Prompt for January 28: Two Haiku in a Child’s Point of View


[Prompt from .]

Daddy is so tall
And Mommy is very soft.
They make me feel loved.

I have a great friend.
He is imaginary.
No! Bob just stat there!


Prompt for January 26: Rusted Shut


[Prompt from .]

“Oh my god, the door.”

Quickly, open it.”

“I can’t?”

“This isn’t funny, Jared. It’s coming straight for us.”

“It’s not me. The door won’t open.”

“Let me try. Oh no.”


“It’s rusted shut. We can’t get out.”

“What do we do now?”

“We pray.”

Prompt for January 24: Four Lines of Prose about Conscious


[Prompt from .]

It wasn’t the crime that haunted me everywhere I went. No, that I could handle. For a part of me knew that she deserved it, that the world was a better place without her in it. But there was another part of me, no matter how small, that shouted louder than anything within me three little words: it wasn’t right.

Prompt for January 20: Breaking the Ice


[Prompt from .]

Sashimoto Yuri tried not to think about how trivial everything was. He tried not to let the part of himself that always craved a different life shine through and laugh at what he was doing. That wasn’t the path to the true Way.

In his hand was his sword. His companion sword was still nestled contently in its sheath, resting in his belt until he would practice with it. Just as Master taught him, he was holding the long sword in a way that made his hands pliable yet without play. He focused all of his intention on practicing the cuts he was recently taught on the tall icicles of the waterfall. By taking note of the size of the cut or of the piece of ice flung from its family, Yuri could tell whether or not his intention was strong. He needed to work on making his spirit reflect his body.

But then Kou’s face popped into his head and he couldn’t feel anything, not even the biting wind on his exposed skin.

Prompt for January 19: Random Song Prompt – Overrated by Thriving Ivory


[Prompt from . The point of this prompt is to find a random song and incorporate the first line of the song into your writing, making it the first line.]

She makes herself at home; God, it’s better than her place. She clutched the ragged cardigan around her shoulders, trying to get warm in the lovely 70 degree apartment. She caught me looking at her and her gaze immediately dropped to the floor. In a motion probably meant to look as though she was fixing her hair, she rubbed a smudge of dirt off her cheek with the back of her hand.

“You can stay here as long as you like,” I said. The snowy tundra out the window gave another howl as if to repeat my offer. “Would you like some hot chocolate?”

I hadn’t been a kid in almost ten years, but I though hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows and a squirt of whipped cream (following a squirt directly into the mouth, of course) on top never went out of style. In the nervous twitch of her mouth, I thought I saw a smile and her eyes most definitely lit up. She nodded slightly.

I rushed to make myself useful.

She gingerly patted the warm ceramic mug between her hands. I did the same with my own, wondering if I had made the milk too hot or was simply still cold from the walk back to the apartment. We sat there in silence for a moment, her sitting at the island staring deeply into the melting cream and me leaning against the counter.

At last, she hesitantly brought the cup to her mouth and took an audible sip. Her mouth twitched again.

“Thank you,” she squeaked.

“Any time.”