~ 2024 Writing Prompts
Someone unwraps an unexpected gift – this could be a good or a bad thing! What’s in the box? And what will they do with it?
It’s Christmas morning and Sara is emotional. Her father passed away twelve years ago today. Police officers had attended to deliver the bad news. Sara’s dad worked the night shift at the supermarket stacking shelves and walked home in the dark. He was due in at 7am, but never made it.
Sara sets her alarm for 7am every Christmas morning. She rushes to the front door hoping and praying that one day, he’ll walk through it. He doesn’t, of course, and she sits on the floor, with tears rolling down her face. “I miss you Daddy” she says out loud. But there is no response and no one to hear her in that moment.
Sara sets her alarm for 7am every Christmas morning. She rushes to the front door hoping and praying that one day, he’ll walk through it. He doesn’t, of course, and she sits on the floor, with tears rolling down her face. “I miss you Daddy” she says out loud. But there is no response and no one to hear her in that moment.
A few minutes pass and Sara calms herself and stops crying. She gets to her feet and wipes her face. Feeling cold, she wraps her arms around herself and makes her way into the kitchen. With a cup of tea made, she enters the living room and puts the heating on. Sara sinks into the couch and takes a deep breath.
She’s still a little sniffly from all the crying, but Sara feels better and tries to remember the sound of his voice on Christmas morning. “Hey girls” he’d call, “Father Christmas has been”. Sara and her sister Amanda would rush downstairs, and their faces would light up upon seeing all the presents under the tree.
As Sara looks at the tree and remembers her father, she glances down and over the wrapped gifts underneath. ‘That’s odd’, she thought to herself and leaned closer toward the tree. She had spotted a present she didn’t recognise. All the gifts were ready, wrapped and outgoing to friends and family. But there was one gift that didn’t belong – she hadn’t put it there.
This didn’t make sense. Who was it from and how did it get there? Sara began to worry, her mind racing with thoughts of someone breaking in, or having keys to her house – perhaps there was a stalker. Holy shit. Sara felt scared and immediately wanted to check the entire house for some creep who had targeted her. Yet, she felt the need to break open gift and find out what was in the box.
Sara got to her knees and crept forward. Carefully, she pulled the gold box toward her and then pulled open the red bow. The ribbon dropped to the floor and Sara lifted the lid. Inside was a small light-brown teddy bear with a heart stitched onto its chest, and next to it, an envelope. Sara felt a cold sweat come over her and she thought for a second about calling the police.
However, Sara tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter. It read:
Dear Sara,
I am here. I never left. But I was taken and now I’m home. I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me, but my leaving was not of my choosing.
I hope to see you soon.
Love,
Dad.
Sara let out a huge cry and clutched the letter to her chest. She ached for her father and so wanted him to be alive.
Words: 522. Close
Your character’s chatbot begins making predictions.
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Or at least, it was, until something goes terribly wrong.
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Your character listens in to someone else’s conversation. What do they hear and what do they do next?
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Write about using some vintage tech – perhaps VHS, vinyl, a cassette tape, or something even older.
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You forget something important, but what is it? What impact will it have?
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A genuine question or is someone trying to avoid being identified?
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Someone makes a confession… perhaps it was the accused from last week’s WWP, or maybe, the accuser has something to fess-up.
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Start your story with an accusation.
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Write about two people who decide to fake a relationship.
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𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
It’s almost ten o’clock. The post will be here soon. Not today, I hope. Just, not today. I can’t take any more letters chasing me for money.
There’s just enough food to see me through until tomorrow evening, and then on Friday morning, I’ll have money drop in. Not a lot, but enough to just about keep me ticking over. Enough money to buy food and put some fuel in the tank so that I can get to work and earn a bit more. If I keep inching forwards, earning a bit more each week, I might be able to save enough to see my brother.
Why does everything have to cost so much? I can barely afford to live on my own, but there’s nowhere else to go. My rent, bills, food and fuel take everything I have. There are days I don’t get out of bed just to save putting on the heating, and there have been a few occasions when I’ve gone without food.
Borrowing money doesn’t help, it just makes the hole I’m in even bigger. I’ve learned the hard way with credit cards – paying for things like Christmas, then having to find the monthly repayments.
So, please post, not today.
He’s here, walking down the road. He has a bundle of letters. I hope none for me. I don’t even know the guy’s name, but I know I don’t want to see him today. He’s getting closer. Please go away! Just turn left instead of heading for me. He’s coming. God damn it!
I hear the letter box lift and the post slide through the door. That plop, onto the floor feels heavy on my doormat and in my stomach. I want to throw up. Another credit card bill, or maybe bailiffs again wanting to come and take my car – literally the only thing of value I own. If you can call it valuable that is. What a joke. It’s not worth damn thing, but I need it to get to and from work.
