And the reports are in!
I am an idiot!
I accidentally deleted three stories written for last week's prompt and you know what happens when you do stuff like that by mistake? You do not make that mistake again.
When I get 50 spam messages I now sit there with one eye twitching, making sure I don't delete NOT SPAM. I apologise L and T and a third person, please know it wasn't intentional and I hope you come back and write again.
Now! The other reports are in and those reports are these:
These prompts work! So some private comments have told me, with words like "They're a lovely thing to look forward to." "They are fun." People, I am told by the people who told me, are telling their friends about the writing prompts too.
And those people have started to write.
Be One of Them! Ship That Ship With the Worm With Your Writing!
I don't even know what I mean but I hope you do, I hope something's in your head already and you're all "stop talking I need to start writing" and I will, sure will, but first, here are some gems from last week's dirty deeds prompt. Then it's you, all you!
This won’t stand. It’s not what I’d bargained for, this angry heartbreak, weeks ago when I made my offering to the earth.
He won’t get away, not this time.
Dirty deeds imparted
Have no fear
I only farted
NARRATOR: They were not fine.
More Writing Prompts
Dirty Deeds
Don't Go
Other Stuff
The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death
Warthogs and All: Researching Prey, a South African Thriller
(Comments moderated to foil the spam bots.)
Ben opened the email with a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt since his college running career—it was just like knowing he was on the home stretch and no one could possibly catch up with him.
“Dear sir,” the email began, and he could already hear Armie’s snide tones dripping from every syllable. “I cannot believe that after the box of candy penises and the sample of elephant faeces, that you would escalate to shipping me THIS kind of filth.”
Ben wriggled with delight, just as the three kilos of earth worms that he’d shipped to Armie’s house would probably be wriggling across his carpet right about now. He read eagerly onto the next paragraph.
“I knew you had artistic talent Mr Solo—I’ve seen your graffiti all over campus—but I didn’t know you drew comic books.”
Oh no. He’d messed up the addresses again.
“I wasn’t even aware that there was a market for autobiographical erotica in comic book form but I’ve managed to find buyers for fifty of the two hundred copies you’ve so kindly shipped to me.”
There was a knock on the door. Somehow Ben knew what the mailman would be bringing him today, and it wouldn’t be comic books.