Writing in the Rain 8/7/2018

writing prompt

Wouldn’t you like to be known for something? Evelynn Turner always wanted to be famous and what kid wouldn’t? But she never thought that she would be famous for something as simple as baking bread.

The unusual thing was, no one taught her how to bake. Her parents, who were very wealthy, hired a professional chef to make everything from scratch. Even he could not be bothered to teach Evelynn. But every night, right after the maid left for the evening, the young girl would sneak down into the kitchen where the chef would leave the dough to rise overnight. After poking it to be sure it had risen enough, she would carefully slice a piece off of the ball and get to work.

Perhaps it was her meticulous care in making sure the bread was risen perfectly, or buttered properly. Whatever the case, she mastered baking rather quickly. The chef, up until that point, had made the dough. Each morning, Evelynn would sit her perfectly baked loaf next to the ball of dough, waiting for her parents to see it in the morning. It wasn’t until she started making her own dough that they began to notice her talent.

When the whole house was asleep, she would run downstairs and scoot a stool over where she could work on the marble counter top. Natural talent grew as Evelynn grew more confident. She started with simple loaves like whole wheat and white bread. Then she moved onto Challah and Naan, exotic breads. When her parents finally figured out that it was not their paid chef who was making these delicious, warm treats, they were shocked. Her mother, a businesswoman, decided to invest in her daughter’s skill.

Five years was all it took to become world famous for Evelynn Turner. Her mother simply provided the means and paperwork for a bakery. By that time, her daughter had moved into desserts. Cupcakes, cakes, pastries, she could make them with ease. No recipe, no formal training. She was barely a teenager when she made her first million.

On her eighteenth birthday, she decided to compete in baking competitions. Her shop, named “The Sweet Tooth”, was now fully staffed and her employees were trusted enough to be on their own for a few days. You name it, Evelynn signed up for it. Every time, she won. Her name was renown through the baking industry and she was completely self-made. Well, other than a little help from her mother.

Evelynn’s number 1 and 2 rule – Never write down a recipe, because it will change every time. And never teach the student more than what the teacher knows. She always made the dough and was adamant about that. Even into her seventies and eighties, she refused to let her workers even see how many eggs she put into her muffin dough. They were in charge of baking, she was in charge of creating.

Miss Turner passed away at the ripe age of ninety-three. Throughout her life, she did not take one day off of working. It was her passion, so it never felt like working. People that she only knew through “The Sweet Tooth” attended her funeral and people who her pastries had changed their lives made an appearance. All who watched her laid to rest were gifted one final pastry of their choice. Somehow, she had known that her end was approaching and spent three days making hundreds of pastries. It was her final note left on the tongues of the world.

She took her recipes to the grave along with her talent. No one could even come close to the taste that her baking provided. Countless times, her workers had begged her to share her knowledge with them, but she refused. For fear of someone stealing her recipes? No. She had said this, and only ever this:

“Flour is just flour and sugar is just sugar. It is the person, their personality, and their care that makes the bread.”

Be sure to check out Purpose. Check out the Bookstore for buying options! You won’t be disappointed!

Enjoy this writing prompt! Show me what you come up with! 🙂

Writing Prompt (1)

Writing in the Heat of Summer 8/1/18

writing prompt

I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to have a closet. The kids at my school make fun of me. It hurts my feelings. I cry almost every day.

My house isn’t just for me. There are kids like me there too. But they aren’t my brothers or sisters. They were brought there like me, by their parents. And just like me, their mommy and daddy never come to pick them up. Some of them are brought by the police or people in black coats. A little girl was dropped off here yesterday and won’t talk to anyone, even me.

I like Mama Ingrid, though. The other kids don’t, but I do. She does her best, but always says she doesn’t have much money. Every day she wears a blue or white shirt. White has holes, blue has a stain. Her jeans are always dirty. I think they used to be blue, but now they’re brown and gray. Down at the bottom of her pants, where she wears really old shoes, there are more stains. I think they’re from the dirt outside. Oh… her shoes are a nice color, dark blue. But I think they were brighter before.

Some of the kids have a closet. Their parents gave them a suitcase full of clothes, but they never share. My parents brought me here when I was three, Ingrid said. So I grew out of everything. Mama Ingrid never had enough to buy me more than one outfit every year. And sometimes, my clothes would get too tight before Christmas.

When I go to school in November and my shirt is too small, my friends make fun of me. They push me down and laugh. And one time, the bullies tore my shirt and I still had to wait until Christmas. Mama Ingrid said I wouldn’t be able to eat for a week if she got me a new outfit before then. But the teachers never say anything. I know they are sad for me, but they know that my mommy and daddy are gone. They know that I live in the big wooden house at the end of the road. That’s where they say all the poor kids live.

