Prompt Me!

Hallowe’en will soon be upon us, and to get into the spirit (hurr, spirit, get it?) of things, I’m going to write up to 500 word stories for anyone who wants to leave a prompt below.

Prompts should follow a theme of Hallowe’en or autumn, at least loosely. Pictures are okay to use as prompts too (: Specify if you want m/m, f/f or m/f. If you don’t specify I’ll assume anything goes.

I shall now sit back and watch as cobwebs gather in the comments section (:

Edit: Prompts are now closed. Sorry! But thank you if you left a prompt ^^ I had a lot of fun writing them.

Prompt Me!

17 thoughts on “Prompt Me!

  1. Sylvia A. Winters says:

    I don’t know why I bothered giving myself a word limit 😛 Have an extra 500 words.

    The Cave

    Three boys sat on the cliff-top, watching the tide gently flow outward, taking two steps back and one step forward as it slunk out from the small, rocky bay.

    Now that the tide was creeping out, the caves worn into the rock were accessible, perhaps not to anyone with bad knees or creaky joints, as the descent into the bay required several jumps and clambering over huge piles of rock to reach the little streak of sand.

    Not that anyone, old or young, would want to walk through the bay. Very occasionally there would be a dog walker or a rambler from out of town, someone who didn’t know the legends or decided they were just old rot. But they only ever went down to the bay once; after that, they decided there were nicer, easier places to walk, places that didn’t leave them faint and chilled to the bone, places that didn’t have them looking over their shoulder every two seconds, their heart beating wildly in their chest.

    David knew the stories. He wasn’t some stupid out-of-towner, and he trusted the words of those who had been down to the bay. The place was haunted.

    A hundred years ago, a woman had been murdered down there, dragged into one of the caves, her body left for the fish that lived in the rock pools and the gulls that flocked down from the grey sky to feed on what was, to them, leftovers. For a hundred years her ghost had haunted the bay, driven mad by grief and loneliness and seeking revenge for her death. If anyone lingered too long down there, they were never seen again.

    Alan, the oldest of the boys on the cliff-face, had told them that when she got a hold of you, she ripped out your heart, because that’s what had been done to her all those years ago.

    “I dare you,” Alan said, lighting up a cigarette and smirking. “Go down to the cave, and bring us back something as proof.”

    David didn’t want to, but what choice did he have? He’d chosen dare, and that meant he had to do as he was told. Besides, he didn’t want them thinking he was a coward. He wasn’t.

    “Fine,” he said, standing, enjoying the way Alan and Marcus’ eyes widened in surprise. “I’ll do it. It’s just my heart, after all. Who needs that?”

    David took the steps slowly, his fingers trailing along the rail, as Alan and Marcus watched him descend. He’d show them.

    The cave was dark, the sea a rushing echo as it smacked against the edges of rock and flowed inward, stopped by a low wall of jagged rocks. It was cold, much colder than it had been outside, much colder than it had been up on the cliff.

    He glanced around, looking for something good to take back. There were shells and pebbles, but nothing that really proved he’d been into the cave. Still, they’d seen him go down into the bay, and that was enough for him. Even if they didn’t believe he’d set foot in the cave, he knew he had.

    He was in the process of picking up a crab shell, when a low hiss startled him. He dropped the shell and whirled around, ready to run for the exit. But the exit was blocked. A man stood there, framed by the arch of rock and lit by the gold light of the setting sun.

    David stepped back, but there was nowhere to go with only the sea at his back.

    “Who are you?” he asked, his voice wavering and squeaking like was twelve years old again.

    “I live here,” the man said, stepping forward. Without the sun blurring his features, David could see he was much younger than he’d first thought, maybe not that much older than David himself. “What are you doing here?”

    “I just wanted to look,” he said, feeling braver. This wasn’t the woman who supposedly haunted the bay, this was just a man, and he didn’t look like a ghost at all.

    There was a rush of wind, and a force slammed into him, knocking him back against the cold, damp wall of the cave before he could so much as blink. The man stood, pinning him to the wall, with his face just inches from David’s own. This close, his eyes seemed red, his teeth too sharp when he grinned, and the fear David had felt when he first saw him came rushing back. He squirmed, trying to escape, but could not.

