Category: Prompts

Week 9 Post 3: Dear 100-year-old Me

On By MaryIn 2025, Prompts, WritingLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.
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I turned 40 last year. I never really felt old at 30, although it was the age that most young people resented approaching, viewing it as “old.” It helped to some degree that my mom had me in her late 30s. I was still a kid when she hit 50, and that was the decade she spent my teen years in. So it was 50 that I viewed as old when I was a kid, and 30 didn’t really bother me at all. In fact, I quite enjoyed my 30s. I didn’t feel rushed or left behind. 30 still seemed quite comfortably capable of brewing and turning into something.

I’m starting to feel a little old at 40 – or at least, too old for things to begin. It feels like I should be in a stage of life where what I have has already been built firm under my feet and certain. In truth, I’ve made very few big strides in my life up until now. It seems I’ve spent the past two decades coasting, and I’m not certain how much will actually change in the next decade, because time seems to slip by, faster now, uncontrollable grains of sand running their course. It seems just as likely that the following decades can be full of the same empty hope as the previous decades.

When you’re young, you think about being the youngest to accomplish a thing. And then you hear about someone young (or your age) who did the thing, and you think you’ll be just on their heals (Eragon released when I was a teenager). And then you think you’re accomplishing things at a normal rate, other people have done the thing by your age. And then you reach an age where you reassure yourself with the tales of people that didn’t accomplish the thing until later in life (Tolkien didn’t write LoTR until he was in his 40s!). I seem to be hitting that age now. Reminding myself that things can still be done.

So I sometimes morosely feel like 40 is old. But there is also a part of me that feels like it’s not quite yet. Especially when I contemplate it from another angle. How much more life would I have to live to reach 100? 60 more years. That’s an entire life! It’s more than I’ve lived to date. My mom had me at 38, and my brother at 40, and she has been around to watch us grow into adults. There is yet a full life to live, even if I only build it starting today.

And if I build it today… 60 years down the line, when I’m 100, what has it become?

There could still be an entire life in that time. A full life.

I wonder what you do with it?

(although writing a letter to your 100 year old self seems silly, most of us won’t live that long, could get hit by a car tomorrow, which is usually my go to example but maybe a bit dark considering my boyfriend got hit by a car last year. he’s fine though.)

Week 8 Post 2 – Shortcuts

On By MaryIn 2025, Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

Storymatic prompt cards were zombie and person who takes shortcuts, as well as an email that cannot be un-sent and success at last. It’s silly.

          Who breaks up with someone over an email? Dave, that’s who! It was the easiest, most expedient way to handle the situation. And he’d had a good reason. The cute new chick in the finance department seemed like she was hot to trot and he didn’t want to be a cheater. And it’s not cheating if you break up, right? So off the email went and off Dave went, straight to talking a pretty Penny into a closet for some hot, illicit office sex. Only she wasn’t at her desk, and she wasn’t in the break room, and by the time he found her she was already moaning up a storm in the closet with George (really? chucklefuck George?).

          And fuck, where did that leave Dave? He’d just flushed a three year relationship for this whore. He couldn’t unsend that email. Tina would see it and would probably throw his succulent at his head because Tina was crazy. He wondered if she’d even read it yet, if maybe he had time to try to hack her email account and delete it before she could see. He was beelining back to his own desk to try some damage control, checking his phone obsessively. He dreaded every buzz, wondering if it was going to be a text or a phone call, because when Tina read that email she was going to be blowing up his phone, absolutely chewing him out. It took him a moment to pay attention to all the headlines that kept making his phone buzz – it was the news app going bonkers, not his maybe-maybe-not-girlfriend.

          The zombie apocalypse had begun.

          The thing about the zombie apocalypse is that dipshits like Dave always think they’re going to be the ones to survive but they’re the first to get it. After all, Dave was always trying to find the easiest way out and sometimes there are no easy outs. So it wasn’t long at all before Dave was a zombie. The other thing is that being a zombie is a mite more horrific in reality – it turns out you can think. You’re not alive, you’re not able to return to life, you have to be inside your body as it rots and creaks and falls apart. You can’t control a damn thing you do. You’re stuck in that shambling corpse, wandering aimlessly until there’s food, and then you’re ripping it apart. And it’s not good food – it’s raw flesh. And zombies aren’t picky.

          So there you are, a ghost in a mindless eating machine, observing first hand the horrors you inflict on the world.

          And all that random aimless shambling between the murder mayhem? It was boring as fuck. Dave’s mind wandered, and he wondered if it was the same for all the other poor schmucks that were stuck. Or was it just him? Was he somehow the only one that was stuck, left behind in this strange hell?