One day. I will get a closet and fill it with clothes. I wish for that every night when I see a shooting star. Mama Ingrid said that if I wish hard enough, it will happen. She asked me what I want to be when I grow up. I said a teacher who doesn’t let kids get pushed around for not having clothes. But I don’t know why, it made her cry with a smile.

When I get enough money for more clothes, I’m going to buy them. I already have pictures from the magazines taped to my wall in my room. So I know what I’m going to get when I have money. Mama Ingrid says I have to wait until I can get a job. Maybe I’ll ride the bike around town and give people their newspapers. I can do that when I’m fourteen.

But one day. I will have a closet.

 

Sorry this one is short. This was the next Writing Prompt in my board on Pinterest. But today, it did not strike any chords with my deepest inspirations. Hopefully, the one I created below will give you enough for a story!

Writing Prompt (1)

Back to the Writing Prompts!

writing prompt

“Even canned goods go bad eventually.”

That was what his mother always told him. And that was before the bombs dropped. Now it was just Trevor. Well… not just Trevor. There were others. But they had no clue how to survive this chaos. So Trevor had to take charge. He told the others what his mother had taught him. Sometimes they would listen. But they were just kids. Most of them were under 12.

“Come on guys!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. The younger children had to, yet again, take another potty break. “We have to forage for food. We don’t have enough for even a meal!”

“Why can’t we go to the store?” one of the ten-year-olds asked. Her hair was matted and dirty. “Where is mommy and daddy?”

Trevor already knew it was coming. Another crying fit… from all of them. “I already told you all. Your parents died in the explosions.”

Everyone burst into a loud sob. He wanted to leave them, so badly. But he couldn’t let them die. And that’s just what would happen. They would starve. What he really wished for was an older adult. He was only eighteen and this was way too much responsibility for a teenager.

Where had the adults gone? In his rural suburb, they were in a town hall meeting. He was in charge of watching the children while the parents talked about what Mayor they were going to vote for in an upcoming election. Trevor always thought it was stupid. What difference would a small-town Mayor make anyway? Everyone knew everyone. If they had issues, they would sort it out with their fists or their words. He volunteered, against his mother’s wishes, to watch the children this time.

“I don’t want to vote anyway,” he snapped. “It’s a stupid election.”

But that was what saved Trevor a week ago. No one saw it coming. Hell. No one could see what caused the crater in Evergreen. Bombs? A meteor? Either way, it was another week walk to the closest town. And these kids were not making it easy to keep moving.

When they had all finally stopped crying, they were on the move again. Trevor had picked some wild blueberries and some oyster mushrooms for the group. And yet, there was another argument about what they liked to eat.

“I don’t like mushrooms.”

“I want a cheeseburger.”

“When can we find someone to feed us real food? Like chicken nuggets.”

Trevor sighed loudly, ignored them, and continued to lead them to the next down over, Baskerville. When these kids got really hungry, they would eat whatever he provided. Even mushrooms.

As they were trudging down the asphalt road, something caught a young girl’s eye. She pointed, but did not speak. The shimmer of the containers reflecting off the sunlight was beautiful. Or was Trevor becoming delusional? He hadn’t slept well in days. Food was scarce. Whatever he did find, he usually gave the children, leaving nothing for himself. Perhaps, he was becoming delusional.

“Canned goods.” He said to himself. The group cheered in unison while looking at the pictures on the wrappers. Ravioli, soup. It was enough to bring a tear to Trevor’s eye. His stomach started growling.

That was when he felt something sticky on his hand, underneath the can. He turned it over. A large hole was on the back of it. The contents were all over his hand and they did not smell good. He flipped the can upside down to read the expiration date. As he read the date, his heart sank.

“Even canned goods go bad eventually.”

 

Writing Prompt (1)

Scrawlings of 7/2/2018

writing prompt 19

 

I don’t remember how I got here. Where is here? Where the hell am I? An island. Somewhere.

Danica lifted her head off the coarse sand and looked around. Her vision was still hazy, but she was able to hear the lapping waves against the shoreline, the birds behind her where the treeline divided the beach from the forest, and another, unfamiliar noise. At first, it sounded like the wind. But then, as she craned to listen, the sound shifted to a soft, cold, shaking breath. Was it her own breath? But it did not match up with the rising and falling of her own chest.

What is that?

A feeling of fear shot through Danica’s body like she had been struck by lightning. It was so sudden that she thought something had stung her while she lay on the beach. Quickly, she jumped to her feet, surprised at her ability to move, and raced into the foliage. But still, she felt like she was being watched.

How did I get here? What is this place? So many questions rushed through her head. She hid in the brush, but could hear something moving around her. It was large and snarling. Danica was frozen in fear and could not turn around. Whatever it was, she could feel it’s breath on the nape of her neck, warm and moist. Then, she heard a voice.

