Why do you think some people only focus on their “glory days,” their great successes from the past? How might you keep yourself from looking entirely backwards in the future?
Answer:
This is a dumb question because the answer is obvious unless you deliberately want to obscure it up or unnecessarily dig deep into reasoning that is pretty apparent and doesn’t merit a lot of thought.
Why do some people focus on their glory days? A better question might be why is “glory days” wrapped in quotation marks? But the actual answer is because glory days implies a time in the past when someone had achieved more than in the present, perhaps a great deal more. One example would be an actor who had a string of hit films early on but whose career has fizzled out in middle age. When choosing what to focus on, what do you think this actor would prefer, his fantastic successes of youth or his dismal, mediocre slog into middle age (not to mention the fact that he’s also slower, older and not getting any younger)? That’s just human nature.
How might I keep myself from looking entirely backwards in the future? This is also easy: I never had glory days to begin with. Also, unlike many people, I’m actually healthier and in better shape now than in my youth, so in a sense my glory days are happening now. Also also I could keep myself from looking backwards by wearing blinders (surprise twist answer). Technically blinders don’t prevent you from looking backwards, they just make it more difficult, but it’s a better answer than wearing a bucket on your head. Or is it?
P.S. I’ll be glad when I get past all these time-related prompts. If I had a time machine I’d seriously consider moving forward just enough to achieve this.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
Prompt 5
(from Chapter 1: Time and Place):
A time traveller from the future says that he needs your help to right some wrongs in the past. Do you trust this stranger and help him on his mission? Why or why not? After your decision, what happens next?
What better way to anticipate the shorter days, colder weather and incessant rain that will come with the arrival of fall than to throw together a bunch of writing prompts looking back fondly on summer?
Write a story in which a curmudgeonly campfire recalls all the lame ghost stories told around it over the years, saving the very worst for its last dying ember.
Include the following words in a summer tale: canoe, grizzly, bucket, haberdasher, pointillist, gerund.
Write a journal entry in which you refused to help someone with poison ivy because you thought it was contagious. Remember to include how stupid and selfish you were, then conclude with a witty comment about how silly life can be.
It’s so incredibly hot your computer melts, so you try writing a story using pen and paper but it’s so hot the paper bursts into flame, so you try writing a story using a stick in the sand of a beautiful tropical beach but it’s so hot the stick burns to cinders, so you try writing a story using a chisel and stone tablet but then Moses grabs the tablet away from you. Twist ending!
The Beach Boys are your next door neighbors. Write a story about your zany adventures living next to a bunch of guys who won’t shut up about cars and surfing and what is Brian doing in the backyard there?
Make a list of all the things you can do in the summer for less than $1,000,000.
Surf’s up but stocks are down. Write about the world’s worst stock broker surfer champion.
Summer is the favorite season of many people. Invent a new season that would kick summer’s ass, if a season could actually have an ass.
What if dogs threw Frisbees and people caught them in their mouths instead? That would be one weird thing to see in the summer, wouldn’t it? But don’t write about that, write about an ice cream truck that is secretly a kid-eating monster.
Summer spelled backwards is remmus. Write a poem about how remmus the backwards summer would fool everyone by being cold instead of hot and stuff like that. No, that’s pretty dumb. Write a sequel to the story about the ice cream truck that is secretly a kid-eating monster instead.
Writing exercise: It's five minutes before a massive meteor is set to directly impact the Earth. There are plenty of theories on what will happen, but they all share one grim thing in common: the near-certainty that humanity will be extinguished.
Write from the perspective of someone waiting during those final five minutes.
Writing exercise writer's note: I left this for a few months, having struggled to come up with a better ending than just stopping abruptly. I also wanted to make it better fit the parameters of the exercise (spoiler: the exercise goes on after the meteor hits). Instead, I've decided to post it as is because the pursuit of perfection is noble but also dumb when I could be pursuing another imperfect writing project.
I reserve the right to come back to this some day.
Enjoy!
I’m looking at the battery indicator on my MacBook. It estimates I have just over four hours of juice left. That should be enough. More than enough, really.