I dread that short walk to the front door. I look down to find three letters, all in crisp white envelopes. Two I can see immediately are bills. Let me guess, my overdue phone bill and perhaps, the council tax people again. But I’m not sure about the other. I pick them up and examine the third envelope. No markings or return address – that’s odd. It’s plain, with just my name and address on it.
I’m curious, but also scared. What if it’s from a solicitor, or debt collector? I tear the top open and take a deep breath.
Unfolding a single sheet of paper, something else falls to the floor. I pick it up. A cheque. For me. From whom? For how much? Holy shit! Why? How? Is this a joke?
To, Mr. A. Reader. A cheque for £50,000. Signed, Mrs. H.A. Faith.
Wow. Thank you. I don’t know how or why but thank you!
[495 words].
Two people meet in an old-fashioned way… forget online dating!
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Someone has a cry in public. Why? What happens next?
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A fake psychic has an actual vision of someone’s future.
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You visit a haunted coffee shop.
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Write about a trend, aesthetic, or movement.
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Someone ghosts you – what happens next?
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A ‘cursed’ object is purchased as a last resort
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𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
We witness things all day long. But how much of it do we take in? Our brains are designed to filter out a lot. If we focused on everything, we’d be horrendously overwhelmed, and we’d never get anything done.
We can also choose what to focus on – even the mundane or routine stuff. For example, as a driver, once we’ve learned how, we relax into it and can drive without giving it too much thought – even listening to the radio or having a conversation whilst doing it. But, if we’re tired, taking a new route, or running late, we sit up and pay more attention. And because we’re more alert, we’re likely to take in more of the details – such as remembering the make and model of the car that just cut across.
But what would you remember if quizzed by the cops regarding your journey into the office today? Can you be accurate about timings, distance travelled, the weather, people around you, and who did and said what? Do you recall what the receptionist was wearing as you passed by? Or how about the accent of the cleaner you said hello to? If someone’s life was hanging in the balance during a murder trial, could you be relied upon to give a true and accurate statement?
It’s easy for us to distort the truth, especially when we’re trying to remember for someone else, say a boss, parent, or police officer – we want to please them, or satisfy their requests, especially when we’re under pressure. Our brains also like to fill in the gaps, and so we accidentally make stuff up, which makes each one of us inaccurate, to a greater or lesser extent. It’s not our fault – we’re human, and that makes us unreliable.
So as witnesses, we cannot provide ‘true and accurate’ information, but rather, what we believe to be correct at the time. We’re asked to testify to “tell the whole truth”, but our memories may be incorrect or affected by other events, memories, and the emotions attached to them. And although we may be able to re-run things in our heads, these visuals become distorted over time.
Video, however, does not lie. Once captured on film, the evidence is there to stay (assuming it has not been tampered with). We live in an age where so much of our lives are captured on film – and a lot of this ends up on social media. CCTV can prove incredibly useful, especially for crime detection, and the considerable collection of movies and TV shows that are forever printed on film means that we have endless entertainment and education.
Have you ever wondered though how many times you’ve been caught on someone else’s camera, or what might happen if you were captured on film, perhaps in the wrong place, at the wrong time? You could be sat, quite innocently, in someone else’s social media feed right now and you’d never know! However, what if your appearance wasn’t quite so innocent..?
[501 words].
How many fucking pictures is she going to take? Here we are, away in Rome on a romantic city break, and all she does is snap, snap, fucking snap. I want to snap her fucking neck.
“Hey babe”, she says as she comes bounding over. “Look at what I just found”.
She turns her SLR to show me the screen. There’s a close-up of a dog, a puppy, in fact. “Isn’t he cute?” she says with a great big grin across her face. I nod, and smile. But I don’t care about the dog, or the picture, or the fact that she’s so happy.
I planned this trip because apparently, this is what people do. People who are normal, and in love. I bought her the camera for Christmas, and she squealed. But it’s all she does now. Snap, snap, fucking snap.
She likes to take pictures of me. At home, out walking, eating at our local restaurant. I dread to think just how many snaps she has of me. My face is in her camera, her phone, her laptop. I hate that. I never wanted to be the focus of someone’s attention. But I had to quell the rumours. From friends and family members to co-workers, people would whisper, and gossip, and I know for a fact they called me ‘queer’ behind my back.
So, I went looking for a girl to keep the rumour mill quiet. We dated, and then stupidly, moved in together. I fuck her, but I don’t enjoy it. She seems happy enough, but I can’t even bare to look at her whilst we do it. I flip her over, so she’s face down, and I close my eyes and imagine someone else. It helps me cum, because I just can’t if we’re face-to-face.