    “Have you seen everything you wanted?” The man hissed, his cold fingers sliding over David’s throat. David gulped, and nodded. “Good. Then I suppose you’ll die fulfilled, won’t you?”

    No scream came out of his mouth as the man sank sharp teeth into his throat, only a gasp, his eyes widening, his fists clenching in the dark fabric of the man’s coat, trying to pull him off.

    He didn’t struggle for long, hands falling to his sides, eyes fluttering closed as he felt the life draining from him. He slumped to the floor, and the man crouched down beside him, a blood-red smile on his face. “I like you, David,” he whispered, although David had never told him his name. “I like you, and it gets awful lonely down here.”

    There was a tearing sound, and then David’s mouth filled with blood, strange and bitter, but he didn’t have the strength to fight, the energy to spit it out. He swallowed it, and the more he swallowed, the more he wanted, the more he felt his life returning to him.

    On the cliff-top, the two remaining boys looked anxiously at each other. “Do you think he’s okay?” Marcus asked.

    Alan nodded, although he looked anything but certain. “Probably went home, trying to freak us out, the twat.”

    Marcus nodded, and they got to their feet, turning for home.

    They didn’t see the two bats rising from the bay behind them, dark wings fluttering as they flew out into the night.

  2. Sylvia A. Winters says:

    I didn’t get cobwebs, and only a brief hint of friends-to-lovers. But here:

    The Uninvited Guest

    The TV flickered, black and white figures running for their lives, a masked villain chasing after them. From the windowsill, a pumpkin glowed orange, a carved, jagged grin and slitted eyes staring out across the room. The pumpkin had two faces, one for the outside world, and one just for them. Danny had designed the side facing the window, the leering, winking expression, and Liam had carved the other, his hand awkward, leaving the face looking lopsided and scarred.

    Danny stuffed another éclair into his mouth, chewing the hard toffee and breaking into the chocolate centre with a soft groan. He wasn’t supposed to eat the sweets they’d bought for trick-or-treaters – Liam would go mad if he caught him, but Liam was upstairs, changing into his Hallowe’en costume before they headed out to the Laytons’ house party.

    He was unwrapping another éclair when he heard the scream. Heart feeling like it was thudding in his throat, he dropped the sweet and leapt up from the sofa, taking the stairs two at a time. He was imagine broken bones, knife-wounds, pools of blood, a masked killer leaping out the window. What he found was quite different.

    Liam was standing on the wooden chair they usually hung clothes on, one hand gripped tightly in his messy brown hair, the other a fist at his side. His breathing was ragged, panicked, and he kept shifting from one foot to the other.

    “What’s wrong?” Danny asked, stepping to his side.

    Liam pointed. “There!” he yelled. “Oh god, it’s right there. Kill it! Kill it!”

    Danny looked over to where Liam pointed. At the foot of their bookshelf a small black spider was scuttling across the floor. Danny sighed, but there was no point explaining that the spider couldn’t hurt anyone, that it was probably more freaked out by Liam than Liam was of it (although looking at Liam, he wasn’t sure that was entirely true). He’d known Liam since they were twelve years old and he’d said it all before; it never made a jot of difference.

    He bent and scooped the spider up in his hands, ignoring Liam’s insistent “Did you get it? Did you get it?”

    Once the spider had been safely stowed in the garden flowerbeds, Danny went back inside to find Liam only just stepping down from the chair. He was still shaking, and ran a hand through his hair, shuddering before picking up his plastic fangs from the table.

    Danny wrapped his arms around Liam’s waist, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. “All gone,” he reassured him.

    “Thank you,” Liam murmured, although he didn’t sound all that grateful; he never did, but Danny knew it was just because he was still too freaked out.

    He rested his head on Liam’s shoulder, and they stayed that way for a while until he stopped shaking. They were just pulling apart when the doorbell rang. Grabbing his cloak, Liam followed Danny to the door, where their taxi waited.

    1. Sylvia A. Winters says:

      I got all but ‘funeral’. Also I failed at 500 words again so you get about 800 more than planned.

      The Fool’s Lantern

      “Idiot,” Jesse muttered to himself, following up with a stream of curses as he stumbled over a large rock, bashing his shin.

      He was lost, well and truly.

