Writing Prompts

Writing Prompts

Today, my brain feels like it’s in a funk. It feels like my brain is just in a fog and hasn’t quite woken up yet. So, instead of working on my books, I’m here. Trying to get my brain to work. Enter, writing prompts. I know it sounds weird, but it can really help. When you have to write from the view of a broken appliance, it really get the brain working. It’s amusing, it’s frustrating. It gets my brain working again.

I’m not sure if they want me to ask for permission to post a link, but the website is http://www.creativewritingprompts.com. Hopefully, that sets up a link you can click. I find it so much easier when you can click the link to take you there. Usually, I right-click the link and open up in a new tab so I can stay on the same page I had been on.

The writing prompt I got for today is write from the point of view of a broken coffee maker. I think it’s writing prompt…188. Yes, it’s 188. This is a very…interesting prompt. I’ve never been a coffee maker, contrary to popular belief. I may love my coffee, maybe more than the next person. How is someone supposed to function without it? I’ve tried. I don’t function. I stare like a zombie at people wondering strange things like. If a flood started up, would we be able to escape from where we are and survive? What type of world would we live in? Would it turn into Waterworld? What would I be? Would I be the crazy guy who ends up trying to eat people or just…What was everyone saying? I would look around from person to person as they stare at me.

“What? I was just imagining life post-apocalyptic where everyone has to fight for survival possibly killing and eating each other trying to establish a new dominance in a system that  doesn’t work.” They would continue to stare at me then laugh nervously and quickly switch the subject. You see. I’m the special one in the group.

You see. I’m the special one in the group. I think strange and off-kilter things. I wonder what it would be like to feel a knife buried into my belly. What it would be like to die. What would it be like to be reincarnated? Would I retain my memories? It seems most people don’t think of these things. Or at least, I’ve found most people are highly surprised when I mention I was wondering what would happen if the mountain exploded due to the negligence of a federal officer who set off a nuclear bomb that through us into a nuclear winter. Most of my ramblings tend to be catastrophic. If you hadn’t noticed. I wonder about the weird building off in the distance. The strange person staring up at a giant tree looking like their are contemplating climbing but afraid of the social stigma of an adult climbing a tree.

I fuel my writings with these thoughts. Pour them into books, short stories or whatever else I feel like. Hopefully. You will enjoy them. Yes, I know I’m procrastinating writing about a coffee pot that is broken and neglected.

 

Twitch. I don’t know what happened. Hot liquid poured down my back. Bitter, tough, grainy stuff shoved into my mouth. My belly was removed and now. Twitch. I feel weird. This energy keeps making my brain go weird. I’m trying to serve my master the best I can. He’d always been kind to me. Some others don’t get bathed. Some I’ve heard get used once then thrown away. That is the scariest thought to me. What if I don’t do well enough and my master throws me away. Twitch. I’m working the best I can. He’s come over to me. His face is red and whistling. His water must have boiled too quickly. I don’t know what’s the matter. Twitch. I feel weird yes. But I’m still trying to do my job. Can’t he appreciate that? Ouch! What the hell was that for? He’s hitting me?! I’m just doing my job. What? No! Don’t touch my…

My energy…It’s gone…I feel…even more strange. My master has picked me up. It feels like he’s cradling me in his arms. Is he crying? I don’t know. Maybe his boiling water just leaked out the top. He doesn’t work right when he doesn’t get the bitter stuff that is my job to make. His water always boils too quickly. But…Where are we going? Is that…Is that the trash can? Oh…I…I didn’t mean to make it wrong! I swear! Please….I’ll do better? He’s just walking away not even talking to me any more. Whatever happened. Apparently, I can’t make it better. His hand puts something over the top of me, over the top of the trash can. With everything dark, there is nothing left to do. The whole experience has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Work hard for someone for years and this was always what happens. Cruel irony to have happen that which was my most feared thought. Oh, well, perhaps. Perhaps the place after the trash can won’t be so bad.

 

 

 

 

I hope you enjoyed the short writing prompt. I don’t even know what more could be written. Suppose I could write about the coffee pot’s trip to the dump and it’s fight for survival. That would be strange. Maybe fun. Maybe another time. For now. This has been another rambling writings by me.

 

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