Prompt Party!

I’ve been trying for the better part of two hours to come up with a half-decent blog post, and sadly, I’ve been failing rather badly. So instead of talking about boring shit that no one actually wants to read, I’m going to be taking prompts for, let’s say, the next week or so.

So, all you have to do is leave me a little one-sentence prompt in the comments, specifying genre (if it’s romance, specify m/m, f/f, f/m, etc). You can use keywords or pictures instead of sentences if you’d like, and it doesn’t have to be romance. If you want horror, crack, etc, I’ll try my best (although I do tend to curve waay off course with these things). Then I will reply to your comment with a nice (or horrible, if you’d prefer) little 500 word story.

I’ll probably close this one on the 4th of August (mah birfday!) so you have until then to leave a prompt.

Get thinking, guys. I wanna write!

Prompt Party!

5 thoughts on “Prompt Party!

    1. Sylvia A. Winters says:

      Uhm, so … this is what I came up with. I’m sorry. It’s a bit longer than 500 and pure crack. I call it, The Cage of Secrets.

      Oswald knelt at the open door of his closet, his head buried in the dangling mass of dressing gowns and suit trousers hanging from the rail. To his left, a pile of gym bags containing the money from his last bank job in Sheffield. To his right, his prized three-foot bronze statue of Nicolas Cage. Oswald ran a hand over Cage’s face and sighed. “Oh, Nicolas,” he sighed. Later, he might watch The Wicker Man again; one of his favourites. He loved the way Nicolas Cage’s character hated bees just as much as he himself did. He liked to imagine the two of them sitting together in some cosy little café somewhere, plotting out a way to destroy the bees that plagued their lives.

      A small meow distracted him from his thoughts, and he turned, hand falling away from Nicolas Cage’s bronze face. Damn. He’d been rumbled. “Harriet, what are you doing?” he demanded of the small brown tabby sitting in the middle of his bedroom carpet, watching him with bright green eyes.

      Harriet meowed again, and then, quick as a lightning flash, she jumped onto the bed and out the open window.

      “Nooooo!!” Oswald cried, running to the window. Harriet knew his secret; knew where his money was kept and worse, knew where his statue was. He couldn’t let her get away.

      He swung one leg out of the window, then the other. It was a long drop, but he could make it. He jumped. Pain shot through his ankle as it twisted under him, but he had to keep moving. He couldn’t let Harriet escape.

      A flash of dark fur caught his eye, and he whirled to see the tip of her tail disappear through the hole in the fence. He pursued, smashing at the wood panelling to make the gap big enough for himself, and then he was off across the open field.

      When she jumped the fence on the other side, the one painted orange just to stand out, he knew exactly what she was up to. Oh yes, Harriet was in league with Martin Crane. Martin had been after his statue ever since they’d both laid eyes on it at the town fete. Before that day, they’d been friends, but then Oswald had gotten the winning raffle ticket, and Martin had been all but completely consumed by jealousy.

      No, if he knew Martin, he’d already be in the car, trying to get back to Oswald’s house and nick Nick before Oswald returned. Oswald ran.

      As he reached his back door he heard a smash, falling glass like rain. He pushed open the door, raced up the stairs. Martin stood in the middle of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a bath towel. He had his back to Oswald, greedy eyes fixed on the statue. “It’s beautiful …” he breathed. “Can I … Can I touch it?”

      “No,” Oswald snapped. “He’s mine.”

      “Once,” Martin said. “You would have shared him. Don’t you remember, Oswald? Those long nights we stayed up, watching him. Face/Off; The Wicker Man; Knowing; Season of the Witch?

      “I remember,” Oswald said. “But that was before.”

      “Before he came between us.” Martin sighed. “That was always a fantasy of ours, wasn’t it? But the reality turned out to be quite different.”

      Oswald gave a non-committal grunt. He was listening, but that was all.

      “Just let me touch him?”

      “Fine,” Oswald snapped. “But that’s all.”

