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Discover regular inspiration from D.L.’s Weekly Writing Prompts.
Here, you’ll find my unique responses to prompts (taken from writersdigest.com), offering a glimpse into my creative process.
“To be a prolific writer, one must write prolifically”
-D.L. Lorrentz
So, I’m going to write as often as possible. I had hoped to do this daily, but I’ve got books and stories I’m working on, and, I’m studying… I can only do so much!
Join me! Read the weekly prompt, write your own response, and submit it directly to me for review. Share your work, and release your creativity.
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Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet. Lorcan dieupin agnastad venerity domo aregegato, mr roboto.
Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet. Lorcan dieupin agnastad venerity domo aregegato, mr roboto.
Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet. Domo aregato, mr roboto.
If you subscribe via Substack ā D.L. Lorrentz/Substack, you’ll get to read my thoughts on each prompt, along with the 500 word piece of flash fiction (as below) delivered directly to your inbox every Monday.
March 2025.
3rd Mar 2025
Unlikely Friends.
A pair of unlikely friends. Where and how did they meet? And what is their connection?
Synthia hadnāt liked Rochelle to begin with. The new, glamorous assistant to her boss, Richard, was tall, slim, and gorgeous, with long wavy brown hair. She wore bright red lipstick every day and there was never a crease or button out of place. Rochelle was always immaculate, and Synthia wondered how on earth she found the time and motivation to maintain such a look.
Watching closely without trying to make it obvious, Synthia watched the way Rochelle moved, spoke, dressed, and interacted with clients. Richard seemed to really like her, and there was gossip around the office with staff placing bets on how long it would be until the scandal of an affair broke out and Richardās wife was filing for divorce.
Rochelle had been in place for about six months, and she was always pleasant to everyone ā you couldnāt say a bad word about the woman, which frustrated Synthia to no end. She wondered if there was a dark secret lurking beneath the surface or if Rochelleās sublime exterior would eventually crack at some point.
It was Friday afternoon and as usual, staff were packing up and getting ready to leave for a two oāclock finish. Synthia loved Fridayās. She could jump in the car and head for the beach for an afternoon of sunbathing, followed by dinner at her favourite restaurant. This was Synthiaās reward for having worked hard all week. Her job as a data analyst could be gruelling at times with the sheer volume of work sometimes making her head spin.
Just as Synthia was about to stand and exit her desk, Rochelle appeared seemingly from nowhere and with a big burst of energy asked, āHey, you go to the beach on a Friday, right? Mind if I join you?ā.
Synthia was taken by surprise and caught so off-guard that all she could muster was, āSureā.
Synthia and Rochelle had exchanged a little conversation, but it was always about work, deadlines, and stats Richard required for meetings. Communication was transactional, but for the first time in six months, Rochelle was asking to go be social. Synthia immediately regretted her decision but now was stuck with the ridiculous āsureā that had fallen out of her mouth.
Rochelle ran off to her office to collect her bag and returned excitedly to Synthia. Both women walked toward the elevator and made their way out of the building. Synthia drove to Heartgrove Beach, just twenty minutes down the road. After parking, they walked down onto the sand and set their spot for the afternoon. Rochelle hadnāt stopped talking the entire trip ā she was super excited and hadnāt been to the beach in so long, but being new to the area she didnāt venture out to new places alone.
Under a towel, Rochelle changed into a bikini and then ran towards the water. She was tanned and perfect of course, but her lust for life made Synthia think, āthatās my kinda galā. Synthia so desperately needed a friend to do the fun stuff with, perhaps Rochelle could be that friend. She got up, stripped off her work clothes and raced towards her next adventure.
Words: 523.
February 2025.
24th Feb 2025
Masterpiece.
An artist is struggling to finish their masterpiece.
David had been working on the same painting for five and a half weeks. Every time he looked at it, he saw something he wanted to fix, or change. He kept moving shapes around and layering colours. The paint was getting thicker by the day, and he had already overrun the deadline by two weeks.
Lord Sharpe had commissioned the piece for the lobby of his new hotel ā albeit a very old, yet grand mansion in the middle of the countryside. He wanted something modern, yet in-keeping with the venue and its dĆ©cor. David and Sharpe had spoken at length on the phone and then in person.