I’m sitting on a large, weather-smoothed boulder, legs dangling off the edge, the MacBook precariously balanced on my lap. One wrong shift and off it goes, bouncing down a rocky hill to its inevitable destruction. It would cost a thousand bucks to replace but I’m not concerned. Laptops are about to become a relic of the past.
Three days ago an amateur astronomer in Hawaii spotted an asteroid ten kilometers wide.
The boulder I’m sitting on is in a park on the coast, near Vancouver. I look out at English Bay, the water is sparkling and calm, and then look up, trying to imagine the asteroid against the soft blue of the mid-summer sky. I can’t. I can’t wrap my head around a chunk of rock ten kilometers wide, not one hanging up there impossibly in the sky.
Big asteroids blasting the Earth are pretty rare. The last one this size came down 66 million years ago and wiped out the dinosaurs.
This one was sneaky—if you can imagine a ten kilometer rock being sneaky—in that it came toward us from the sun. It wasn’t until its trajectory curved out and beyond the blinding light of our solar furnace that anyone knew it existed.
I saw the amateur astronomer in Hawaii interviewed twice. The first was on discovery day. He was gleeful, practically bouncing off the walls, unable to contain his excitement. Amateurs don’t make a lot of these discoveries. The second interview was this morning. He was ashen and never looked directly at his interviewer or the camera. He appeared to have lost weight, though I wasn’t sure how he could lose enough for it to be noticeable in just three days.
A sneaky asteroid—that is, one arriving largely unseen because the sun has obscured its path—is not necessarily a bad thing. But in this case it is. Its path is predicted to intersect with our mostly lovely planet with a 99% degree of certainty.
In about five minutes, if estimates are right.
There are ideas on how to deal with these kinds of celestial threats, but that’s all they are–ideas, theories on paper. We have nothing prepared.
The first day was one of confusion, but a growing sense of panic was palpable by nightfall. The second day was confirmation of the worst from many sources. Political leaders made awkward speeches calling for calm, offering reassurances that were naked lies. Then they disappeared. The end of Day Two spun off into bedlam.
People didn’t exactly riot here, but there was a lot of looting. Police initially attempted to keep order but quickly retreated. Then everyone retreated. The city streets filled up as people attempted to get out. The few remaining looters were swept away by crowds numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Violence was inevitable. I managed to pick my way through back yards and alleys to escape unscathed. I came here, to this park, for the end. And for the view.
Fires dot the skyline. When I turn my head to the east I count nine columns of smoke over the downtown core. There are more beyond that. I appreciate the irony that the destruction began before a single speck of meteor dust entered the atmosphere.
The likely point of impact—also with that reassuring 99% degree of certainty—is the Pacific Ocean, which I am looking at. A breeze is picking up, but it’s just a breeze, gentle and refreshing, carrying the cool tang of sea air. While exact angle and speed of impact are yet to be determined—or maybe I missed the report amid the chaos—it’s reckoned that Ol’ Snuffy (my name) is going to leave a dent in the planet roughly 200 kilometers from where I’m sitting. It’s not Ground Zero but it’s close, relatively speaking. I looked up the effects on the internet—also about to become a relic of the past—not because I’m ghoulish but because I like going into situations with my eyes open. You know—give it to me straight, doc, how bad is it?
The good news is I won’t be vaporized.
That’s actually not good news because vaporization would be swift and painless.
I can see it in the sky now. Even this far away, there are streaks descending. They said it would break apart and once again those brainy scientists were right. I suddenly gasp and realize I’ve been holding my breath. My brain is trying to process a lot of things right now. If those internet sites are right, I could be dead and gone in fifteen minutes. Or I might survive. If I do I will find myself living in a world transformed into an unrecognizable hellish landscape. That could be interesting.
I count the streaks. There are eight that I can see, slowly fanning apart from each other. One of these glows bright, too bright to look at directly, almost a mini-sun, the core of Ol’ Snuffy making a beeline.
I look at the clock on my laptop. 3:21 p.m. A sequence of descending numbers, like a countdown.