      He waited with bated breath as Martin reached out, fingers brushing over Nicolas Cage’s firm nose, his cheek, his fine jaw.
      “I’m sorry, Martin,” he whispered, turning away from the statue, his shoulders slumping. “I never wanted your statue. You see, it was—”

      “It was me.” Harriet sat in the doorway, her green eyes now an ugly, unnatural red. “I wanted the statue. For you see, I am no cat, and it that statue lies the key to turning me back to my almighty, godlike form. Give me the statue, Martin, and when I rule this poxy little planet, you shall be lord of your very own country.”

      “I won’t,” Martin said, jaw set.

      Oswald found his fingers curling at the join of Martin’s towel, needing to hold on to something, anything. “Do it,” he hissed. “She’s insane!”

      “Your own continent, Martin. How about the Americas?”


      “Oh, very well, have Europe then.”

      Martin turned away, back to the closet, reaching for the statue.

      Harriet mewed in pleasure; Oswald tensed, waiting. Martin raised the statue above his head, then let go. Nicolas dropped to the floor, and promptly shattered into a thousand pieces. Gold and brown fragments littered the carpet. “Chocolate,” Oswald exclaimed, hardly believing his own eyes. All this time, his bronze statue had been chocolate! And at its centre, a glittering red gem.

      Stepping forward, Martin pressed the heel of his boot down on the gem. There was a sharp crunch, a satisfied smirk on Martin’s face. “Now no one will rule anything,” he said.

      “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!” Harriet screamed, and Oswald watched as the cat’s form crumpled in on itself, melting into the carpet like chocolate in bright sunlight.

      Oswald sighed. “Would you look at this mess?” he muttered. Now he’d have to drag the hoover out from under the stairs.

      “Oswald,” Martin said, stepping into his personal bubble, breaking down every barrier he’d erected over the years with one small move. “Do you think we could … try again?”

      Oswald didn’t know, but he found himself nodding. He wanted to, after all, and they could certainly try. And this time, there would be no statue, no Harriet, to break them apart.

    1. Sylvia A. Winters says:

      Okay, I’ve finally done it. Sorry you’ve had to wait so long, and it’s probably the shittiest thing that ever got shat, but here, at long last, is your story:

      The key scratched at the lock a couple of times before slipping in and clicking the door open. Greg caught himself as he stumbled over the step, muffling a giggle with one hand. Dorie had dropped him off after too many bottles of wine, but he didn’t regret drinking too much—not yet. He was allowed, wasn’t he? It was, after all, his birthday.

      He made his way into the kitchen, fumbling for the light switch, and stopped short, eyes widening in horror. “What?” he managed, his brain a few feet behind him.

      Adam was perched on the kitchen table, undressed (so far as Greg could tell), and covered from head to toe in strawberry gateaux. Adam gave a slight wave, a rueful grin. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Dorie called me. Said you were upset. So I’m cheering you up.”

      Greg blinked. He wasn’t upset, just drunk. He didn’t need cheering up, and even if he did, it wasn’t by his boyfriend sitting naked in the kitchen covered in his strawberry gateaux. “Thief!” he cried, pointing at Adam. “That was for tomorrow, you fucknut.”

      Tomorrow he was hosting Sunday lunch, and if it wasn’t enough that his family would all be gathered around his table, eating either in silence or fighting amongst themselves, he now had no dessert to serve them.

      “God,” Greg muttered, his good mood failing him now. “You’re such a … a …” He could not think of a word suitable enough. “An abomination! Disgrace to humanity!”

      Adam giggled—actually giggled. Not only had he stolen Greg’s gateaux, but he was laughing about it.

      “Come here,” Adam said, and Greg frowned but he did as he was told, alcohol weakening an already weak resolve.

      Adam’s hand curled around his wrist, pulled him closer, and God, now there was juice and cream and sponge all over Greg’s new shirt; but he could smell the dessert now—the sweet scent of strawberries, cake and cream, and something that was all Greg underneath it. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

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