The tour of the hotel was fascinating, and David made notes and took pictures as they walked the halls and visited the uniquely decorated rooms. The lobby was a square parlour space which smelled of old wood and furniture polish. The stone floor could have made it feel cold, but the huge drapes and the large floor rug made it feel inviting and warm enough.
The painting was to hang above the fireplace on the left-hand wall, opposite the reception desk on the right as you entered. Dark oak furnishings filled out the room and David noticed a hint of lavender as the breeze came in through the front doors. He tried to connect all his senses whilst there, and noted the texture of the stone walls, the various smells, the sound his shoes made as they walked, the layout of the parlour, and overall āfeelā of the place.
David sat on the floor, coffee in hand, staring. He cocked his head from side to side, looking at the painting from different angles to try and figure out what was missing. The image he had chosen was right, he was sure, but it just wasnāt popping in the way he had hoped. The colours were coming together but there was still work to do.
Laying on the floor next to the canvas was Davidās notebook. He hadnāt looked at it since starting the painting. Fingering through the pages, he stopped on āSharpās Hotelā where there were scribbles of his thoughts from the tour. David stood and rifled through packets of incense on the sideboard until he found lavender. Once lit, he sat back down and closed his eyes.
David meditated on the work. He took himself back to the tour, recalling all the sights, sounds and smells. He traced his steps through the beautiful venue and remembered how it felt outside, the sun shining, the birds, chirping, and the low hedges and flower beds planted in perfect order.
A chill ran over Davidās body and goosebumps developed on his exposed arms. His eyes popped open, and he knew what he needed to do. David rose quickly to his feet and collected his brushed ā several of them. He dipped them randomly in various colours and furiously flicked at the canvas again and again.
With the original image attacked with colour, finally, David was done.
Words: 500.
17th Feb 2025
Race time.
The race is on, but what is the race exactly, and why are they in it?
The hare and tortoise were pitted against one another again. Hare couldnāt accept that he had been beaten, and did nothing but complain for months about being ācheatedā and how Tortie must have had help to win.
Tortie on the other hand was sick and tired of Hareās bleating. He had heard the constant accusations and was fed up with having to defend himself. Tortie had even stopped going to the track for fear of other runners calling out ācheatā in his direction.
Hare, however, had been at the track every day for training. Heād run, and stretch, and run some more. He challenged everyone on the team and anyone else who looked like potential competition ā racing the post-bunny most days as he made his rounds. Hare was also disgruntled with anyone who got in his way; even asking the cleaning lady if she could mop the clubhouse floor faster so that he could get in and out and back to racing.
After sprints, starting practice, and some laps of the track, Hare made his way home ā running, of course. Hare ran everywhere. He felt that any time not spent running was wasted and that there was never a moment to lose, especially if he was to win against Tortie.
But Tortie couldnāt understand Hareās obsession. Surely there was more to life than running or racing, and why did he feel the need to āwinā all the time? Tortie plodded through life quite comfortably, moving from place to place at a steady pace. If he came across Hare, heād hear āTortieās not sportyā and āWanna race, old manās face?ā.
Tortie tried to ignore Hare as best he could, but he had already agreed to a rematch. Race day was approaching and Tortie hadnāt tried to run in a very long time. He felt old, and stiff, and wasnāt interested in winning anything again. But heād agreed, just to keep Hare quiet. Perhaps if Tortie lost, he thought, it would be the end of the matter.
Race day arrived and all the animals were lined up once again. Some cheered for Hare and others for Tortie. Ready, steady, bang! The starting pistol fired, and the crowd screamed in horror. Laying on the floor beside Torie was Hare. Still, not breathing, and his eyes vacant, staring up at the clear blue sky.
A week later the newspapers announced, āHareās heart led to giant flop at the racesā. The post-mortem had concluded that Hare had suffered a fatal heart attack, likely induced by the fright from the pistol. Hare had been overdoing ā running everywhere, not eating or drinking enough, and barely sleeping. His body was run down and barely hanging on. Obsessive behaviour from Hare led to his downfall, and his competitive attitude contributed to his death.
