Writing Prompt #8

Time for another writing prompt! It doesn’t feel like it’s been two weeks since the last one. The British weather is still confused, the trees are still easing into various shades of red and gold, and I’m still behind on my reading (there’s a very large stack of scientific papers staring at me right now).

But here we go. Another image that holds a story. Or ten stories. Or 100. Or…

Anyway, let’s do this thing.

Name of the game: Snap Shot.

The rules: Stare at the picture. What does it make you think of? What story is it telling? Okay–thought of something? Good. Now set a timer to 10 minutes and start writing that story. Ready, set, go!

Writing Prompt #8 https://sonorahillsauthor.com/

After you try this out, you can find what I wrote by clicking here (because comparing everyone’s different ideas is the best bit!). I fixed some of the punctuation and spelling to make it easier to read, but this is about fun, not editing.

This image was chosen by my boyfriend. Here’s his interpretation! (The image is free from Pexels–you can use it too!)

If you’re really feeling brave, you can post what you’ve written in the comments because, as with all writing games, comparing our unique takes on the photo is the best part!

Now I must get back to reading this paper about the effects of hybridization on response behaviour to host-plant odours in reproductively isolated populations of Rhagoletis pomonella.

Happy Halloween!

4 thoughts on “Writing Prompt #8

  1. *** Like Shit, or Whatever ***

    So, we have like this picture in our living room. It’s like some lava burning some tree bark, or whatever. Probably photoshopped or something. My dad bought it. He has some super weird tastes. My mom kind of just glanced at it hanging crooked over the fireplace and was like, “Okay.” I thought she would like complain or whatever, but she didn’t. I mean Mom’s kind of weird too.

    I think Dad bought it back when he was like smoking all the purp. Purp is what he called it. Who knew what else he was smoking or doing. Same week he brought that pitbull home, said he was called Borker.

    And I was like, “Barker?” And my dad was like, “No, Borker,” and my mom was like, “Okay.” She’s always so indifferent.

    I looked up the word “Borker” in the Urban Dictionary–turns out it means like a dog. So we have like a dog basically named dog. My dad has some shit imagination. So, I looked up my name and it turns out it means human. I bet that was my dad’s idea too, and I bet my mom was like, “Okay.”

    So, it took a week for like Borker to eat the cat and I like cried a little bit. And my dad was like, “Oh, the cat’s dead,” and my mom was like, “Okay.”

    When Dad was gone I said to Mom, “We have to get rid of this dog,” and Mom was like, “No.” And I was like, “You have another word in your vocabulary?” And she just didn’t say anything.

    Now, I’m just looking at this shit picture on this shit wall in this shit house with my shit family and shit dog, and it’s like… it’s like shit, or whatever.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. “I am awake. I shouldn’t be awake. None of my family are awake. Why am I awake?
    The tree is shaking. Trees shouldn’t shake; it’s not windy. It’s too hot for winter, maybe that’s why I’m awake. I should just go back to sleep.
    I’m still awake. The tree is still shaking, and it’s even hotter now. There is a funny smell; like broken eggs left in the sun; like death.
    Why does the air smell of death?
    Something is wrong.
    A high wailing scream rents the air. A tree is being murdered. I can smell it.
    Another wail joins the first, and another, and another. The acrid smell of trees dying is all around; I can see it too.
    What is going on?
    I hear a crackle, and look down so fast I almost fall. Red liquid is seeping towards our home; like blood, but boiling.
    I cry out an alarm signal with all my might, again and again. My father wakes. He starts calling alarm signals too. Then, to my surprise, he shoves me off my branch. My instinct kicks in, and my wings catch me before I hit the bubbling redness beneath. “Why would my Father do that to me?” I think, my primitive brain in overdrive. Before I realise, I see my brothers and sisters swooping away through the trees. My Father was telling me to go to safety! I zoom after my siblings, still giving alarm signals with all my might.
    More and more trees are dying now. Hundreds of other birds are flying too. Faster, faster, to the sea…
    When I think I can’t fly any longer the world explodes behind me, sending me somersaulting through the air. I must keep going…
    It is raining, but it is not rain. It is grey, dirty, burning hot.
    I fly faster, faster, faster. I have to escape… fear drives me on…
    Eventually the rain stops, and my instincts tell me I can rest.
    Safe, but alone.”
    – A “reluctant writer”, who has just surprised herself by doing 4 of Sonora’s writing prompts in one evening and being proud of the results!

    Liked by 1 person

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