Inspiration Friday

I am just exhausted from this week. I have great classes but they are all jam-packed together into one squishy mess of chaos and campus-running-around-ness. I reserve the right to make up words, yes.  Below are writing/art/drawing/painting prompts. Please feel free to add your own ideas into the comment section. Don’t forget there is still a contest  going on.


Dear Mr. Stevenson,

We have received your application today, and have taken careful note of all your special talents abilities. Despite your overwhelming lack of qualifications, we have already hired someone else who is not crazy. Thank you for your inquiry.

She played with the red gold band on her finger to keep her nerves in check.

The coloring book she gave her son had blank pages originally. However, each day a new page was filled with increasingly weird images.

It was not unusual to see the Man in the Moon hanging in the night sky. Tonight though, he had brought his wife.

Curl, cave, convex, custom

The burns on his arms were healing, even as the scars changed.

The day the sun went Nova, that’s when I knew.

The comet came only once every fifty years. Each time it seemed to glow a little dimmer. After all this time, the comet still did not want to give up searching for her.  She had promised.

I would not mind if you whispered those words again.

The cat pawed at the notebook trying to get it open.

{Happy Friday}


4 thoughts on “Inspiration Friday

  1. My latest use of one of your most excellent prompts:

    The Price Of A Future

    She played with the red gold band on her finger to keep
    her nerves in check. The transit point still seemed so
    far away with so many people between her and her only
    chance for a new life.

    Her thoughts went, unbidden, to Joran. Not a day went
    by that she didn’t miss him. She had pleaded with him to
    not join the Colonial Militia but it was already a
    foregone conclusion. He would go…had to go. He was not,
    nor could he ever be, the kind of man who let others
    fight his battles. It was one of the things she loved…had
    loved that is…about him. He had been a man of

    But principles and pride had been of little use to him
    when faced with the brutal efficiency and the
    indomitable weaponry of the Cholgachi. They were a
    warrior race who took what they wanted through equal
    parts of ferocity and impunity. It had not been a battle.
    It had been controlled slaughter.

    Joran had fallen alongside the other 250 men of the
    colony and the small contingent of Republic Marines in
    just under an hour. The Cholgachi were merciless in their
    reaction to any sort of defiance. They offered no
    quarter, took no prisoners, accepted no surrender.

    She and the other women of the colony were left
    without husbands, fathers, friends and colleagues in
    what seemed the blink of an eye. In reality, the loss was
    deeper and more insidiuous than their stunned minds
    could initially fathom. The Cholgachi did not give up the
    bodies of those killed in resistance to them. The women
    were summarily denied the simple comfort of grieving
    over those lost since no smallest trace of them existed.
    It was as if they had never been at all.

    And so, Mara stood on line, hoping to procure one of the
    precious few berths on a refugee ship heading off planet
    and back to Republic space. There were 450 colonists
    left and room for only 100 per ship. The Republic was
    pressing into service any vessel within range but the
    prospects were dim.

    The Cholgachi, in a rare show of equanimity, had offered
    the beleaguered humans the span of three planetary
    days to evacuate the planet they now held claim to or
    face the consequences.

    It was now day two and Mara had not slept or eaten in
    an attempt to hold her place in line. She grew weaker
    and her spirits sank with each passing hour as the odds
    of her escape grew less and less likely. Her only hope
    seemed to lie in whether or not the slim red gold band
    would be enough to bribe her way aboard.

    It was absolutely forbidden for the crew of a Republic
    relief ship to demand payment for passage. That being
    said, the ships that plied the frontier space were far
    beyond the reach of Republic justice. They would do as
    they wished and, perhaps, suffer the consequences

    Waiting on line, she recalled the day Joran had given her
    the keepsake. It had been his mother’s. He swore her his
    eternal love and painted for her a lustrous picture of
    the idyllic life they would share together on Foster’s

    True to his word, he had built her a comfortable, if
    small, home and filled it not only with things but with
    love and hope and the promise of a future. They had
    shared but a single year together before the Cholgachi
    had transformed what they shared into fire and blood
    and ashes. Foster’s World no longer held anything for

    As her turn finally came, Mara came to the sudden but
    sad realization that she could not part with the ring.
    Any chance it offered her for a future could only be had
    at the expense of forsaking the only momento she had
    of the only man she had ever loved.

    Trading away his ring would not bring hope but only an
    inescapable pall of betrayal. Any future she might have
    would be purchased by forsaking Joran and all that they
    had been. She would not do that.

    Head held high, she stepped off line, motioning others to
    pass her by. Her future was for naught without her
    past and that past was here. She would embrace her
    past and the wondrous memories they had made

    She would await the end and welcome it with no regrets.
    She only hoped the legendary Cholgachi propensity for
    delivering death swiftly was deserved. The sooner they
    did what they intended, then the sooner she could be
    reunited with her beloved.

    • I’m really glad you used it as a wedding ring; that was it’s intended purpose. I think Joran would have wanted her to live a happy life. But it was her choice and her future. Well played!