      He hadn’t wanted to go to the stupid party anyway, but he’d asked if he could, and the minute Tom said no their mother had jumped in and made Tom take him, which was always bound to lead to trouble.

      Jesse had only turned his back for a couple of minutes, just to find somewhere discrete to pee, and then, when he’d come back to where he thought the tents had been, they were gone.

      Jesse knew it was the right place; the remains of the campfire still glowed red, but all the tents were gone and there wasn’t a sign of Tom and the others. They’d left him. Which would be fine, Jesse wouldn’t give two shits about that, if it weren’t for the fact that it was almost four o’ clock in the morning, pitch black with almost no moon and they’d been camping a good twenty minute walk away from the road. And that was twenty minutes when he’d actually been able to see. In the dark it might as well be years.

      He had pretty much given up when he saw a dim flicker of light in the distance. The bastards. It was them, he knew it, setting up camp in a different spot. How stupid did they think he was not to be able to spot a big campfire in the dark?

      He made his way towards the light, feeling thoroughly pissed off. This was the worst Halloween ever. Not that he’d ever really like Halloween that much anyway. No one actually cared what it was really about, they just wanted the sweets and the stupid costumes and the parties. He seriously doubted Tom and his stupid friends had even heard the word Samhain before. Morons.

      He blinked, squinting at the light through the dark. He’d been walking for what felt like ages, but the light hadn’t gotten any bigger. Perhaps it wasn’t a campfire at all, but a torch, and the fuckers were on the move, probably heading towards the nearest pub.

      Jesse crossed his arms, wishing he hadn’t left his coat in the tent. He was freezing. October was a stupid time to be camping, and an even more stupid time to be wandering the barren moors in a thin cotton shirt.

      He walked, and he walked, and the light still wasn’t getting any closer. He stopped, standing still for what felt like an age, but the light didn’t get any further away, so he started walking again.

      But still he couldn’t reach it. It didn’t matter how far he went, he couldn’t get anywhere near it. He was beginning to think he was hallucinating, when he heard a low voice somewhere to his right.

      “You don’t want to keep following that,” the voice said, startling Jesse. It didn’t sound like one of Tom’s friends – the accent was different, the voice softer, smoother, like an unsung melody.

      “Why not?” he asked, trying to see who he was talking to, but without success.

      “The Latin name for those lights means foolish fire,” the voice said. “And only a fool would follow it.”

      “Why’s that?” Jesse scowled; he didn’t appreciate being called a fool.

      “Because they lead nowhere good. You could follow it for miles and never get anywhere, or worse, you’d end up in a bog or tumbling over a rocky cliff.”

      “And how come you know so much about it?”

      “Because,” the voice said, infused with a sadness that almost made Jesse want to reach out. “That’s how I died.”

      “Okay,” he spat, angry now. Not only had his stupid brother and his friends up and ditched him, now they were pretending to be ghosts to scare him. “Which one of you is this? Stop fucking around, yeah? Or I swear …”

      “What? You’ll hurt me? Kill me? I’m not messing around, and you can’t harm the dead.” There was a faint flicker of light, and suddenly he could see the person standing before him – a boy about his own age, with dark hair and eyes that seemed black in the dim light.

      Jesse shivered, but he wasn’t about to go running for the hills. It was just a boy, after all. “Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “Whatever. Since you’re not one of my friends, have you at least seen them?”

      “They aren’t your friends. They left you out here alone.” The boy looked sad, so sad that Jesse felt genuinely bad for him.

      “Yeah, well, my brother’s friends. You know how it is. How come you’re out here?”

      “I ran away from home. I followed the light, and now I can’t find my way back.”

      “Oh right, because you’re dead, yeah?”

      “Yes.” The boy’s face gave nothing away, no twitch of the mouth or eyes, just that deep, miserable expression that didn’t flicker.

      “Sure. Well, since we’re both stuck out here, we might as well be stuck together. I’m Jesse,” he held out his hand, but the boy only looked at it. “You shake it,” Jesse told him.

      “I can’t touch the living,” the boy said.

      Jesse rolled his eyes. “Naturally. You got a name, ghost boy?”

      “Vince.” He sighed as he said it, drawing the end of it out in a soft hiss. “Vince Daniels. I haven’t said my name in a while.” He sounded surprised.

      “How long?” Jesse asked, humouring him.