Tortie felt sad for Hare but continued to plod through life at a steady pace.
The moral of the story? Slow and steady wins the race, and donāt over do it, otherwise you may just end upā¦ dead!
Words: 502.
10th Feb 2025
Refund.
Your main character demands a refund for a product or service they’re not happy with.
Lorren was furious. She had waited six weeks for her package to arrive and the damn thing was broken. Her immediate anger slowly turned to upset, and tears began to well. She thought about how excited she was when she had found it online and knew just how happy her father would be when she presented it for his birthday.
There was a delivery note attached to the box and Lorren searched for a contact number. There was one, in very small print at the very bottom of the page. She dialled the number and waited.
āGood morning, mugs ārā us, how can I help you?
The woman on the other end had a thick Irish accent and sounded quite disinterested.
āHelloā, Lorren started, āIāve received an order from you, and itās broken. The giant planter-mug for my dad is smashed to pieces and itās his birthday in two daysā.
āNot my problem darlinā. Youāll have to speak to the courierā. The Irish woman promptly ended the call.
Gobsmacked, Lorren tried to find the email sheād received from the courier. There had been a couple of updates and then the usual āarriving todayā notification ā from Dentās Deliveries. Again, Lorren searched for a contact number. There wasnāt one and so she took to the internet to locate the company responsible for smashing her fatherās mug.
There were heaps of bad reviews for Dentās, including other customers complaining of similar breakages. She was desperately concerned about her dad having this present ā gardening was the only thing that kept him going after mum had passed away.
Dentās online contact page did have an email address. Lorren carefully put together a message that didnāt sound too angry but got her point across. She hit āsendā but wasnāt convinced that she would get a reply.
Lorren took a deep breath and decided that she needed a plan B. What else would do for dad that would arrive the next day? She found something similar that would arrive the next day ā a selection of planter-pots with the names of herbs cast into the front of them.
Order placed and payment processed. Lorren was relieved but still upset over the package. The gift was expensive as she had personalised it with her fatherās name.
A notification pinged Lorrenās phone. She opened her email app to find a reply from Dentās Deliveries. It read:
Hi Miss Lorren,
Sorry to hear of your experience. You will need to speak to the supplier as they are responsible for managing complaints regarding faulty or damaged products.
Best Wishes, Darren Dent.
Lorren was maddened once again and let out a scream. āOh my God!ā she shouted, āMugs ārā us and Dentās Deliveries, how could I have been so stupid?ā.
Tears rolled down her face and as she wiped them away, she smiled, then laughed, and then roared. Lorren began to see the funny side and took another deep breath. She wasnāt going to allow this to cloud her fatherās birthday.
Words: 498.
3rd Feb 2025
Thank you.
Write a short ‘thank you’ letter to someone.
Dear Mother Mary,
I just wanted to say thank you to you for carrying me all that way. It was quite a mission, across vast lands, to finally settle inside a stable surrounded by various farm animals as you gave birth.
I made my way into the world, cold, but surrounded by love. And although you didnāt plan for me, didnāt ask for me, and didnāt get to keep me, you were the vessel by which I entered the human world.
I was visited by strangers who came from far and wide, including three men who were supposedly wise. They brought odd gifts which, in fact, date back to times before my birth and have been used in witchcraft, such as frankincense ā amazing for spell work.
Thank you for allowing me to fulfil my destiny ā and to have so many people follow me and listen to my teachings. They say you were the Virgin Mother and that my arrival here was immaculate. I find it odd, as I am not in fact the āson of Godā but your son, mother ā I belong to no other.
I had a lot to say and was a natural healer, and I discovered I was capable of Magick, but I struggle to argue for āone true Godā. There is no heavenly father, nor is there the need for Christian and Catholic churches. There has been so much bloodshed in the name of religion ā that is not something I ever wanted.
Thank you for nurturing and loving me so, and for giving me life here on earth. I hope to continue to do you proud, even though what so many say about me isnāt true. I was tortured and put to death for my Magickal abilities and sent into a slumber so I could heal.