          He spent so much time barely noting the world around him that he didn’t even realize he was in a familiar space until he was shambling through its doors. There had been no electricity anywhere in the city for months, so the bright lights attracted a lot of attention. Somehow one building had managed to become powered – maybe they had used some alternative source. He wasn’t sure. He could hardly direct his body towards investigating anything. Hordes of zombies before him had shattered the doors and windows and begun moving upstairs and into the rooms, looking for prey. He wasn’t sure if he had somehow managed to eke out some control of the corpse-that-was-formerly-he, or if perhaps the body held some memory of previous times. But somehow he found himself wandering into his old apartment. A computer screen flickered in front of him. He moved closer to it, barely able to make out the screen through his blurry vision, his almost useless dry eyes.

          It was open to an email inbox screen. How had they even managed to get the internet? Was the internet still a thing, somewhere out in the wider world? But there it was. Email. Not just anyone’s email either – Tina’s email. And – marked unread – his email to Tina.

          The rotting corpse hand shifted forward and awkwardly stiff hit something. The email deleted. He didn’t even know how it had managed that with one keystroke, but he felt a strange thrill of elation – success at last!

And that was when his head was bashed in by a potted succulent.

Tina sobbed as she recognized the zombie that had once been Dave, and smashed his head in again and again until there was no thinking matter left. Not that she was aware it was there.

Week 7 Post 4: The End

On By MaryIn 2025, Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

Storymatic cards were person in love and movie director for one of the characters, and end of the relationship and hiding spot is discovered for things that must appear in story.

I like the idea of this one but it’s botched and poorly written. You’re welcome?

It was a well-known fact that Vince Waggoner was in love with Robin Rose. When they met, she immediately became his primary muse. He cast her in five films in a row as the leading lady, claiming that the roles were written with her in mind. They were married quickly. People often spoke of how he worshipped the ground she walked on, gave her everything she could ever want.

They also whispered of her many infidelities.

It was a tabloid feeding frenzy when their marriage inevitably fell apart. He took a short break from directing, and a handful of years passed where people thought his career was over. Far from it – he emerged, revealing he had been painstakingly writing a story for a series of films. Films that he wanted to film back-to-back. He threw himself into his work with reckless abandon. There were a whopping seven films in total, set in the same universe with cameos from each of the other films, but completely unrelated except for their thematic ties.

It became immediately obvious that Robin Rose was still his muse. Each leading actress that he chose bore striking similarities to her. Similar face shapes, the same pale skin tone and wide doe eyes. A few were familiar household names, but many of them were new. It was no secret that he was going for a particular look. The movies were set to be released yearly.

The disappearances started after the third release.

Miss Lane was a tragedy. She had been a fresh face in Waggoner’s first film without Robin Rose, and with the success of that, her star had risen. She was in talks to join a major film franchise when she had disappeared. No one could locate her. She hadn’t mentioned leaving to anyone, did not reach out to any of her family or friends. Her car was found abandoned in a parking garage, her phone still inside. She had made no monetary withdrawals and hadn’t used any of her cards since her disappearance.

It was strange and sad and many people speculated what could have happened.

But it wasn’t until Candy Zacharias disappeared next that people suspected Waggoner. Candy was the lead of the second film, and she disappeared the year after Miss Lane. Still, there wasn’t enough reason to suspect a thing – until the following year, when Francine Queen disappeared.

The cops focused their investigation on Waggoner, but found nothing. He was so harangued by the media and the cops that he finally left the country. After all, he had finished the films, with only the last few remaining in post-production. It was recommended that the remaining actresses beef up their security teams. Still, Michelle Ray managed to escape her bodyguards briefly (supposedly in a discreet attempt to buy some illicit substance) and was never seen again. When warrants were issued allowing the cops to search all of Waggoner’s properties, nothing was found. He proclaimed his innocence in every interview, and eventually tired of the questions so much that he became a recluse.

Time passed. The remaining women didn’t disappear yearly as predicted, but as their security grew lax, they did eventually all disappear. Each time, investigations were made into Waggoner, and each time – nothing.

Eventually, he died of an overdose. It became a strange unsolved Hollywood legend.

Robin Rose died relatively young. A suicide. No one was sure why.

While her estate was being cleared, all seven desiccated corpses were found in her basement.

Last Words

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The prompt cards for this were “grandparent” and “phone call at 3 a.m.”

It was fairly easy to see that it had to be the most generic of generic ass ghost stories. So, here you go.

          Dana woke as the phone ring, her hand grasping for the device blindly in the dark. As she raised the lit screen to her face, she grimaced and cursed. Who calls at 3 a.m.? The number was listed as unknown. She answered it, angrily growling, “What?”

