Prompt for February 3: Two Haiku about Stealth


[Prompt from .]

I creep through the trees

Without making any noise.

I must stay hidden.


My treasure lies there,

The child of my enemy.

Her life for my soul.


Prompt for May 14: Interview Answer


[Prompt from .]

“The mishen statement of this compony is very important to me. I want to help you change the world. I want to make a diffrnce. I believe I can help your team to do that.”

The lady in the grey skirt and vanilla blouse smiled down at the applicant.

“Thank you very much. I’m afraid we cannot hire you at this time, though.”

The applicant screamed in outrage. “Why not?”

The lady simply shrugged. “You’re only six. Come back to us when you’re a bit older and we’ll see.”

Prompt for May 1: The Kingpin


[Prompt from .]

He was colloquially known as the “Prince of Thieves,” though he had never stolen a thing with his own hand. His close friends called him the “King of Daggers,” knowing full well that his hands remained as white as ivory and as soft as a newborn’s skin.

I knew all of this when I was ushered into the Grenaldi’s chamber at the end of the gambling hall. It wasn’t until I actually saw the Grenaldi, the leader of the Digladio syndicate, that I realized my breadth of knowledge still wasn’t up to par.

Sitting in the lavish wooden chair, upholstered with velvet or silk most likely, sat a small figure with hair as bright and golden as the sun. This skin truly was ivory white, just like the rumors said. And those large eyes of his were like the sea; blue and constantly dancing in the low light of the back chamber.

Even as words were churning in my mind, struggling to find a decent string in which to convey my message while not offending either party, I was struck dumb by the fact that the Grenaldi was somehow only a boy of nine or ten years of age.

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.”