Prompt #5

(Character A) always takes care of (Character B)

Me: Nice

(Character A) isn’t used to receiving the affection they usually give and is completely shocked when (Character B) responds the same

Me: NiCE

Writing Prompts?

I have a lot of Spotify playlists with unnecessarily long and weird names.

I make them up on the spot most of the time, and I don’t even have a reason or story for most of them. I thought that maybe they could be used for writing prompts, or at least inspiration.

So here you go, have some prompts. If you use them, then please reblog or message me. I would love to see what you make of them.

‘do you remember my name or the way i said yours?’

‘yellow + purple = grey’

‘catch me on the next ‘snapped’’

‘water, carry me down the drain’

‘here we are, at my hundredth funeral, and we should really stop doing this by now’

‘the catch to dying is consciousness’

‘necklaces of the gold star stickers i never got’

‘happy tears of pity and envy’

‘consequences of the consequence’

‘purple prose’

‘did you love me or were you lonely?’

‘lack of love is the new hatred’

‘i’m sorry you thought i was sorry :/‘

‘make orange juice from lemons’

‘our house, their home’

‘perfection is relative’

‘the fork in the road’

‘close we hold the fallen’

‘wonder where my mind goes’

Prompt #27

(Character A) is a writer lacking inspiration. (Character B) is recently gained the place in the Guinness Book Of Word Records as the most interesting person in the world. They just bumped into each other, literally, in a coffee shop.

as it should be

“Yellow is fake,” says Lilac to Oleander. “It is because I say so.”

Lilac tilts their head and keeps staring at the setting sun, squinting to see the colours. Oranges and yellows blended together and draped around the clouds like the most perfect curtains to ever exist, natural and ugly.

Fake.

“And all of the clouds must be paintings.” Oleander has never understood Lilac. Maybe they never would.

“What do you mean?” Lilac traces the sky with a gentle, steady hand, the clouds just barely shifting and twisting, gliding instead of pulling like a current in a river. Impossible, incomprehensible.

“Why are black and white not colors, but yellow is?” Lilac questions. Lilac has an awful lot of questions. They’ve always been curious. Not so much that they never look before they leap, but just enough to look over the edge and decide it isn’t that far of a drop.

That doesn’t mean that they would be right, however.

Oleander has always been the kind of person to never leap in the first place, let alone look. The varying perspectives is exciting the main diffference between the two.

Oleander responds, “Because black and white aren’t part of the rainbow.”

Lilac furrows their brow. “But we’re just humans. If we were mantis shrimp, and we had sixteen color receptors, then maybe black and white would be colors in the rainbow.”

Lilac gestures at all the fake colour. It dances around in streaks, brush strokes painting lines stolen right off the rainbow. “Why are we allowed to judge that if we can’t know for sure? Why can’t I declare that yellow is fake, like black and white?”

“Because we want labels.” Oleander is becoming annoyed. “We want labels, because we want to have purpose and meaning. We want to be defined. Purpose is having a place, a contribution to something. That gives us purpose, or whatever we think is purpose anyways.

“We all want purpose, because without it we don’t have meaning.”

“But why can’t we have no labels and still have meaning and purpose?” Lilac runs a hand through their hair, squeezing their eyes shut and staring at the yellows in the backs of their eyelids instead. Comforting fireworks of golden sparks, raining down in waves. An ocean of fiery yellow. It’s fake. “Labels don’t indicate worth. Labels aren’t a purpose. They’re a box. People can’t fit in boxes. I mean, I haven’t ever tried, but I don’t think the shapes would match up.”

Oleander may never understand Lilac, but they will always listen, in case one day, they find an answer in the horde of never-ending questions. In case one day, Oleander figures out why Lilac keeps them up all night when they’re not even there.

In case one day, Oleander won’t have to strike through their thoughts anymore.

“Because boxes are comforting. They’re a safe place. A shelter. And people aren’t always comfortable in their own selves, so sometimes they’ll put themselves in shelters. They’ll make a home in a label because they can’t find one in their own mind.” The words are spilling out of their mouth, clumps and pieces jumbling together. “They don’t feel comfortable with who they are, so they try to make themselves someone they like because they think that they’ll be comfortable with someone else. With a cliché.”

