Tag Archive | writing prompt

Look UP a Little More – Six Sentence Stories

Look up a little more.

IMG_2458These days, he spends so much time looking down – his head is bowed, but not in prayer, he holds an alter in his hand, the god he worships speaks to him in 140 characters, hashtags, and memes, using click-bait to reel him in.

Look up a little more.

His friends consist of profile pics and avatars, voices speaking in emoji and acronym in a silent cacophony, deafening him to the sound of life beyond the screen.

Look up a little more.

He types LOL without even smiling, he lives for likes and filters himself for others to envy while his life passes by, he feels lost and alone in a crowd when wifi is weak, he doesn’t know he’s alone until the battery dies and he looks up, surrounded by strangers he used to know.

He needs to look up a little more.

Six Sentence Storied

This weeks word was UP, thanks to Ivy at Uncharted Blog for keeping us writing every week!

If I Came With a Warning Label

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I found this Mini Writing Prompt challenge on the Brave and Reckless blog, and as per my usual, I’m late to the party. That’s a little misleading, I usually skip parties, BUT bloggy parties – now that’s more my speed.

This prompt prompted readers and writers to wax poetic about what their warning labels might say. I actually think I would have more than one (or three). I’d be curious to see what cautions my family would warn of. I may have to follow up on that. For now, though . . .

– If I came with a warning label –

The corners would
likely be peeled
like ancient scrolls of old,
evidence of times
I’d tried to remove it.
The faded words would say
handle with care –
contents may be
fragile, combustible,
easily shattered.
Keep in a cool, quiet space
filled with light and love.
May wield words against you
or wrap you within their solace.
Must never be placed
within a box,
requires room to fly freely
and a safe place to land.
May not always
behave as expected.

Handle with care –
contents may be fragile.

 

 

Six Sentence Stories – Cold Case Files

This prompt, SUSPECT, is an old one, linky closed – but I couldn’t resist writing six sentences with it . . . 
img_0784There was plenty of evidence, all of it circumstantial though, we needed proof, what we really needed was a confession.

We corralled the suspects, four of them in total, and brought them one by one into the make-shift interrogation room; without the proper equipment, we were forced to handle things old school, no fancy forensics was going to blow the lid off that case for us.

They each pointed the finger at the others, feigned innocence and tears to gain our sympathies, it was hard not to believe their stories.

Looking into their eyes it was almost impossible to think any of them had done it, but facts don’t lie, it had to have been one of them and the guilty party couldn’t be allowed to get away with what was beginning to look like a perfect crime, regardless of how much evidence we had.

We held them as long as we could, any longer would have been tiptoeing across the line of false imprisonment and we were getting nowhere, it wasn’t the first time they’d been suspects in a case like this, and we knew it wouldn’t be the last; these four were good, so good our cold case files were bulging at the seams.

We never did solve the case, the statute of limitations closed that one before we could nail it shut, it’s been years now and not one of them has ever fessed up, we’ll never know who broke that window, I guess it was a perfect crime . . .

True story

The suspects :

1. Male, 12 years old
2. Male, 10 years old
3. Female, 9 years old
4. Male, 4 years old

Evidence:

Broken window in shared room of 10 and 4 year old boys
Glass shards in hallway closest to 12 year old’s room
Ball hidden under bed in 9 year old girl’s room
Small cut on girl’s finger, possibly from glass – unknown

Witnesses : There were no witnesses aside from the suspects themselves

Case : Unsolved

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Check out Six Sentence Stories on Uncharted. There’s a new prompt every week!

Six Sentence Stories – Home

img_0626When the postcard arrived, she laughed and tossed it into the junk bin without bothering to read the details, “You are cordially invited to attend . . ” was all she needed to see, being cordially invited to anything was near the bottom on her list of things she enjoyed, right under jumping out of a plane without a parachute; besides, there wasn’t even a return address – which usually meant junk.

Three days went by without her giving so much as a passing thought to the postcard laying atop the annoying pile of credit card offers and home mortgage refi pitches waiting to be shredded, but then a second invitation arrived.

This one was fancier than the last, the soft, paper linen envelope held a handwritten summons, the gilded ink danced across a clouded vellum insert, “Your presence is requested . . .”, it almost felt like a crime to discard the lovely solicitation into the bin, but she did.

Two more days came and went, as did curious thoughts about the odd invitations, not curious enough to need satisfying though, get-togethers, no matter how appealing the request was presented, held no desire for her; but still, there where those curious questions festering in the back of her mind.

That evening a third envelope arrived, this one in a plain, standard size business envelope, her name centered and typed with commercial precision, no return address, the equally plain white paper inside simply stated, “This is your final notice, please arrive promptly at noon tomorrow.”, the finality of the tone unnerved her, she retrieved the other invitations and scoured them for more information, there wasn’t any to be found.

Six days had passed since the first cryptic notice had arrived, noon came and went, the time between each tick of the second hand on the clock became slower and slower with each movement; the knock on the door came like a sonic boom to her psyche – standing in her doorway was a dapper gentleman, a three ring binder in one hand and an elegant walking cane in the other, “I’m sorry to bother you at home, ma’am, you really should have sent an RSVP . . .”