“What are you thinking about?”, she asks.
My mind was wandering, and I’m brought back to reality, having briefly revisited in my mind the last time I had to enter her female body. Face down. Ass up.
“I. Am… thinking about where we might go for dinner. Any suggestions?”. I force a smile.
“Aww. You’re always trying to take such good care of us”, she says, with no suggestion for dinner. Not helpful.
“Well, that’s my job”, I reply.
I take her by the hand and lead her from the Basilica. Saint Peter’s is a stunning cathedral. It’s just a shame I must experience it with a woman who squeaks and jumps around the like the excited little puppy in her photo.
Photos. Videos. I’m sick of being seen. I want my image erased. How do I remove myself and all the lies? How do I cleanse myself of her smell, of her taste, and of the way she feels on my dick?
Outside on the main road, it’s busy and we’re aiming to cross. There’s a small independent pizzeria on the other side which looks popular but with a couple of tables left. She’s excited – pizza, in Italy.
A large tanker is heading our way. I look at her and her stupid grin. She squeezes my hand. I hate her. I hate myself. I grip tighter and pull her with me.
She’s startled and loses the grip on her camera in her other hand.
BANG.
Click, click, fucking click.
[549 words].
Your character is chronically late. But on this occasion, they finally show up on time!
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Where did their money come from?
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𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
If you’re a parent, you’ll understand how important that very first word is. You sit, and wait, and wonder what it might be. Will it be “Daddy”? – secretly, you hope so. Or will it be “Mummy”? – or Mom, Mum, Mama, or some variation. It could be “dog” or even “fuck”, if you swear a lot at home! You just never know.
We celebrate the first word, and all the ones that come after… and then, when they’ve grown into a proper little human and they can talk well, so well in fact that they’re giving you backchat and you want to ground their ass for a month, you’re telling them to “shut up” or “be quiet”. We’re so keen for them to talk, but then when they do, we’re busy trying to keep them quiet!
Parenting talking kids is a double-edged sword, that’s for sure. However, there are parents who will never hear their kids speak, whether due to deafness or a disability such as Autism or Cerebral Palsy. Some learn sign language, which is incredibly useful – although most of the population are ignorant to it and will only learn British or American sign language if personally affected by speech and/or hearing issues.
But language itself is complex, interesting, and constantly evolving. New words emerge with each generation and regardless of how stupid we might think some of them are… slay! …we must suck it up and accept that we’re getting older and have no choice but to make way for the younger ones, just as our parents and grandparents did for us.
Cowabunga dude! Come on, you must have watched the Teenage Mutant Nija Turtles, right?
I love words, and to learn about them. I am slowly learning more about the English language, particularly in relation to the history of it and how words have changed through the ages. Philology is “the study of the history of language, including the historical study of literary texts” (Britannica.com, 2024), and I’ve no doubt that this will feature more in my work as I develop as a writer.
To write well, I must have a good understanding of words and language and know how to use them contextually to engage the reader. Words need to flow like water, seemingly effortlessly across the page, telling a story that one can become completely lost in. Words need also to elicit emotion, and this helps us to connect with both characters and storylines.
Excellent use of dialect (“speech”, that is) inside a story is crucial and can make or break a novel. Speech on paper must convey so much, along with descriptors of facial expressions, body language and behaviours or movements from the characters. Screen writers often do a fantastic job for movie goers (even with subtitles on) but book writers have a harder job to land dialect on a page that a reader can make sense of and identify with. The reader has to ‘feel’ the scene… and that’s part of my job!
[499 words].
David was eight months old when he spoke his first word. “Doggy” he announced as he looked at the family pooch. Mummy and Daddy jumped up and down and clapped, and shouted, “Yeah! Well done. Clever boy!”. David winced slightly at the noise and no doubt wondered what all the fuss was about.
Julia, knelt by David’s bedside, and struggled to stay awake. ‘Doggy’ was all she could think about. A small smile crept to her lips momentarily as she recalled the scene in the living room. She and David’s father, Jake, had celebrated so loudly that even Jess – aka ‘doggy’ – seemed to jump. She barked at them as they clapped and cheered and as they tried to make David say it again. He didn’t.
There were the usual baby noises, gurgles and giggles, but no more words. Not one. Julia became concerned when David turned eighteen months old and still wasn’t saying anything. All Jake could offer was, “Well, you’ll be complaining when he doesn’t shut up. You’ll have the opposite problem”. At age two, there were still no words. None at three, nor four.
