does she want to kill you? How does she imagine doing it? Would she use a gun, or something crueler and more savage, like a baseball bat with nails in it?
How could he do this? All the shit I've never told anyone about him-- well, at least he didn't use my name. At least? Ha. This isn't the first time he's betrayed me. Was it worth it just to get a good story? How about before? Was it worth it then just to get into a doomed relationship? If he were here I'd just deck him like I wanted to way back when. If I had the money, I'd fly out there to do it. Christ, what if my kids were to read this? Would they figure it out? This is horrible. Okay, okay, what do I have around here I can sell?
10. Popular music is often a good source of writing inspiration. Rewrite Bob Dylan's "Visions of Johanna" as a play.
BOB: Smmmmnrrumuferm a zuh whoozey no dee
LOUISE: Aaaaah temmmyootafiiiii
BOB: Lifluhhh frobbot, a zuh woooo
RADIO [barely audible]: gobbamoosinnaboo
JOHANNA: Imma connnnnayooomine
11. Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.
When I came to, I was bound to a metal chair in a dank, concrete room. Must have been in a basement somewhere. There was a portable movie or slideshow screen set up in front of me; I couldn't turn my head far enough to see what was behind me pointed at it. After a few minutes a man came in, wearing a mask, and walked around behind my back. The lights went out, and I heard the hum of a small machine started up, throwing an image I never wanted to see and now could not escape onto that screen. A corpse, mutilated. His corpse. Then it was true after all. All I could do was to know this, and to cry.
12. Your main character finds a box of scorched human hair. Whose is it? How did it get there?
He's toying with me. I say he, but it could very well be a she. Who knows? This is all just insane. The pattern of victims lines up in the shape of a clown face on a map of the city, so he or she (they?) must have been planning it this way from the first. Now this-- it's just too much. A box of singed hair delivered to the station house. That, let me tell you, is absolutely the last straw. I will put the beauty parlor arsonist behind bars if it's the last thing I do.
13. A man has a terrifying dream in which he is being sawn in half. He wakes to find himself in the Indian Ocean, naked and clinging to a door; a hotel keycard is clenched in his teeth. Write what happens next.
Despite the unpleasant taste of plastic, the splinters in his hands, and the deadly chill of the waters, Alan couldn't help but admit that the sunset over Sri Lanka was among the most beautiful he had ever seen.