This is my third Six Sentence Story, and I have to say, this link-up has become one of my favorites! Each time I read the cue, I have no idea what to write, so I just don’t think about it and start. 

What comes out is kind of cool, it gets me inspired to write for the day, which usually lasts throughout the week. I admit to the liberal and questionable use of commas throughout my six sentences . . . brevity in the written word is something I am seemingly incapable of, and being limited to six sentences has forced me to embrace the run-on, rambling writing I so often beg writers I critique not to do.

Thank you, Ivy, for this wonderful link-up!

Six Sentence Stories is a weekly writing prompt hosted by Ivy on her blog Uncharted, this week, the cue was home. 

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Click the pic to join in and share YOUR six sentences! 

10 minute writing prompt – wind, storm & secrets

10 minute writing prompt — wind, storms, & secrets

– Set a timer and see what happens –

My secrets tormented me. Writhing within my soul, parasitic monsters feeding on my ever waning sanity. Taunting and teasing me from within; a cacophony of soundless voices reveling in and reminding me of all my hidden sins. My peace would only come when the howling winds of a wayward storm came to drown out their never-ending chatter.

2281fd6267c6ace097652f2194e1edaaEvery tempest became my friend. I sought protection in the midst of every storm which came my way. Then came one day a gentle zephyr, and it spoke, urging me to share my secrets, promising to carry them away, someplace far, far from me. So I whispered all my secrets into this breeze, and one by one, their voices grew silent until I could hear them no more.

I thought my freedom had finally been found, but the fluttering wind I thought was my friend had lied, and round me the air began to fill with the ghostly echoes of my foolishly whispered secrets, and not even the gusts and gales that once masked them could lend me their protection.

Sometimes now as they flutter and float though the air like swirling autumn leaves, my secrets will sing softly through my open windows, sometimes they will bellow in the night, just outside of my door.

Once my solace, now my captor, the wind knows my secrets and I will forever be bound by them . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Hush Little Baby – (writing prompt – storm, nursery rhyme) OR Oh, dear friends, be kind – I don’t write much fiction.

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The night was black, dark clouds covered what little light the moon had to offer. Violent torrents of rain poured from the sky, beating the surface of the building as if begging for refuge to escape their own raging fury. With each lightning flash, a tiny, barred window near the ceiling illuminated Heather’s hiding place with an eery glow. She used these brief moments of light to scan the small space for something, anything she might put to use to protect herself, from what she didn’t know. The room was bare, nothing but a small, overturned cot beneath the window.

Heather was scared, more than scared. She tried to remember what happened, why she was running, how she ended up crouching in the corner of the cold, darkened room. Was she hiding from the storm or something worse? Her fingernails dug sharply into the palms of her hands as she desperately tried to piece together the few memories she had. Nothing made sense.

There was a door, she darted across the room, placing her ear to the cold, metal surface. Silence. She felt her way to the handle, it wasn’t there, nothing but a thick, metal plate where it should have been. She slowly stood on her toes, trying to peer out the rectangular opening above her. There was a faint, yellow glow behind the pattern of mesh and glass, she wasn’t tall enough to see anything more.

The musty scent of old, wet wood from the weathered window panes filled the room with a sickening, yet familiar scent, for a moment she thought maybe she’d been here before. Her bones ached, her head hurt and her heart pounded. She began to count the seconds between the booming thunder and the flashes of white. A strangely comforting warmth came over her, she looked down to see her own blood dripping from her clenched fists. She loosened her fingers and examined the blood. The glistening liquid fell like tears on her stained nightshirt. It looked black in the darkness, for some reason this brought a smile to her face and she again let her fingernails pierce the wounds.

Lightening flashed through the room again, for a moment she thought she saw a glimpse of someone’s shadow peering through the door window and she began to rock. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth to the music of the storm. The loud cracks of thunder began to soften, giving way to a familiar tune. As the winds howled and the lightning flashed, Heather could hear nothing but a far off melody.

She soon forgot about the storm, she forgot about her fear as the music box innocence of the tune grew louder. She recognized it, someone once sang it to her. A ghostly voice from her past filled the empty room, it was a woman’s voice, a beautiful voice . . . momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring, and if that diamond ring turns to glass . . . Heather began to rock faster, her long hair making contact with the concrete wall behind her.

The booming thunder interrupts the song and the soothing voice turns to anguished screams. Heather begins to rock faster, harder and waits for the screams to stop, somehow she knows they will. The lightning flash again reveals someone at the window, she closes her eyes as the screams fade and the soothing song resumes . . . momma’s gonna by you a rocking horse . . . she lets her fingernails slide like puzzle pieces into the broken flesh of her palms.

Outside of the room, two men stand guard. One of them looks nervous, “Is she gonna be okay? Should we go in?”

The other guard glances sideways into the room and then back to his magazine. “Naw, she’ll live. Does this crap every time a storm passes through. They’ll patch her up in the morning and she’ll be back to normal.”

“Normal?” the new guard looked as though he’d be sick. “Nothing about this place is normal, gives me the creeps.”

Without looking up from his magazine, the older guard sighed, “Look, the pay’s good and as long as they stay locked up, we got no problems, relax.”

Inside the room, Heather continues to sing, she has no memory of the stormy night she killed her mother . . . and if that rocking horse does break . . . .

Crystal R. Cook