At age five, David was diagnosed with Autism, and labelled ‘non-verbal’. Julia wondered if he was selectively mute, as some children can be, but she may never know. Raising a child that never spoke was incredibly difficult, and Jake was of no use. He treated David as though he were stupid, or a problem, and would sometimes refer to him as ‘the retard’ when he got pissed off at something David had done.
Autism had put a real strain on Julia and Jake’s marriage. All of Julia’s time and attention was dedicated to David. He would climb the furniture, escape if doors weren’t locked, and put things in his mouth that didn’t belong. He also got very frustrated, unable to communicate his needs and wants. Julia was able to interpret a lot, but not all, and so sometimes, David would kick and punch her out of anger.
Jake’s answer was to smack David back, which caused him to scream uncontrollably until Julia intervened and calmed things down. Jake’s treatment of David made her resent her husband. He was distant and cold too. Jake would spend a couple of hours in the pub after work every day to avoid life at home. He didn’t know how to deal with Jake, and he wasn’t interested in learning. He hated how Julia doted on him and how a child had “wrecked everything” as he’d often say to her during many an argument.
David was now twelve, and Julia was once again holding his hand as he fell asleep. Bedtimes were tough and David often refused to get into bed and even when he did, sleep did not always come quickly or easily. Julia, sat nodding, hoped and prayed that David would stay asleep, at least for a few hours.
He stirred, sat up, and looked at her. “Mummy” he said. And tears began rolling down Julia’s face.
[500 words].
A person. A place. Or perhaps both.
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“I demand a refund” is the first line of your story.
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On foot? In a vehicle? Or, a race to the top!
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Are they a force for good, or evil? You decide.
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A surprise party or the worst gift, ever?!
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Love at first sight, or perhaps caught up in the pursuit of romance?
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Write a fantasy story set in a cosy place special to you.
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𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
I live in the UK, so the term ‘cookout’ is not something I’ve grown up with. Having completed a little bit of online research, I can see that cookouts are events utilised in a variety of ways, including charity fundraisers, seasonal celebrations, neighbourhood bonding, and inter-faith/culture inclusion.
I can see similarities in local community events in the UK. Things like school fetes that offer a BBQ, or family fun days in the park with bouncy castles and craft stalls. These events are not-for-profit and aim to include anyone and everyone, regardless of background or bank account status.
Do Americans do it better? In a way, they do. Their events and celebrations seem to often be bigger and better than ours – and I’m not just talking about the over-commercialisation of occasions such as Halloween. Americans, I feel, tend to put more effort in. The reason their events appear so grand, is because of the energy and enthusiasm for it, and the sheer volume of people that get involved.
Whether it’s a school fundraiser or a 4th of July celebration, Americans seem to know how to party – and it’s not about getting wankered, unlike Brits. You can’t even go to a Balloon Fiesta now without it filling up with drunken idiots and over-priced burger vans.
A cookout is typically centred around a BBQ (from the word, ‘barbacoa’), and we do plenty of those in the summer. Cooking over flame has been a community activity for a very long time, and it provides an opportunity for family and friends to connect. Parents can let the kids run wild, whilst everyone enjoys steak, ribs, burgers, hot dogs, and sometimes fish. Salads, pastas, and other dishes are added, and you may just find a cold beer or two available to wash it all down.
Personally, I’d much rather put something like this on at home than go to some crowded and pricey event that is a poor excuse for a piss-up. I can invite those I want to spend time with, ask others to contribute a dish, and relax with a beer knowing I don’t have to drive anywhere. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy community events, because I do – some, anyway. Many are poorly organised and lack lustre. But others are fully swinging and a lot of fun – it really is hit or miss though in the UK.
Is it likely to improve here? I don’t know. Seasonal events such as Easter and Christmas have become more commercial, and we seem to spend more on decorations and accessories. But I’m not sure that we understand how to make these occasions ‘grander’ in a more meaningful way. The British are all ‘stiff upper lip’ whilst Americans are out there, telling you like it is, and for this reason, I think they’re more passionate about the look and feel of an event or occasion.
We need to learn to relax, and we might just have a better time of it! Happy BBQ-ing this summer folks!
[500 words].
The thief had to be local, thought Alice, who was slowly stirring a large pot of bubbling pasta on the stove. Whoever was responsible for breaking in to seventeen houses in the last four weeks surely must be watching and waiting. The police had no suspect, not a single person in the neighbourhood had seen anything suspicious, and amazingly enough, all the incidents had taken place when people were out of their homes. So, there had been no confrontations, no foot chases down the street, and certainly no sign of a suspect.
“Alice, you need to drain that now” snarked Meredith. Alice did not respond and appeared to be day dreaming. Looking out of the window and into the backyard, Alice was clearly caught up with something.
“Alice!”, shouted Meredith.