  2. Another of your fine prompts used. I did monkey this one around a bit for my purposes. Think it works well.

    Burning For Justice

    Billy took another long pull from the bottle of Jack. He
    reckoned he had already consumed enough of the fifth
    that there didn’t seem to be much point in not finishing
    it off. Had he been a bit less drunk or in a tad less pain,
    he might have realized how stupid that reasoning was.
    He obviously didn’t make that intuitive leap and so he
    sat and he kept drinking.

    Truth be told, Billy was a far cry from what one might
    consider especially bright. That was, remarkably, one of the qualities that had made him an ideal fit for the
    mission. The Grand Cyclops, himself, had engineered the
    attack and chosen those who would participate.
    He had explained his rationale to the mission commander.

    In every war there would be casualties. In every war
    there was on ongoing need for men who were little more
    than walking targets..cannon fodder. Billy was young,
    strong as an ox and nearly as smart as one. He would
    prove useful for certain tasks best suited to be
    performed by one with a strong back and a weak mind.

    The arson attack on the Fifth Street Unified Southern
    Baptist Church went off with near- flawless precision. The stained glass windows were demolished by axe
    handles The flaming bottles of gasoline they had lobbed
    in had broken easily and the flames spread quickly. There
    would be no saving the structure. The lazy, shiftless
    niggras that “worshipped” there would just have to find
    someplace else to wail their heathen African spirituals.
    Preferably that “someplace else” would be in some other
    poor bastards town besides where honest, hard-working
    and God-fearing white folk lived.

    The key word being: “near-flawless”. Their plan had made
    no allowances for the church’s caretaker being inside at
    the time of the mission. The attackers were loaded into
    their trucks, enjoying the prospect of a clean getaway,
    when the hapless man tumbled out the church window.

    His clothes were aflame and his screams carried clearly
    in the chill night air. He stumbled about, the flames
    relentlessly crawling over him until he was fully
    consumed. This was, most definitely, a complication best
    dealt with quickly and decisively.

    The commander, immediately, recognized the rationale in
    including Billy for this task. Cannon fodder was exactly
    what was called for in this case. Someone needed to
    stay and deal with the man while the rest of the team
    made their escape. That someone was Billy.

    If Billy were unable to deal with the problem before the
    authorities responded…well that was okay. His
    affiliation with their group was not common knowledge.
    His diminished mental faculties would make it child’s play
    to discredit him if he attempted to implicate the other
    members of the team. In the commander’s mind, Billy
    was little more than a blunt instrument of poor quality.
    He would not be missed.

    The trucks roared off into the night as Billy sprinted
    back towards the church. He dealt with the burning man
    by the simple expedient of picking him up and hurling him
    back in to the burning church like, nothing so much as, a
    sack of potatoes.

    His solution, though remarkably inspired for Billy, proved
    to be both highly effective and incredibly ill-conceived.
    The sleeves of his cheap coat caught fire and burned him
    rather severely before he managed to snuff them fully

    Even the dumbest beast is capable of relying on its base
    instincts to find its way home. Thus it was with Billy. He
    summoned up the presence of mind to call the only phone
    number he had for one of the members.

    In short order, someone unkown to him showed up at
    Billy’s ramshackle house. His burns were cleaned and
    wrapped and he was provided both food and the bottle.
    He was told, in no uncertain terms, to lay low and keep
    quiet. He would be taken care of but he really NEEDED to
    stay quiet and stay put.

    That had been two days ago and Billy was in a bad way,
    both physcially and mentally. The pain in his arms was
    maddening. Unable to resist the urge, he unwrapped the

    At first, he felt a calming sense of relief. The
    burns on his arms were healing better than he’d
    expected. What had been raw, bloody flesh was scabbed
    over and scar tissue was beginning to form. As quickly
    as the relief had flooded in, it quickly drained
    away…replaced by unspeakable, abject horror.

    He began screaming even as the scars began to change.
    The tortured flesh writhed and crawled about on his
    arm. The scar tissue flowed until it formed letters…a
    word. That word was: murderer. From the beyond, the
    victim cried out for justice in a most bizarre way.

    The combination of the physical trauma, excessive alcohol
    and Billy’s limited intellect snapped his mind like a dry
    twig. He lived out the remainder of his days in a drug-
    induced haze as a guest of the State Mental Institution.

    No one understood or cared about his irrational
    rantings. His scars were just that…scars. How he had
    been injured and why he had not sought treatment
    remained a mystery. His scars, while not pretty to look
    at, spelled out no words and left no clues as to what
    Billy had done.

    There were no repercussions on those who had carried
    out the arson and for that, they were both glad and
    satisfied. There were no arrests or trials or days in
    court for the poor janitor who perished in the church.
    But, from beyond this world, justice WAS meted out and
    for that, the soul of the janitor was both glad and

    • I would say ‘poor billy’ but I’m glad he ‘s in a mental ward. If you ever make this story longer it would be interesting to see if the burns took more than one shape. Thanks for sharing! 🙂

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