“It’s time to stand and face your destiny,” the man’s voice said. “Danica Redvayne, I challenge you. Your throne and your life.”

Queen Redvayne immediately recognized the voice and spun around. Her family’s longtime enemy, Drannen Willowspear, had killed every one of her kin. If she died to his hand, he would assume her throne and govern the entire continent. She was young and naive, but had dabbled in magic as a child. It was unpredictable but it was the only weapon she had. And Drannen knew that.

Calm. Remain Calm Danni, she told herself.

Drannen dismounted from the large blank panther he was riding and pulled out his staff. Without a doubt, he was much more skilled in the arcane arts, but her abilities were unknown. There was a chance she could defeat him.

She raised her hands to release a column of fire, but only sparks sputtered from her palms. Run was the only word that arose in her mind.

She took off, running barefoot down a dirt path. Low hanging branches clawed at her face and caught her hair, tearing through flesh. Her body was numb. Drannen and his pet were right on her tail, but the brush was so thick that it was difficult for him to hit her with any spell.

Soon, his magic will be depleted, she reassured herself. I have the upper hand. My people can run faster than anything Drannen can ride… and I can run forever.

Another spell exploded over her head, breaking a large tree limb from above, missing Danica’s head by inches. Splinters shattered the ground, one embedding into the Queen’s calf.

She screamed in pain. If I can cast a Stoneskin spell, that shard will get pushed out of my body. It’s the only chance I got to keep going. Otherwise, I’m done for.

With one deep inhale, she tried to calm herself amidst the chase. It was just enough for her to speak the incantation correctly… Well, enough to have half of her body start transforming into a thick, hard skin. Lucky for her, it was the half that had been injured. And just as she had planned, the large splinter squeezed out from it’s wound and onto the ground behind her.

Even though Danica could run without fatigue, the island was rather small. She had traveled up a steep hill and was met with a straight drop down to jagged rocks and the sea below. When she scanned the treeline behind her, no trace of Drannen or his pet were to be found.

She capitalized on the moment of silence and hid in a small cave near the apex of the hill. The sound of her own breath was calming until she realized that even the birds had stopped chirping. For a moment, she thought of each funeral that she had attended in the previous year. Every single family member, murdered in cold blood by Drannen and his evil kin. He who controlled the throne, ruled the continent. It was only natural for someone to attempt to overthrow it.

But the Willowspear family had not always been enemies with the Redvaynes. In fact, their bloodlines were bound by marriage eons ago. But one betrayal sent the families into an endless feud. Assassinations and wars followed. In fact, the Willowspear family had been the family who held the throne for a millennia. When Radgar Willowspears wedded Elsiin Redvayne and mysteriously fell ill. He died shortly after their wedding, giving Elsiin absolute rule. Since then, the Redvaynes hold the the throne.

Drannen Willowspear had made it his life’s duty to wipe out the remaining members of betrayal. Up to this point, he had succeeded in massacring every member of Danica’s family  Only she remained.

“You can’t hide forever,” he taunted from the shadow of the forest. “Danica. I will end your miserable life and take what is rightfully mine. My family shall speak of this day for all time.”

She wanted to cry, but no tears came. I. Have. To. Try.

With a forced exhale, she stood up and revealed herself. Her enemy, once again, dismounted the massive black cat and slowly walked towards her. She backed up until her ankles crumbled against the edge of the cliff. There was no where she could hide. No where she could run.

She would either stand and fight or stand and face her death.

Just as Drannen lifted his staff and pointed it at her, she put her hands out and mustered all of the magic energy that she could. The light from the connection of the two energies, light and dark, blinded the entire region for a single moment.

 

I hope you liked this one! I wanted to leave it on a cliffhanger 🙂 Enjoy this writing prompt I came up with!

 

Writing Prompt (1)

Write With Me 6/19

writing prompt 16

 

It was storming when my mother left us on the doorstep of the orphanage. My little brother and I. Our tears mixed with the rain as she disappeared into the taxi, never to be seen again.

I was sixteen. My brother was six.

His night terrors would wake up the whole floor. The headmistress would scold us. Beat us. Our mother used to sing to him until he calmed down, but I guess she couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe that’s why she left us. She never did say. Even through the bruises from the belt, I was able to keep a smile for my brother, Lucas.

“Something is wrong with your brother, Aaron,” the headmistress always used to tell me. She would pull me aside and dig her long, crimson-painted nails into the skin in my arm. My name is Alex, but whatever. I was going to be out of this horrible place as soon as I turned eighteen. She would be stuck with my brother anyway.