“What?” replied Alice, startled and slightly annoyed at having been shouted at. Meredith did not appreciate the disgruntled look on Alice’s face. After all, she simply wanted to prevent the pasta from spoiling.
“The pasta Alice, it will be overdone”.
“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about the thefts. It’s really bothering me that no one has been caught”.
“I know honey”, said Meredith, in a calmer and more sympathetic tone. “I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to be here this afternoon. What if the son-of-a-bitch is at the cookout?”.
Alice paused for a moment, and then replied, “I know. I’ve been thinking the same. What if he’s here? What if he’s one of us and we just don’t know?”.
The girls looked at each other. Meredith rushed over to the stove and turned off the gas. “Come on, let’s get this finished up and outside. Everyone’s waiting”.
Alice and Merry drained the pasta and added it to the sauce that was simmering in another pot. Alice stirred and Merry sprinkled another pinch of basil for luck. “Right, let’s go, and let’s see if we can’t figure out who this guy is. I reckon we can do a better job than the cops”.
Alice nodded, picked up the large cooking pot with the black hand burners only used for outdoors and quickly made her way out through the backdoor and around the house to the front. Merry followed behind with a large dish of shredded cheese and both girls headed for the big picnic bench on the front lawn. Every three months, the locals came together for a community cookout. It was something Uncle John had started roughly forty years ago, and now, it’s an event you don’t miss. Everyone comes, and each year, the cookouts seem to get bigger and bigger, with more people and more food!
Alice suddenly felt a wave of panic. She scanned the crowd. There were so many faces she recognised, but many she didn’t. Who is he? And what does a guy who likes to steal women’s clothes and underwear look like anyway? Alice and Merry had some detective work to do.
[489 words].
𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
With WW3 around the corner, this topic is rather timely. War, and/or pandemic, an underground bunker, limited supplies, a mixture of people just trying to survive – what could possibly go wrong?
The idea of bombs dropping is terrifying, especially for parents. So much comes to mind – supplies, resources, where to sleep, how to cook, toileting, washing, keeping everyone safe and mentally and emotionally well, how to shelter, and so much more. Rationing would be an absolute nightmare – fights would break out, looting would take place, and those with medical conditions or disabilities would suffer the most. Our pets may also starve – or we might eat them!
We’d be reliant on Government information and there are plenty of us who don’t trust anyone in ‘power’. From Brexit to Covid-19 and war, why would we place any trust in them and expect them to protect us? Would we be better off trying to fend for ourselves? Or should we line up like good little girls and boys for our rations, and anti-radiation meds?
Will the 1% leave us to starve and suffer nuclear fallout whilst they all escape to their underground bunkers? How many people are catered for? Who gets in and who is left behind? And how much did a bunker ticket cost exactly? There are so many questions!
I think it’s safe to say that I’ll be on the outside, trying to survive and busy protecting my family from starvation and looters. People go crazy during times of war. Panic sets in. And it’s every man or woman for themselves. Parents will kill in order to feed their kids, and previously reserved individuals can turn into warriors, for the sake of justice or survival.
If you’ve watched The Walking Dead, then you might have some sort of idea – what it takes to survive, protect, defend, and live! The characters have done things they may never have thought possible. Some have been utterly stupid or too naive, whilst others have become savages – evil, in fact. What might you turn into if faced with extinction?
There are questions to ask of yourself too. Would you slice the throat of a Russian soldier after entering your house? Bear in mind that reports from Ukraine stated that Russian military were raping children as young as four. Could you kill, to protect? Would you risk your own life for someone else’s? Can you see yourself sharing rations and resources, or would you drop the numbers to give you and your loved one’s better odds?
I know how I’d behave, and I’m ok with that. My wife and I have talked at length about plans a, b, c, and more. We’ve agreed upon specific actions in certain situations, and we understand that we’re a team, there are children to feed and protect, and that anything outside of that, matters not.
To have these sorts of conversations, you need to know and trust yourself, and your partner – have each other’s backs, before someone else has you over!
[500 words].
It’s cold, dark, and it smells damp. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stomach this. How can anyone live in such squaller? How long has he been here? Why would you choose to for goodness sakes?
“Alright lass?”, asks Jim, the old bloke who found me. He smells too. But then, I guess he would, living here and having no access to a shower. Do I smell? Maybe I do. I’m sure Jim doesn’t care. He saw me running through the wind and rain. I’m surprised I heard him. “This way”, he shouted several times.
The storm came out of nowhere too. I’ve never seen anything like it. “You look like you’ve been picked up and spat out by a tornado”, he says. “I think I was”, I reply. “What’s going on?”.