      “Almost ten years now. Samhain comes and goes, and I can never make it home by morning.”

      “You know about Samhain?” Jesse asked, excited.

      “Of course. I’m dead. It’s the only time of the year I get to walk in this world. Everyone else goes back to their families, but not me.”

      Jesse thought for a moment, something tugging at the back of his mind. “Daniels …” he said. “You’re not related to Ted Daniels’, are you?” Ted owned the pub at the end of his street with his wife, Charlotte, was friends with Jesse’s dad and, every now and then, popped by to borrow the lawnmower.

      “He’s my dad.” Vince sniffed, and he looked like he was about to cry.

      “No he’s not,” Jesse said. Ted didn’t have any children, except one, who … “Oh my god, are you for real?” he took a step back; he suddenly felt very cold, his skin breaking out in goosebumps, and it wasn’t just the temperature. His dad had mentioned it once, how Ted and Charlotte’s only son had run away from home and never come back. “You … You’ve been here all this time?”

      Vince nodded. “I never should have left.”

      Jesse stared at him for a long time. The sky was beginning to lighten, black fading to dark blue as the earth inched around to face the sun. Vince raised his face to the sky and in the thin light Jesse could see that he wasn’t completely there, it was like his skin was made out of tracing paper; if he squinted he could see the moor behind him, see it through him.

      “I have to go,” Vince said. “The door is closing. Thank you.”

      “For what?” Jesse asked, a faint tremble in his voice that, if asked, he would adamantly deny.

      “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in more than a decade, and you didn’t run away screaming.”

      Jesse was going to say ‘You’re welcome’, but Vince was already gone, vanishing in the blink of an eye, and Jesse was alone again.

      It didn’t occur to him until much later that he should have been the one saying thank you.

      Dusk was falling, and Jesse stood facing the spot he’d stood one year before, half a mile from the river, a tor rising up to his right and another behind him.

      Ted and Charlotte Daniels stood behind him, wondering what this was all about. They didn’t understand, but they would. Finally, Vince would be reunited with his family.

    1. Sylvia A. Winters says:


      Along a desert highway a woman walks, her jeans worn and faded, her backpack old, the zip broken and held together with safety pins.

      She’s been walking a long time, and her eyes are shadowed from sleepless nights out in the open, her skin tanned and freckled from the relentless, unforgiving sun, her blonde hair a rich gold that reflects its light.

      She doesn’t know whether she’s headed East or West, hasn’t known much for a long time, except that she’s going home.

      A car pulls to a stop in a verge a few feet away, an old, dusty red pickup, the paint peeling, the underside rusting. The man in the driver’s seat wears a baseball cap drawn low over his face to keep out the sun. The left lens of his shades is cracked and he hasn’t shaved in over a week.

      She knows why he stopped. It’s the same reason any of them stop. They know what she is, deep down in their sorry little hearts, and they want what they know is coming.

      She gets in the passenger seat, settling her pack between her knees, and thanks the driver.

      “What brings you all the way out here?” he asks her.

      “A man,” she replies, and he chuckles.

      “Must be a helluva guy.”

      “He is.” And he is. Cal: the only guy that ever got the jump on her, a guy that brought her all the way out to the desert and ditched her, piled sand and grit and dust over her and left her for the wind, the sun and the coyotes to uncover and pick clean.

      She lets him drive for another fifty miles, and they’re coming to the edge of the next crummy little town when she tells him to stop, she’ll get out here.

      When she climbs down from the passenger seat, the car doesn’t drive off. The car won’t be going anywhere for a couple of hours, not until the mailman drives past the pickup and notices something strange about the way it’s parked, about the way the driver is slumped over the wheel, too still to be asleep.

      She doesn’t enter the town, instead she skirts the borders of it, sand and grit filling her sneakers the further she walks.

      She’s going home, and when she gets there, Cal will be sorry that he ever left her.

    1. Sylvia A. Winters says:

      Trust you to give me a difficult one. I don’t think I managed to make it very scary, but I hit all the prompt points so I’m calling it a win.

      Number 49

      Despite the fine drizzle of rain, Jill sat cross-legged on the grass, his hair damp, collar sticking to the back of his neck. Behind him purple flowers had broken out over the clematis; to Jill it seemed as though it had happened overnight. The last time he had really paid attention to the garden it had been late November and the first frosts were gripping the ground.