I did not ārise from the deadā but awoke from a deep sleep once I felt well enough to move. And I fell in love with my brothers and my sisters, my fellow man ā all hu-man, but in search of direction. Organised religion took on this task to keep everyone under control. They all lost their personal power and failed to identify with their Pagan and Heathen roots.
Thank you though mother for believing in me and knowing that I would become great. For I am the power, and I am the glory, because my āGodā is entirely inside me. I own my own Magick and I am my own power, yet those in āpowerā would happily seize it from me. But they cannot know what I know and that is thisā¦
My entire essence comprises energy that ebbs and flows such as the tide. As I rise and fall, leave and return to shore, I am born and re-born once more. My energy is infinite, and my knowing returns, shared with others who will again, ebb and flow as I once did, and their knowing will retain my very consciousness ā time will start over, again.
Thank you, mother, for your love ā for it is the energy of that which remains.
Words: 511.
January 2025.
27th Jan 2025
Coldest Day.
You or your character experience the coldest day of the year.
Glen woke up at 5am, as he typically did. It was dark, and cold. Really cold. The cold snap forecast had finally arrived ā so much so that as Glen sat up in bed, he could see his breath in the air.
He shivered and reached across the bed to retrieve his dressing gown. Quickly whipping it around his shoulders and standing up, Glen slid into his moccasins. The air was icy and not like anything he had ever experienced indoors before. He knew it was going to be cold, but this felt quite peculiar.
Glen made his way out onto the landing and down the stairs. As he descended, the air grew even colder. His breath became thicker, like a fog hanging in the air as he puffed out. Glenās joints felt stiff, and sore, and this cold snap was not going to make him feel better thatās for sure.
Turning right from the bottom step into the hallway, Glen paused. It struck him suddenly that he didnāt know what day it was. He wasnāt sure what he was supposed to do today, and he couldnāt remember what he did yesterday. Glen shook his head and continued toward the kitchen at the end of the hallway. On went the overhead light, swiftly followed by the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, Glen unlocked the back door.
The old wooden door creaked slowly open, and an icy blast swept into the kitchen, almost taking Glenās breath away. The wind was strong and the temperature beyond anything Glen had ever felt before. He bravely opened the door further and stuck his head out into the wind. It was fierce, and oh, so, cold.
The kettle had boiled and so the first cup of tea was in order. Glen loved his little teapot, and he allowed it to brew for a couple of minutes before pouring. A dash of milk in his cup and he was ready to face the day. As Glen sat down to his old pinewood kitchen table, the light above went out with a āpopā. A blown bulb quite likely, but then Glen noticed that the clock on the microwave was now not displaying.
A power cut in a snowstorm. Glen sighed. He turned towards the boiler to see that the pilot light had gone out and sighed again. Well, at least he had made his morning cuppa and all being well, the power should come back on sooner or later. Glen reached across the table, picked up his phone and called his daughter.
āWho is this?ā was the immediate answer.
āHey honey, itās Dadā.
āWho is this. Why are you doing this?ā the female voice trembled.
āAngela, itās Dad. Whatās wrong honey?ā.
āStop it. Just stop! My Dad died two days ago. Why are you fucking with me?ā. The call cut off and Glen dropped the phone down onto the table.
Died. Dead? She sounded scared. āWhy would Angela think I was dead?ā, Glen thought to himself. He shivered again and was quickly reminded of the freezing cold air all around him.
Words: 516.
20th Jan 2025
Not My Fault.
Someone you know refuses to take accountability for something.
šš Busy author at work – watch this space!
13th Jan 2025
Plus One.
Write a short account based on the POV of being a +1.
Iāve never been to a posh dinner before. Iām going to feel so out of place. But Iāve spent hours on hair and makeup, and it took me ages to find the right dress, and matching dress and clutch. I hope he likes me like this.
Peter pulls up outside the hotel. His driver opens the door, and he steps out, immaculately groomed and wearing a black tuxedo and straight tie. He looks up toward me and smiles and then grins. His eyes are wide, and I can see heās pleased. Oh, thank goodness. I wonāt embarrass him then. I donāt know if I can do the small talk. Iāll take his lead and just answer questions if they come.