“Well Miss, these Chinese bastards are fuckin’ with our weather. Not only are they attacking our cybers, but they’re sendin’ over weather machines to drown us all out”. I stared at Jim. I didn’t know whether to laugh or take him seriously. “A weather machine, really?”. He looked at me confused. His fluffy grey eyebrows narrowed as he lowered his head. “Have you not been following the news, Miss?”.
“Well, no I haven’t. And why would I? It’s full of tripe. Sad stories, politics, inflation turned to recession. I haven’t bothered with it since the pandemic to be honest”.
“Then you’re a stupid girl” he snapped. “I beg your pardon!” I snap back. “I am far from stupid. I, have a PhD”.
“So what?” Jim snorted. “You don’t even know what’s going on, do you?”. He looked mad.
Jim shook his head, then reached for a newspaper. Crikey, I haven’t seen a newspaper in a while. Why do people still buy them anyway? He unfolds it and lifts it up so I can read the headline on the front page. “Read it”, he instructs. “Great Britain is at war with China”.
“We’re at war Miss, and everyone’s gone mad. They’re lootin’, and robbin’, and it’s every man for ‘imself”. I wish Jim spoke properly. It sounds so awful to hear words mispronounced. I’m not sure where he’s from. Up North I expect. And there I was, quite happily hiking back from a three-day solo trek. Finally, down from the hills, refreshed and ready to get back to my painting. Inspired by the scenery and incredible sunsets. I managed to sketch a few things here and there and had hoped to recreate what I had experienced, on canvass.
“You can stay one night, then you’re gone. The storm should be off by mornin’ and you, can bloody clear off”.
I’m stunned that he’d kick me out so soon. We’ll see old man. We’ll see. I nod in his direction, but I’m not going anywhere. Not if there’s war. And there’s food and water here. I need to find out more, and so I’m staying put.
[489 words].
An apprentice isn’t good at their job.
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A garden sculpture comes to life.
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𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
Libraries – what’s not to love?
I love libraries, and the older, the better. I love the dark wood, the smell, the sections where they keep the really old, delicate books, and the workspaces where no doubt, thousands of others have read, studied, and written works of art.
I love the peace and quiet that typically comes with a library, although many now are hosting a variety of activities, especially for children and families to bring bodies through the door and open people up to new opportunities.
Libraries have a much more varied program these days, with everything from Lego clubs to late night art sessions where you can mingle, create, and even grab a glass of wine.
I am trying to get the library more. There is one locally in my town and there’s one in the city – bigger, better, and more diverse. I need the peace, and the time to myself to collect my thoughts and churn out some work!
Working from home is all well and good, but there are too many distractions and if the house is messy, then so is my head and I cannot focus. I do have a small office space where I can shut myself away, but there’s nothing like getting out into an inspiring space so that one may create, and for a writer, where better than a library?
Of course, being in a library gives me access to books – lots of them! And should I need to research facts, figures, or something historical in nature, then I have my pick of information. Yes, there’s Google, but the internet can be so impersonal, and it’s littered with millions of different opinions and false information. When reading a book, we tend to get the view of just one person, along with their research, thought processes and conclusion. Some books are co-authored and/or edited by another, and we then benefit from a collaboration.
If it’s fiction we’re reading, then we get to explore different styles, new worlds, and interesting characters – some we’ll identify with, and some will feel completely alien, which is good for us as we expand our thinking. Reading fiction broadens our horizons and for us writers, it inspires us to keep going!
In the US alone, 2.3million books were self-published in 2021 (all with an ISBN). Self-published! The market has exploded, and more people are becoming “authors” – some of whom are self-promoting their ‘thought leadership’ and ‘personal growth’ guides to sell other products and services mind you.
These self-published books, however, cannot often be found in libraries. Only those who have been successful in finding an editor, publisher, and agent, and then promoted well enough to sell a few copies, will find their book on a library shelf.
That’s my aim. To walk into a library or a bookstore and find my book on the shelf. I’d love to see others pick it up, read the back and decide to buy. This is my mission, and I choose to accept it.
[500 words].
Urgh. Here we go again. Sock. Shoes. Coat. Hat. Scarf. It’s not even that cold outside. She always does this. In my opinion, she’s way over the top when it comes to layering me up. I don’t even like wearing jumpers. And I like to pull my socks off.
We finally get out the door. I don’t know what takes her so long, but anyway, here we go. I step out and there is a bitter chill – maybe it is that cold after all. Mummy always tells me she knows best. Huh. I hate it when she’s right.
We head out on the front garden path and turn right. We’re heading towards the high street. Sweets! She’s going to buy sweets. Yummy. I might choose wine gums. As we get closer to the short row of shops, Mummy decides to cross over and into the lane that leads to the park. Amazing. The park! Perhaps we’ll get sweets on the way back.
