Crime

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction for you to enjoy. The prompt this time was the above picture to be used in conjunction with a random word as the title. Finicky.

The usual rules apply for my writing prompt fiction. I get 20 minutes to write it. When it comes to cleaning it up and editing I’m allowed to change typos and punctuation and delete stuff. That’s it.

I’ve included one example of a change below the piece, it would have given it a very different tone!

‘Dirty!’ Ken slapped the counter top. He was almost retiring age. His fingers were thin.
Behind the counter the young man bowed in apology and took the bowl, moved to the kitchen.
Bill could feel the weight of people’s eyes. Ken had always been fussy and was growing into the stereotype of himself.
Mr Clean.
Ken Clean.
The spotless CEO.
Bill could see a speck of dandruff on Ken’s collar.
‘Can you believe this place? Dirty bowls!’ He wiped his finger along the counter, peered for a smear of grease. Nothing. He scowled at the server, returning with his noodles.
The grumpy man, a regular for the last thirty years, had started coming when he was driving the trucks. He’d bought the company after a decade and his empire had been expanding since. Rubbish, recycling, painting. Crematories. Anything that made the place cleaner.
He was looking to get into renewables. Clean energy.
A drop of soup hung from his lower lip. Ken dabbed it.
‘Where’s your old man?’ he asked when the bowl was empty.
‘Sick.’
It had taken him a while to recognise Sinshu’s youngest: ‘The air here is bad,’ said Ken. ‘You tell him I said he needs to get better soon.’
Ken stood and put his hands in his pocket. Bill quickly reached to pay instead. It was expected.

They strolled back to the office. There was still work to do. Always more work to keep the place clean.
‘What did you think?’ Bill asked.
‘Let’s do it. Organic is the future. Cleaner.’
‘And if they won’t sell?’
‘You take care of it, Bill. No need for both of us to get our hands dirty.’

The original version said

“…Ken, who stood up and put his hands in his pocket. Bill quickly reached in to pay instead.”

I changed the second sentence to

” Bill quickly reached to pay instead. “

Why? Read it again.

See? The word “in” makes it sound like they were both reaching into the same pocket. Mr Clean would not have liked that!

Hi all,

here’s the latest piece of writing prompt fiction for you. I managed to completely miss one of my five prompts despite setting it up twice. Can you guess which word I wanted to include? Find out below!

The wing shook. Maggie’s stomach dropped with the plane. She squeezed the armrest, the blue vinyl damp under her palm. The night flight was approaching London. The sun was up, pale rose and sharp yellow rays of light shining off the reflective surfaces on the wing. So many different pieces of metal, joined or screwed together. The flaps didn’t look secure. She hated when they lifted: they let too much air through.
The guy beside her was large but didn’t try to hog both armrests. On the other side was his wife. They didn’t talk. Both read newspapers. The Financial Times for her, the Observer for him. The rest of the plane was dark. People slept, hugging themselves under the fleecy blankets that had been handed out. The stewardess in Business Class was visible as she moved around.
The seat in front of her jerked upright as the seat belt light dinged.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats. Fasten your seat belts and stow all tables.”
She tucked her notebook and plastic orange Garfield pen – a Mother’s Day present – into the seat beside her leg and clicked the table into position. The mechanism was stiff and she had to push hard.
The man turned around to stare at her. He had large blue eys and wild white hair. Grumpy because he’d just woken up. She smiled in apology. He smiled back then showed her his hand. Shaped into a gun, pointed at her.
Pow.
She hated flying.
On the ground she managed to get in front of him at the immigration queue. She pushed her passport under the safety glass to the officer. With a little note. She looked as scared as she could.
Help. The man behind me has a gun.
The officer nodded, waved her through.
She saw him pick up his walkie-talkie as the grumpy man walked to the window, scowling impatiently.

The prompts were:

reflective
ray
hug
writing
gun

The word “writing” never made it into the piece. Despite the main character having their notebook and Garfield pen ready on the drop down tray on the plane. And having had written to the custom’s officer at the end. D’oh!