      The t-shirt he was wearing was his favourite, plain black with purple stitching, and his jeans were his best. His coat was spread out on the ground beneath him, protecting his jeans from the damp earth, more from habit than anything else. He hadn’t worn short sleeves for quite some time, and his wrists were scarred and scabbed in straight lined rows, back and front. Today he didn’t care if anyone saw, but he knew nobody would notice even if they did.

      He had moved into 49 Penrose street with such hope that it almost made him laugh now. After a year of unanswered applications and failed interviews, he finally had a job, some prospects. He was able to move back to the city he loved, back to his friends, the girl he hoped would become his girlfriend.

      Those hopes hadn’t lasted long.

      He’d been looking forward to meeting his new housemates, always having been a social person, eager to make new friends.

      He didn’t see a single person for two days after he moved in, although he heard them often enough.

      There was no shrieking laughter, no clatter and clink of beer cans and the sound of the footy blaring from the living room, no drunken stumbling in at two o’ clock in the morning. The sounds he heard were loud, angry music at full volume, playing most of the day, sitcom laugh tracks that seemed to repeat, and the sound of someone crying at night.

      The first housemate he met was Tesia. She was making tea in the kitchen when he came down to put a pizza in the oven, and she almost dropped her mug in surprise. “You’re the new guy then,” she said. Her voice sounded strained, and she sniffled; her eyes looked red and shadowed like she hadn’t been sleeping. Perhaps the crying had been keeping her up too.

      “I’m the new guy,” he confirmed with a smile.

      “Sucks to be you,” she replied, and took her tea away into her bedroom.

      Jill tipped his head up, feeling the cool rain on his skin as it ran down his face. He took out a cigarette and cupped his hand over it so it didn’t get too wet. One for luck, one for the road; they wouldn’t have cigarettes where he was going, although they might just have fire, he thought as he lit the end of it.

      He’d been having strange dreams lately. The nighttime crying persisted and bled through into his subconscious. He’d dream of a boy standing at the window, looking down into the garden. Sometimes his arms were covered in a razor’s cuts. Sometimes he bashed his head against the glass over and over. Other times he sat down against the radiator and lit a cigarette. And sometimes, he talked.

      Jill would listen, standing or sitting beside him, depending on the dream, although they’d always be touching, at the shoulder, at the knee. Adrian, the boy said his name was. He’d lived in the house before. Before Tesia, before Marcus, before Andrew. Before any of them. When he’d lived there, the company Jill worked for didn’t even exist, was just some spark in a business undergrad’s mind.

      Jill had never cut himself before the dreams, had never even thought about it, even when he was in school and his best friend used to drag the blade from a pencil sharpener across her arms every night. He finally understood why she did it.

      One morning he went into the kitchen and found Tesia crying. Jill had always been taught that crying was silly, something disgusting and disgraceful, especially in public, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do, so he stood awkwardly in the doorway and said nothing. He watched as Tesia threw a mug at the wall and it smashed into little pieces. She opened drawers and cupboards and slammed them shut again. She pulled all of the contents out of her cutlery drawer and tipped them out onto the floor before crumpling into a heap, a sobbing wreck. Jill crept back upstairs and left her to it.

      Tesia wasn’t the only one having troubles. Jill often heard Marcus talking to himself, a not-so-internal monologue of insults and putdowns. According to himself, Marcus was stupid, a failure, a total fucking cunt. He went quiet once Jill came into the room, but Jill couldn’t unhear what he’d heard, and he knew early on that Marcus had problems, that he hated himself. As for Andrew … Well, for all Jill knew, Andrew might not even really exist. He’d never seen him, not once, even after living in the same house for over six months. Sometimes he heard music coming from his room, but more often than not it was quiet, like no one lived there at all.

      Andrew wouldn’t last long, Adrian said. None of them would. No one ever did.

      But Adrian had ceased to stay a dream, and he was waiting by the garden fence. He’d had his last cigarette a long time ago, and he was ready. So was Jill. He couldn’t do this anymore. The last six months of his life had been the worst, his hopes turned to mud; the job had been a dud, his boss a cunt who shouted at his employees daily, humiliated them. His girlfriend had cheated on him two weeks into their relationship and again and again for two whole months before she finally ran off with someone hotter and taller and smarter. His friends were fed up of his sinking moods; some had moved away and the ones that stayed never called.