We walk through the park but turn away from the play area. What? But Mummy, there are other kids playing and running around. And one even has an ice-cream. Why can’t we go? I pull on her hand and she pulls back. “Park”, I say. “No”, she says, “This way”.
We walk out through the big metal gate and turn left onto the pavement. “We’re almost there”, puffs Mummy. Where? I think to myself. Where are we going? And wherever it is, I hope it’s worth it. We’ve missed the shop, and the park, and I’m bored.
Just a short walk from the park and, “We’re here”, declares Mummy. There’s a small building with a big door. It swings open as you walk towards it. We step inside and I look around. Books. There are books everywhere. Why are there so many? And where did they all come from?
“This, William, is the library”, says Mummy. The library. I’m sure I’ve heard Mummy talk about the library. I nod. “Learning to read William is very, very important. And there are some books here just for you. Just for me? Really? Wow. That sounds exciting.
Mummy takes me to the children’s section. We sit down but I’m uncomfortable. Mummy takes off my hat and scarf and pulls the zipper on my coat down a bit. That’s better. I sink back into the multi-coloured bean bag and relax. She hands me a book.
Mummy reads, “The Giraffe, and the Pelly, and Me”. The picture on the front looks funny. There’s a monkey hanging from a giraffe’s neck. A very long neck! I open the book and start to look at the words. I can’t make sense of them, but I like the pictures. I see some letters I recognise. Me and Mummy have been working on our ABCs.
Mummy starts reading and points to the words as she goes. I’m taken in. The story is great! I think I like coming to the library, even if there are no sweets.
[500 words].
When Santa doesn’t write back.
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
This NYE, I’m making no promises.
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
Write about fur baby love.
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
What’s on the menu?
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
Where will it be and what will it see?
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
Favouritism, conflict, or perhaps, seduction.
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
A new planet has just been discovered…
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
Write about someone whose livelihood depends on their hands.
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
Are they good, bad, or ugly?
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
Treasure, or tragedy?
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
On land, or under the sea.
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
What will you find? Cash in a safe maybe!
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
Lighthouses are historical landmarks and essential safety way-markers. However, fewer of them are in operation due to maintenance costs and higher tech navigation systems for boats and ships.
Tall and round, and supporting huge lamps, they warn those on the water of dangers, and help vessels find their way into harbour. Some are small and simple in design, whilst others are more elaborate and there is significant history with regards to design, materials used, lighting, lamps, lenses, and fuel.
Lighthouses might seem an odd thing to think about. Should I have an opinion about them? Well, perhaps I should. Perhaps we should all consider how we feel about certain things that we come across and either don’t pay much attention to or take for granted.
I quite enjoy seeing a lighthouse. It’s a nice surprise when you drive along the coast and come across one unexpectedly. And it’s great that they’re all different, each with a unique history. Not that I have seen many in person, but those I have always deliver a sense of awe.
The lighthouse at Lizard Point in Cornwall is very pretty and I particularly like Smeaton’s Tower in Plymouth Hoe – the red and white stripes are distinctive and striking. I think lighthouses are cool. They’re interesting to look at, and they’ve featured in several movies over the years.
Such an incredibly unique piece of architecture needs to be protected and maintained. Various organisations and charities are charged with their care and upkeep, but I wonder if the younger generations will care about them. As someone who worked on water for a short time, I certainly appreciate them.
I wonder what lighthouses would have to say, if they could talk. What have they seen? How many lives have they saved and how many have they seen lost, despite their warning and light to guide the way? Might they be proud of their service and understand the importance of their role? How do they feel being battered by the wind and sea – does it hurt? Are they well taken care of? Do they feel loved?
Although inanimate, each lighthouse has a story to tell. Each will have been witness to historical change, environmental impacts, and even global events such as war. They will have seen boats and ships come and go, including pirate vessels. Some may have been subject to attack, and others have been struck by ships – for example, in 1960, ‘India Bear’ collided with a lighthouse in San Francisco (The Times).
Trinty House manages over sixty lighthouses in the UK, although many are controlled remotely now due to the technological age that we find ourselves in. Sweeping lights are being phased out and replaced by flashing LEDs. I find this sad, but I do understand.
So, I think I like lighthouses and I may look for ways to include one in a future story. It’s interesting that these writing prompts are also generating ideas for locations, props, and more. Very cool.
[496 words].
𓂃🖊 Coming soon… Busy author at work – watch this space!
𓂃🖊 Prompt in progress… With apologies; but keep reading!
Firstly, what is art? Well, what art is, is rather subjective. And many an argument has broken out over what constitutes art. A child scribbling with a crayon might be considered art – just ask the child’s parents!