I take his arm, and we go inside. Peter has his invitation inside his jacket and as he pulls it out, he says to me, āI hope youāre ready for thisā. I turn and smile to reassure him. But Iām shaking inside. Iāve no idea how this is going to go. Our invitation is checked, we walk across the lobby, and weāre directed to a set of double doors which are opened for us.
We walk into what I was expecting to be a large function room filled with tables and chairs and posh wine. But in front of me all I can see isā¦ āOh, my, God, Peter, what is this?ā I ask. He leans towards me and his reply is quiet, and soft, āThis, my darling, is the first night of the rest of your lifeā. I gasp and cover my mouth with my free hand.
I can hardly believe what Iām seeing. I mean, I knew Peter is kinky, but Iāve never seen anything like this. There are people swinging, spanking, fucking. Men and women tied up, gagged, andā¦ he leads me through the room. Iām guessing Iām bright red. I canāt help but look everywhere as we weave through the people and various bits of equipment. Wow. There are fucking machines with dildos attached to them. Oh shit, I donāt want to go on that!
Peter guides me to a leather covered bench and tells me to bend over. I shiver and feel like Iām about to throw up. āJessica, bend overā. āYes Sirā I reply. I turn toward the bench and place my knees down, then bend my body over so Iām lying flat. He moves around to the front of the bench and ties my wrists to it ā the rope I enjoy as I relax and feel completely within his control once again.
Weāve used rope before, and it feels good. I feel safe with him, and I become his plaything for the evening. Itās what we agreed. But here we are at some sort of sex party and my backside is about to go on display. Peter lifts my dress up over my back and exposes my underwear. He pulls it to one side and thenā¦ Ohā¦ fuck!
Words: 495.
6th Jan 2025
Grounded.
Youāre at an airport with a friend or partner and all flights are cancelled.
Iām excited. My first holiday in a decade and finally the chance to get away and just, breathe. The wife and kids have been driving me nuts, and so she agreed that it would be good for me to get away. So, here I am, with Joey, my mate from work. Weāre ready for a ladās weekend. One backpack, a laptop, and my passport. I just need to get through security.
That was a drag. Why do security guys make you feel like youāre a criminal? You darenāt make eye contact with them or theyāll pull you aside. And you canāt look down too much or shift on the spot or else youāll look too dodge. Joey got searched, but thatās because heās a cocky twat and he thinks itās funny to engage with security.
Iām sat drinking coffee, and I pop open my laptop. I can write. Or, at least, think about writing. I donāt even know where Iām at with my book. I can check in now and figure out where I need to pick up the story and what developments are still to come.
Ding dong ā itās so loud. An announcement is coming. āDear passengers, we regret to inform you that due to a security issue, all flights are currently grounded and therefore cancelled at this time. We will update you with further information when we have it. Passengers are not permitted to leave the airport at this timeā.
Shit. What do I do now? And how the hell is this even fair? My first trip away in ten fucking years, and now this. And, what about the money Iāve spent? Will I get it back? Will I even get out of here? I start to panic a little. Joey comes over with his extra hot, extra foam cappuccino and laughs, saying, āWell this is fun, isnāt it?ā. No, Joe, no itās not fun.
His head is turned by two young ladies walking into. Joe looks at me and winks. I donāt want him to do his thing right now, I need to focus and work out whatās going on. But Joe has other plans. He gets up to speak with them at the counter as they order. I can see heās paying for their coffee. The three of them come over and sit at my table. I close my laptop. Here we go.
Weāre chatting and having fun, but I need to know whatās going on. I want to get on the damn plane and enjoy my holiday. I pick up my phone to check for news. With that, all the lights go off. Itās very dark, and thereās no access to the internet.
Ding dong ā that sound again. But this time thereās a different message, āDear passengers, you are being held hostage until the UK Government can meet our demands. Get comfortable, because this may take a while. Do not try to escape or fight our guards, or you will be shot on site, thank youā.
Oh shit. Yes, this may take a while.
Words: 509.