The words stop flowing. They drift off instead, and Oleander tries to catch them, tries to fit them in their fists. It barely works. They only snatch a single sentence. “But they never are.”

It’s a grey sentence, Oleander knows. Shiny silvery grey, colourless. It’s a truthful group of words, honest. Nothing is really black and white. Black and white sentences aren’t lies, really, but they’re always mistaken.

Grey is the only honest colour.

Oleander wonders what the least honest colour is. They think that maybe, just maybe, it might be yellow.

Lilac thinks that Oleander is right. Lilac also thinks that when they look up and open their eyes, all they can see looks like paint on the water, and their focus shifts once more.

“Crystal clear water,” they murmur. “And acrylic.”

Oleander is not following. “What?”

“The clouds,” Lilac explains. They’ve got a sleepy look on their face, and eyes like stars. “I’ve decided they’re paint on water. They can’t be real.”

Oleander wishes they could be Lilac, and see the world as simple as they do.

Just for a second.

A single, sweet second of understanding.

Oleander think about the comparisons of the both of them frequently. It’s glaringly obvious that they contrast each other greatly. One might even say that they complimented each other well.

Lilac smiles slow, small, and sweet, and Oleander doesn’t smile much at all anymore. Lilac is fantastical and creative. Oleander doesn’t even like anything other than non-fiction. Lilac always has an idea. Oleander can’t remember the last time they thought of something new, original.

Oleander wants to contribute to something. Maybe Oleander needs meaning as well.

“Maybe oil pastels on acrylic,” Oleander offers.

Lilac stretches their arms out on the grass below them, digging their fingers in the warm dirt and getting it under their nails. Wet earth stains their hands, but they don’t care. “On a canvas,” they add quietly.

Lilac feels like they could just melt into the ground, close their eyes again without looking once at the explosions of fake colours, and just fall.

Fall intangible through the core of the world, and through the other side.

Maybe even fall through China instead of digging their way there.

Fall into the sky.

Fall asleep.

And they do.

Oleander goes on to stare at the moon. And the clouds go on to being oil pastels on acrylic, and yellow goes on being fake.

Everything is wrong.

As it should be.

Prompt #1

(Character A) is in a relationship with (Character B). However, they became a couple after coming home from (Character A)’s family’s trip and pretending to be together. Their family found out that they were pretending on the last day of the trip, and think they are still friends. One member of the family, one that they both hate, said that they would be good together. Neither of them want to prove the family member right.

Recently, they were invited to another family trip. Now, (Character A) and (Character B) have to pretend to still be friends, the opposite of what they did before.

She thinks that maybe it’s the bone structure.

Her face was odd, and it was odd in the way that it didn’t seem normal to anyone else. It was something different, and she didn’t like it.

Once, she waxed her eyebrows off entirely. All the way gone. The clock on the bathroom wall showed that it was late, a bit too late to be up. Good. Eye bags would diminish exceptional beauty.

She never got eye bags.

She had panted in front of the mirror, eyes tearing up, but smiling all the same. Finally, she wasn’t perfect. Finally, she felt she could match how pretty she was on the outside with herself on the inside. After so long....

She felt like she was crying happy tears, despite the constant twinges of pain, and it was glorious to feel individuality, as if she could choose what happened! Like she belonged in her body, after trying so long.

And then it grew back in the morning.

Flawlessly shaped and full.

And nothing she ever did changed anything.

God, it was so depressing to think about.

Nothing she did changed anything. Nobody took her seriously, nobody ever looked at her and wanted to see her any less beautiful. The best thing she could be was pretty.

And she didn’t really feel like she matched it, really.

Her body was different from her brain, her face didn’t match her heart - and she didn’t feel like her heart was even that great! She wasn’t super brave or smart or nice or anything, she was just pretty.

She wished she was ugly.