My first kiss. Should I be thinking of that? It’s one of those first meaningful moments, so I suppose it should come to me swiftly and with fond remembrance. But I’m not sure who it was. Suzanne? Peggy? Jennifer? I don’t want to claim I was some kind of scoundrel, but I had a definite “kiss all the girls” phase and it rolled straight into kissing for real, advancing beyond kissing and running away before finding out what happened next.
3:23 p.m. now. The streaks have vanished over the horizon. I hold my breath again.
It was Peggy. I’m sure of it. I had a mad crush on her. Red hair, freckles. She liked to arm wrestle and she could beat me since I had scrawny scarecrow arms. I have no idea where she is now.
Nowhere safe, though. The scientists told us no such place existed.
I experience it first as a vibration that comes up through the boulder, tickling my bottom. The horizon suddenly changes, the fuzzy white sky is suddenly cast in bright colors—orange, red, mixed with muddy browns and blacks. Ejecta. The fact that I can see this from two hundred kilometers away is impressive. I could be terrified but am fascinated instead. How many people will ever see something like this?
The shockwave hits next. I don’t know how long it takes to reach me. It feels like minutes but is probably seconds. I am swept off the boulder. The MacBook blows away as if made of paper. I tumble onto the ground but am fortunate that recent rains have left it soft, almost spongy. I roll up against a cedar and remain there, unable to move for a time. I hear a loud crack, then many loud cracks, like a series of explosions.
For a moment it gets very hot. I wonder if I will be boiled in my own skin.
The shockwave passes.
I slump away from the cedar and realize it is no longer standing. Most of the trees have been snapped and lay flat. I wonder how none came down on me. The boulder has shifted to the left and looks a little wobbly. It must weigh a couple of tons.
My hair is a mess.
I stand up and see blood on my hands. Rivulets of blood run down both arms. My legs threaten to buckle but I manage to stay upright, for the moment, at least.
Apparently it is more than my hair that is a mess.
The ejecta is spreading out now, an ever-expanding mushroom cloud of debris. Acid rain will start falling soon. I’ll need to find some place to hide…for the next six months to a year.
I laugh. I didn’t expect to survive. This kind of sucks.
The rain shouldn’t be a problem if those internet sites were right, though. Something else will come first. I cup a hand to my left ear and listen. The sound is muffled, like it’s caught in a bottle. Did the shockwave shatter my eardrums? I don’t think so because I definitely hear something.
A distant roar. Is it real? I think it is.
The mega-tsunamis promise to be as tall as skyscrapers. They will be impressive sights.
I don’t swim very well.
I stagger over to the boulder—my right leg hurts like hell, there’s probably a broken bone or two shifting around inside—and set a hand against it to steady myself. That’s enough to start the boulder rolling. It lumbers down the hill, picking up speed before plunging over the edge and landing in the water with a satisfying dunk.
I fall over, too weak to stand unaided, and curl up, leaving the right leg extended. I am facing away from the water.
I want to see.
With pain bursting like bombs in my right leg, I shift until I am propped up on my elbows, looking across the bay. I can’t hold the position, though, and collapse onto my back. The sky above is still hazy blue, as if nothing has happened. As if this is all a dream.
My dreams never have this kind of continuity, though. The roaring is louder, much louder. I loll my head to the left. There is a cedar stump still stuck halfway in the ground. I could prop myself up against it. But even though it is nearly close enough to touch if I stretch out a hand, it looks very far away. I don’t think I can do it.
Instead I lay back again, pushing my head against the soft, spongy ground. I close my eyes.
The roar grows until it hurts my ears. I make feeble motions to cover them but give up. I wait for the tsunami to claim me.
It is geography—the earth itself—that saves me. Vancouver Island absorbs most of the energy of the tsunamis, and the waves that make it through the strait are big but not deadly. I feel water come up around me, nearly buoying me, then I settle back onto the ground as it flows by and eventually retreats. There will probably be other waves but my swimming skills aren’t going to be tested.
The sky’s transformation is hastening, though. The threat of a burning rain draws near.
You may never want to open a story with one of these sentences.
It was a dark and stormy kite.
Brent Entwhistle knew he would get in trouble one day for peeling the banana from the wrong end and now that day had come.
“It’s the new watusi!” Cyril bleated.
John “Hawk” Dirk examined the bomb with great care, noting the timer only had forty seven days left on it.