      When he thought about it, none of it had ever been that great. All the moments he had thought were special were just brief, flickering illusions. Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, he just slid back into the shit. His life was just one repetitive cycle; he was doomed to make the same mistakes over and over, and none of it meant a damned thing. The only half-decent thing in his life was Adrian, but Adrian wasn’t even real, just a dream made flesh, a fantasy that Jill wanted to sink into and never wake up from.

      He got to his feet and picked up his coat, heavier than a coat should be, the rocks in his pockets clunking together as he walked towards the fence where Adrian waited.

      Together they walked through the garden gate and out into the field beyond it. Hand in hand they entered the lake’s cold Spring waters, ignoring the ducks that quacked and flapped to get out of their way.

      It wouldn’t hurt, Adrian promised him, and if it did, he said, he wouldn’t remember it later. No one ever did.

    1. Sylvia A. Winters says:

      Carnival Night

      Hana turned her collar up against the cold November wind and rubbed her hands together to warm them; despite the gloves she wore, her fingers were almost numb. She picked the bottle of cider up in both hands and took a long sip. It could have been her imagination, but she felt a little warmer already.

      Music floated through the park from Reddale street, the first of the floats passing through, heading towards the town centre. The air smelt of damp earth, autumn leaves and a hint of frost.

      Izzy checked herself in her pocket-mirror, drawing her pinky finger across the corner of her eye to wipe at a spot of mascara, her lip curling up in distaste. “God, I look like shit. This weather’s playing havoc on my hair.”

      Hana rolled her eyes; Izzy did not look like shit. Izzy never looked like shit. “Guess what I’m thinking right now,” she said.

      “Is it a word that begins with V?”

      “And ends in N, and describes you perfectly.”

      “It’s not vain to care about your appearance. Just because you’ve never seen a hairbrush in your life …”

      “Oh, shut up and have some cider.” Hana laughed and passed the bottle over, fallen leaves crunching under her as she moved.

      “I hope the others get here soon. We’re going to miss it if we wait around here much longer.”

      “We could go without them,” Hana suggested. “Send them a text.” The cold night air was beginning to seep through her heavy coat, making her shiver. She pulled the bottle away from Izzy and drank.

      “We can’t do that. Laura would hunt us down and kill us in our beds. Are you really that cold?” She was eyeing Hana with something like suspicion in her gaze, like she thought she might be lying. Izzy didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold at all; she never had. She was wearing a thin white cotton shirt with a black leather jacket over it, fingerless gloves and converse trainers, while Hana was wrapped up like a newborn Christmas baby: coat, scarf, gloves, three layers with shirt, undershirt and vest. Her boots were heavy, the kind construction workers wore, and inlaid with two pairs of thick woollen socks.

      “Yes,” she said, after another gulp of sweet cider.

      Izzy let out a huff of air, and stretched out one arm. “Come here,” she said, her tone demanding.

      Hana stared at her for a moment, noticing that her green eyes looked almost black in the thin moonlight, her curling hair darker and thicker, the bow of her lips deeper, the corners downturned as she waited for Hana to take the offer and shift closer.

      Cautiously, Hana moved into loop of Izzy’s arm, settling against the warmth of her side. She waited for the laugh and the slap of a hand against her skull, but it didn’t come. Instead they just sat together in the dark, waiting.

      Izzy was warmer than anyone sitting outside on a mid-November night had any right to be, closer than they’d been since they were eight years old and hiding under Izzy’s duvet covers from a thunder storm.

      The music was louder now, the carnival in full swing at the top of the hill, the drumbeats echoing in Hana’s chest as Izzy leant in and brushed her nose with soft, warm fingertips. “Still cold?” she asked, no longer sounding like her usual carefree, confident self.

      Hana shook her head.

      “Good,” Izzy murmured, and settled her lips against Hana’s, a light, almost friendly kiss that broke away, uncertain, until Hana pulled Izzy back, too hard, and they fell back, laughing, against the damp autumn leaves.

      That night they stood in the street with their friends, watching the carnival go past, their hands held tight together, and the cold night air didn’t touch them.

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