          The line was silent, then cut out. Groaning, she slapped the phone back down onto the bed next to her. She lay awake, anger coursing through her, unable to sleep. She was still awake when her alarm clock went off.

          The news was surprising and not surprising at the same time. Her grandmother had been in hospice for a long time, her health fading fast. She was unable to talk coherently or take care of herself, and hadn’t been able to for the longest time. The nurses had warned her mother that she was no longer eating. She had died sometime in the middle of the night.

          Dana cried some in the bathroom at work, but mostly managed to hold it together. Her entire family had known this moment was coming. Every phone call from the nursing home was always met with some level of dread for the news it might carry. But even knowing what was going to happen hadn’t quite cleared the sudden shock of sadness that Dana felt when she finally got the message from her mom. It didn’t help that she’d had so little sleep.

          The shrill sound of her ringtone woke her again. Dana sat up, frowning at the screen. Unknown caller. 3 a.m. again. She groaned and grabbed the phone, ignoring the call. Tomorrow I’m going to turn the ringer off, she told herself.

          Even with the ringer off, the screen lighting up and the vibration of her phone still brought her to consciousness briefly. Not enough to annoy her as badly as it had the previous nights, at least. As she drifted back to sleep, she saw that it was 3 a.m. again.

          The wake was simple – her grandmother had outlived many of her friends, so it was mostly a small family reunion. As sad as the circumstances were, Dana did enjoy the chance to meet with her cousins, whom she hadn’t seen in a few years. Her favorite cousin, Rachel, was a little subdued and looked pale. “What’s the matter?” Dana asked her when she had a chance to speak to her alone.

          “I got a strange phone call. The night grandma died.” Rachel sighed. “Some woman’s voice just said “I love you” and hung up. I didn’t even think about it, but I was just talking to your mom and she said grandma died at the same time as the phone call. I remembered because it was such a weird time of night to call.”

          Dana felt a shiver run up her spine. “What time?”

          “3 a.m.”

          Dana felt the blood drain from her face and her mouth gaped open as she struggled for a moment over whether to tell Rachel about the phone calls she had received or not. After a moment, she decided to keep it to herself.

          That night, Dana didn’t sleep. She sat up, anxiously glancing at her phone as the time ticked closer to 3. When the phone rang, she grabbed it, immediately answering. “Grandma?” she asked.

          The line was silent for a moment. The slightly tinny, staticky voice of a woman came through. Faintly, it said, “I love you.”

          “I love you too,” Dana said immediately, but the line was already dead.

          The phone calls stopped after that.

Prophetic

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

The cards for this week are “reckless enthusiasm” and “homeless person.”

The homeless person that does show up isn’t the actual prompt one, because in my mind the main character is totally homeless after this (and is recklessly enthusiastic about his chances, though I guess I could have emphasized that more somehow). I had the idea almost immediately upon drawing the cards, but actually writing it was a bit boring. I like for things to get really dark and disturbing and this doesn’t quite scratch that, I guess.

Nonetheless…

          Gary woke from the dream with a feeling of absolute certainty. He was going to win the lottery one week from today. The dream was a prophecy, the word of God. He knew it for fact. He also knew that he had much to do in that week’s time. A sort of pre-imposed penance to prove his worthiness.

          He started by announcing to his family and friend’s that he was planning to move soon. He offered them first pick of his belongings. “Can I have your Playstation?” Carl from work joked.

          Gary nodded solemnly. “Anything, first come, first serve.” Carl had given him a strange look and declared bullshit. Gary brought the Playstation and all of its controllers and wires the next day. Carl accepted it, but shook his head in disbelief.

          His ex-wife studied him with concern as he dropped off photo albums and old memorabilia that he thought she would like. “You’re not going to off yourself, are you?” she asked when he enthusiastically offered anything she wanted. He shook his head and reassured her that wasn’t the case.

          Gary spent the weekend clearing out the rest of his belongings, every closet, every drawer, all the drawers themselves. He took everything he could to charity and second-hand shops, and the rest to the dump. He turned the keys to his apartment in. He made sizable cash transfers to his church from his bank accounts, leaving only the minimum amount.

          The day had come. He sat outside the gas station, staring placidly at the homeless man loitering outside. On his way in, he handed the man the title to his car and the keys. “It’s yours,” he told the weeping man, who thanked him profusely. And then he went in and bought his ticket.

          Gary sat in the park overnight. It was a warm night, and he felt calm and content knowing that the next day he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.

          He found a paper to look up the lottery numbers the next morning, a wide smile on his face as he held his ticket up to compare.

          Not a single God damned match.