I wasn’t going to post anything today, but I ran across a “happy accident” and wanted to share. During my lunch break I scrolled through Twitter and came across a tweet from Write to Done about a fun writing prompt. I clicked on it and thought the idea sounded fun, so I decided to participate. It wasn’t until after I finished writing and went to post what I’d written that I realized the original post was from 2012 and comments were (of course) closed. Aw, man!
But no writing is wasted writing! So, you lucky ducks get to read it here. 🙂 (Note: I don’t spend time editing my prompted writing exercises, so please kindly look past any errors.)
The prompt was to use the following as your first line: The disembodied voice said to take cover but he didn’t know where to go.
The disembodied voice said to take cover but he didn’t know where to go. Was it God guiding him or his own subconscious? Either way, he only had moments to decide.
His eyes darted right, then left. The only logical place, a good ten feet away, would require risky maneuvering through open space. But he had no choice. The deep breath he drew in filled his lungs and his nerve. He leapt forward, took two wide paces, then fell forward, rolling into an awkward summersault. He crawled on his elbows the final distance to the shelter. The rickety boards were hammered together with old, rusty nails. But it should protect him from artillery.
“Get back here, coward!” The voice of the opposing side’s commander sounded just above the screams of the battlefield. He’d been seen. His breath matched the pace of his quickening heartbeat.
“We’re out of ammo, man!” Was that one of his guys, or the enemy’s?
Silence fell. He held his breath and fixed his eyes on the opposite wall of the small house, willing his ears to listen for the faintest of sounds.
A single stick breaking underfoot.
A cricket chirping in a distant tree.
A body moving?
From deep inside, a current of bravery surged through his blood. His thigh muscles twitched. He had to stay on the move, or they’d find him. Another inhale and he was gone.
Twenty paces. Thirty. Fifteen more and he’d be inside.
From the corner of his eye something hurdled toward him through the air, exploding against a tree trunk just inches from him.
Twelve paces. Eight. Five.
Just then he felt a quick sting on his leg, followed by a warmth running down to his ankle. He’d been hit.
His steps slowed to an eventual stop. With a sigh of defeat, he reached down and peeled a piece of bright pink shrapnel off his calf.
Losing the first water balloon fight of the summer wasn’t the end of the world. But why’d it have to be pink?
Looking for Good Prompts?
Here are a few sources for good writing prompts, to keep your creative juices flowing. I find that when I’m stumped on my manuscript, I step away and find a good prompt. It always helps!