People whispered about her behind her back, and it wasn’t the kind that usually hurt feelings. Normally, nobody would be offended by being called gorgeous or beautiful or hot or cute or whatever adjective English could produce! Normally it would be accepted, craved, even!

But she wanted nothing more than to be wanted for being less than perfect, less than desirable. She was starving for genuine affection, and was getting superficial attention. She didn’t know if unconditional love was real. Isn’t that what a mother should feel?

Does her mother feel that, if she let this thing be her daughter?

It was like a drowning man being showered with money and being told to buy his way out. It would be helpful in any situation other than the one she was in.

Just once, she wished to shave her whole head and wear the ugliest jumper in the history of mankind. Sing like a tone-deaf monkey and break a glass, and have people act horrified and scandalized. She wanted to walk down the street and not hear anything but the cars roll by, and go to a coffee shop without getting five different numbers, maybe enjoy her black coffee for a change.

Anything but perfection.

She wore the loosest hoodies and sweatpants, littered with holes and frayed edges. Her hair was long and smooth. She kept it in a low ponytail, under her hood and away from sight. Nothing she did changed how people saw her. It was like she didn’t matter.

And then she had a brilliant idea; the kind of idea that deserved a light-bulb above her head and sparks behind her eyes. Something new and unexpected, something that could help her be her and not pretty -

A mask.

A mask! What a genius invention, the mask! Something not made to hide beauty, but to disguise an unwelcome face, perhaps. No matter. She wasn’t one to be proper.

She would wear a mask, and maybe people would listen to her words and not her bone structure, or whatever it was that everyone was fascinated with. It could also be her eyelashes or something.

And she got a mask. And went to school.

“Hi,” said her teachers.

“Hi!” said the boys, hoping to get a date.

“Hi!” said the girls, hoping to get a date.

“Hello,” said her friends, who whispered behind her back every time she turned around as if she was deaf.

“Hello!” said everyone passing by her in the hall.

It didn’t change anything.

Dear god, it didn’t change anything-

Nothing she did mattered, did it? She could scream to the high heavens that she’d had enough, and they’d smile and say hello. The holiest demons in Hell had blessed her with ugly beauty, and it was so terribly evil. She wasn’t sure if anyone ever saw her real face. Could she see her real face? Was she being tricked?

She was hiding in the bathroom. Sitting on the floor with her knees curled into her chest and her arms hugging her knees too tight and restricting her lungs so that they screamed louder than the thoughts in her head. It was smelly, and weirdly sticky, but she didn’t care. She was tearing out her hair, or was that even her hair?

The air was being stubborn and hiding from her nose, so she sucked in deep breaths through her mouth, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. It was so hot in the room but she was so cold, and her throat was so dry and parched that her tongue felt like rubber on sandpaper.

Breathe.

Breathe. Was this even her nose?

Breathe.

It didn’t matter, she didn’t think.

Was this even her brain?

She didn’t care.

She smiled up deliriously at the ceiling. “Hello,” she said, and she knew it sounded like honey in December, but all it felt like was February rain.

It was too cold for her here.

Way too cold........

She wanted to just fall asleep.

...

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the world would let her not wake up?

She hated that fairy that had given her mother the boon of the most beautiful child.

She wished she could be ugly. She wished that when she cried people didn’t whisper about how beautiful she was. She wished that her anger was horrifying. She wished her ill manners were repulsive. 

She wished she could be ugly.

Prompt #30

(Character A) is a typical teenage protagonist of a high school movie. (Character B) is the typical teenage love interest of the high school movie. Only, there’s a few things in the way of their relationship - their depression, anxiety, problems with authority, and their parents...

All of them teachers at their school.

Tfw you’re trying to watch movies illegally online and get sent to NSFW sites

Prompt #1.5

(Character A) and (Character B) are lovers, but (Character A)’s family thinks they aren’t together. When they go on a trip with their family, they have to pretend to be friends.

Please if you are going through anything tough or need someone to talk to, reach out to someone! There are always people willing to listen and people who can help. You are loved, you have worth and you are not alone!

Here are some useful helplines and resources if you need them. Do not be afraid to ask for help!  http://www.buddy-project.org/hotlines