I never wanted to leave him, but the more nights I spent awake, cradling his wailing silhouette, the less I liked my brother. There were countless times that I wanted to smother him. Put him out of his misery. But I never did. Something always stopped me, and it wasn’t the fact that I was his older brother. It’s hard to describe, but it felt like a force was pushing me as I neared him.

Every. Single. Night.

Two years later, I was out of that god-forsaken place. Just like my mother, I left at dusk. It wasn’t raining at first, but a strong storm exploded out of the sky. Out of nowhere. My brother stood on the porch and watched me disappear into the taxi. Something was off, though, as I turned back to meet his gaze. His face was different. By the time I realized what it was, my ride had already entered the highway.

Unlike my mother, there would be a time when I saw Lucas again. But when I did, he would be on the news with a “WANTED” sign above his photo.

I almost didn’t recognize him. I was twenty-eight, he had just turned eighteen. He grew a beard and his nose had been broken at some point in the twelve years that I hadn’t seen him. Did someone finally try and kill him but failed? My body found itself nearer to the television while the story unfolded before my eyes.

“…Unknown threat,” the female news reporter stated. “Reynold County Police asks that you do not approach the subject. He is considered dangerous. But from what we understand, he does not carry a single weapon.”

“What?” I breathed. The news reporter’s peer spoke the same question simultaneously. “How is that possible?”

“We have no more information than this,” she said. “The Investigators just ask that you contact them immediately if you see Lucas Smith.”

I made a split second decision. “I have to find him before they do. He must have just left the orphanage not too long ago. He could be looking for me.”

Once I turned off the television and locked the door, I heard a familiar crash of thunder. A barrage of rain pelted down onto my garage as I backed my car out into the driveway. Why did it storm so often? As I looked up into the graying clouds overhead, I saw a bolt of lightning scatter across the sky, but it was the shape of a forked arrow, pointing North. Something drew me that direction, so North I headed.

Hours later, I found Lucas in a deserted foundation of an old building. He was sobbing violently on his knees. But the weirdest thing was the bubble that formed around him. It looked like an invisible umbrella stood over him, keeping the weather from touching him. 

“What the hell is going on?”

“Oh good,” a familiar, but more baritone voice said. A sullen smile spread across his face as he turned to me with tears in his eyes. “Alex… You followed my lightning.”

“YOUR lightning?” I said and took a step backward. A gust of wind pushed me closer to my brother. “What the hell is going on?” I repeated.

He stood up. “You’re drenched, brother.” Suddenly, a bubble similar to his formed over my head.

“Lucas…” I put my hands up. “What is going on? Tell me.”

“I’m a monster,” he whispered, barely audible to my own ears. “Alex… I. AM. A. MONSTER. And I can’t control it anymore.”

“What do you mean anymore?” I was panicking. I had no clue how to respond. Was my little brother truly controlling the weather? Were these horrible storms a result of an unknown ability that he had?

A shaky breath and Lucas explained why the weather was so dangerous overhead. “Mother sent a note to the orphanage. She left us because she was like this too. Says its some stupid gift or some shit. But NOTHING in that letter to say how to control it. I… I can’t. It’s too late for me. I can’t anymore…”

“I’ll take you to my home,” I pleaded. I thought I knew what he was planning, but he shook his head.

“I’m going off by myself,” he said. “To find mom if she is still alive. Perhaps you will see two storms colliding soon. But you should not be standing here anymore. It’s about to get deadly dangerous.”

“What are you talking about?” Part of me still refused to comprehend the situation. How could both my brother AND my mother have these otherworldly powers and I not know anything about it. And how was I so normal?

My brother did not respond at first. When he did, it was only three words. “Run, my brother.”

Another gust of wind nearly knocked me off my feet backwards. I wasted no time. By the look on his face, he was about to unleash havoc from above. Sirens wailed in the distance, closing in around him. Black veins crawled across his face and blackened his eyes as he let out a heart-stopping scream. It was the most terrifying thing I ever experienced.

I had just gotten back into my car when I saw it. A massive bolt of lightning careened down from the darkest cloud to the very spot where Lucas had stood. The explosion was so loud, it shook my car violently. I could feel the electricity through the hairs sticking straight up on the back of my neck, all down my arms, and into the floor. At first, I thought that I had been struck, but it couldn’t be. I was untouched. When no one appeared on the horizon, I drove home, shaking from the ordeal.

Every time a storm rolls in from the bay, I watch it pass through my city, hoping to see Lucas again. Sometimes, I can hear him screaming like he had all those years ago. I picture a taxi, leaving us in the rain. An Orphanage. A crimson-nailed headmistress. I wonder if my brother ever found our mother… and if he did, who won?

 

I hope you enjoyed, as usual! 🙂 Enjoy a Writing Prompt of my own making!

Writing Prompt