Hi all!

Another piece of 20 minute writing prompt fiction. I know that’s what you come here for! You can find the prompts below the piece.

Are these getting shorter, Morgan?

The last few stories have been shorter as I’m teaching myself to type properly: I just can’t write as many words in 20 minutes yet. Hopefully they’ll get longer again.

Enjoy!

He got up, bleeding. The prisoners watched.

“Keep moving,” said Dale.
Dale was in for life. Working for Zole.

Dale had shot up a bank in what should have been a simple robbery.

Nobody had died, he would have been out in a few years. But he’d taken to prison life. His sentence getting longer as he sorted things out for Zole.
Zole had ordered the attack. Joe had been one of the prosecutors. If he’d been a cop, he’d be dead already.
Joe sat at the bench. Guys left as he approached, pointless to get mixed up in another man’s fight. He knew better than to go to the guards. They were waiting for the hour to be up. He could go to the infirmary when it was over, not before. Zole ran the prison. The director just rubber-stamped the forms.

At the infirmary the doctor put out his cigarette, snapped on gloves, patched up the wound. Filled Joe with painkillers.
“You need more, come back,” he said.
Joe looked at him, unsure if it was a question or a statement.

Or a riddle:

My dog’s been shivved.
How does he feel?
He doesn’t. He’s on painkillers.

It was the opioid epidemic that had done for Joel. He’d switched to the lucrative side: defending the guilty. This is where he’d ended up, his rightful place.
His cellmate feigned indifference when he got back to his cell. Started humming. An advertising jingle for one of the pharmaceutical companies.

Be strong. He’d be out on good behaviour in no time.

The intercom crackled.
Cell inspection.
The warden went straight to Joe’s bunk and plunged his hand under the mattress. He pulled out a small bag of tablets. Painkillers.
“You can’t stop pushing, can you?” The warden whispered in Joe’s ear. “Zole’s sister woulda been 17 this week, if it wasn’t for the likes of you.”

The topic for this exercise was “justice.” The random words were:

pointless
riddle
glove
rightful
feigned

As with all my writing prompts I’m not allowed to make changes except for typos, punctuation and deletions. Never underestimate the Delete button. As well making the language tighter by removing fluff, it can get you out of more serious problems.

I gave two of the characters names which rhymed. It sounded very silly. Enter the Delete button!

Take a minute, see if you can guess which two characters.

…

Got it?

Well done, you! Originally two characters were named Zole and Joel.

Here’s a piece of writing prompt fiction. This is a 10-minute “deadman’s switch” letter prompt. This is from one of Tim Clare’s weekly writing prompts, which you can sign up for here – you can never have too many writing prompts.

Dear James,

it’s about time we talked. Please forgive the nature of our “discussion” but some things I could never have said to your face. I hate questions. Always have, as you know.

I was sick for a long time. You know that too. I apologise for wasting your time with things you know. I’m working my way to the core of the matter.
When I started losing my hair. That’s when it started. I was sick and losing my hair, feeling terrible. Shortly after you started coming home late, working at weekends. Sleeping at the office so as “not to wake you.”
I was sick, James, not stupid. I knew what was happening.

When you lost your job I didn’t go looking for someone who could spend money, get me the things I wanted. So it hurt. When I got sick you went and found someone healthy. And then she died and you came back for a while.
You never realised I was getting better. I wasn’t physically sick, just sick at the sight of you, at the feel of your skin, your hangdog look when you accompanied me to the doctor.

Well. I’m fine now, James. And I’m so sorry you feel bad. Hurts, doesn’t it? And the gnawing worry of the last day.
I look forward to when your pain is over. That life insurance policy should make up for a lot.
There’s no point worrying about it, God has a plan. That’s what you used to tell me.

So lie there and close your eyes. Once I’ve finished reading this to you I’m going to burn it. No don’t get up,

Goodbye.