But perhaps art is more than just a rudimentary effort from an ankle-biter. Did it ought to be more skilfully produced or for there to be a better result than a few marks of crayon?
Already, I’m asking questions. My thoughts and feelings are stirred. Do I even have my own interpretation of what art is? I’m not sure. I recall one scene from a series way back, when a piece of art moved someone to tears.
For those of you queer enough to have watched The L Word, you may recall a scene where Bette Porter visits Peggy Peabody, and sees the image of a naked woman on a huge canvas. It brings her to tears, and she comments on the intimate relationship between the photographer and the subject. That scene stuck with me, as I’ve never seen anyone so moved by a work of art.
Can art truly move us to tears?
I imagine it can, although it hasn’t happened to me, yet. I even popped into a local gallery today to see for myself. I wanted to deliberately observe my reaction to paintings and sculptures. To be honest, there wasn’t really much I liked the look of, and in fact some of it I thought was significantly overpriced for what looked like paintings created by a ten-year-old. I was unimpressed and appeared apathetic to what was on display.
However, I can see art in all manner of things. From shapes and images in the clouds in the sky, to the way ferns curl in the woodland where I go walking. I see art in architecture, and even in some marketing material posted online. There is ‘art’ in sculpture, making one’s own clothes, creating a meal, and, in writing – an artform in and of itself. Directing a film is art, and then there are more obvious forms such as drawing, painting, and pottery.
Arguably, we’re surrounded by art everywhere, every day, but most of us fail to recognise it. We’re too ‘busy’.
Art can inspire thoughts, feelings, and experiences. The car you drive was designed by an artist, who gave thought to the placement of controls and buttons, for your convenience and pleasure. We experience emotions due to engaging with something (e.g. a car) that has had artistic input. The same could be said for the design of your office building, or your child’s school. Some people hire interior designers to ensure that their home looks and feels ‘right’ and the Chinese use a system called Feng Shui to careful place furniture and objects in places that allow energy to ‘flow’.
And whilst my eldest daughter delivers regular drawings that make me feel proud, and I therefore believe art can inspire emotion, I am yet to shed a tear over it.
[500 words].
Damien had just finished. He put his paintbrush down on the bench next to the canvas and stepped backwards. Finally, it was complete.
He’d been working on this piece for weeks. It was all he thought about and all he could do. Painting was Damien’s life, and this commission might just be the thing to change his entire world. He just needed enough money to invest in new supplies, better equipment, and a website.
“I’ll get there”, he said, as Damien looked up at Pyke, the scrawny tortoiseshell he’d rescued from next door. Damien wasn’t really a cat person, but he had decided to take Pyke in, and they learned to tolerate each other. Pyke looked up from his small, curled position on top of the oak bookcase. He let out a small ‘meow’ and tucked his head back down into his blanket. Damien shook his head. Talking to Pyke was like talking to a brick wall, but at least he was company. “Ah, company” he said out loud. “That’s what I’ll call this piece, Company”.
Now Damien was happy. Satisfied the work was complete and that he had a name for it. ‘Company’ would be delivered that evening to the Belmont Hotel – a five-star venue right in the centre of the city. Had Damien underpriced himself? After all, it’s a swanky venue with high-flying guests. He began to get nervous. What if they don’t like it? What if they won’t pay the asking price?
The phone rang, which interrupted his thought process. “Hello”, answered Damien. “Mr Brooks. The van will arrive at five o’clock sharp. Please be ready”. “Of course,” replied Damien. The man on the other end swiftly hung up. Damien quickly began tidying, cleaning, and making his studio space clear so that the huge canvas could be shifted out. Three-by-three meters, that’s what they’d asked for.
The nerves were building and at five-to-five, Damien decided to make a dash for the bedroom to change his tee shirt. He should at least be presentable when they show up, even if he hadn’t washed for the last three days.
Bang, bang, bang. The loud thumping on the front door next to the bookcase made Pyke jump out of his skin. He leapt down and as he went, knocked Damien’s glass. It went flying from the bench towards the canvas, which was propped up by a piece of wood and sitting on the floor, on top of a plain white sheet. The glass hit the canvas and water ran down the middle of the painting. Water colours quickly merged. Blues, greens, and reds came together, creating a wet purple mess on the floor.
Damien walked back into the living room, across the front of the bookcase, and turned towards the canvas. “Noooooo” he screamed. “Nooooo, fuuuuccckkk”.
Bang, bang, bang. “Mr Brooks. Is everything ok?”.
Damien crumpled to the floor. His eyes welled with tears, and he felt sick to his stomach. Damien didn’t want to open the door.
[498 words].