She whipped her luxurious golden hair around, like a yellow bed sheet flapping in the wind.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,” Byron said to the boy as he rode past on his bike, suddenly realizing that that curse of speaking only in Elvis song lyrics had come true.
Abraham Lincoln swiveled around and pointed a Howitzer at Booth, thus beginning the craziest version of history yet.
The family reunion would be awkward this year, Jane knew, but all she could do was hope the others would forget about her out of control bionic peg leg and move on.
The killdozer thundered relentlessly toward the tranquil town of Sleepyville, but it would meet its match with the murderhoe that lumbered to meet it.
“I’m only one man,” Ben said to the desperate crowd assembled before him, “but if you clone me I could be a hundred men!”
You wake up one morning and find that you aren’t in your bed; you aren’t even in your room. You’re in the middle of a giant maze. A sign is hanging from the ivy: “You have one hour. Don’t touch the walls.” Finish the scene.
And my result below. It ends abruptly because I found myself lost, as if in a maze, ho ho. Really, I just couldn’t think of a good way to have the story progress. I may come back to this at some point but probably not.
Prompt 9:
The first thing I notice when I wake up is I’m not in my bed. I don’t sleepwalk so this is a little odd. I examine my surroundings and the reason for not being in my bed becomes clear: I am also not in my bedroom.
I am, rather, in a very large, dimly-lit hallway. It disappears into shadows in two directions. The walls also disappear up into darkness. This is a hallway designed for a hill giant.
I approach the nearest wall and see a sign affixed to it. The sign has the following printed on it in crisp lettering that reminds me of the invitations Apple sends out for its media events:
You have one hour
Don’t touch any walls
I look down the hallway in both directions. I hear nothing, see no movement within the dark reaches. I want to touch the walls. Yes, very badly, the same impulse I get when spying a “Wet paint” sign. I resist touching the wall. For now.
I reach into my pocket for my phone in order to check the map app and get a fix on my position. This leads me to further realize that I don’t have my phone with me because I am not wearing any pants. Of course not, I don’t sleep in my pants. I sleep in my birthday suit.
I am standing in this strange place naked. The boys shrivel up a little when this hits me. My watch is also missing or presumably sitting on my nightstand, wherever that might be, so I have no way to track the time. I figure if that one hour started when I looked at the sign I probably have about 58 minutes left. But it could be two minutes. It could be minus ten minutes. I have no way to know.
Annoying. I’ve never liked puzzle games.
I choose to walk left. I don’t know if it’s actually left but I declare it so. I’ve always been a lefty.
The walls are unadorned, sort of an eggshell white, though it’s just dark enough to not know for certain. The floor is smooth and cool. At first I think it’s tile but when I stop to examine it more closely, I can see it is actually polished stone.
Good thing I’m allowed to touch the floor. This could be very tricky otherwise.
I walk on for about ten minutes. My sense of time isn’t great. I’m not one of those people with a flawless internal alarm clock, but it’s not bad, either. It feels like ten minutes. I stop and look around.
Nothing has changed. I stifle a yawn.
This is not a great puzzle.
I continue on, hoping for something, even something bad, just to liven things up.
Well, maybe not something bad. But something.
As if my wish has worked, I find myself approaching an intersection. It is T-shaped, so I can go left or right.
You know what happens next.
And it’s logical, too. If this is a maze I should keep turning in the same direction. It’s one of those maze rules I remember hearing about. Or maybe I saw it in a movie that had the Minotaur in it. Clash of the Titans? That one mashed together most of Greek mythology, so it seems like a good bet.
Everyone who went into the maze–the labyrinth, as I recall–ended up getting eaten by the Minotaur. It wasn’t until the hero went in with a piece of string that the Minotaur was defeated. Not by the string, of course–that was used by the hero to find his way out. He probably used a sword or crossbow or something else pointy and sharp to slay the giant half-man/half-bull.
I have no sword, crossbow nor something else pointy and sharp, but I’m also not overly concerned about running into a Minotaur.
The left hallway yields nothing new or different, just the same possibly eggshell white walls, the same polished stone floor, the same everything. I walk on for another ten minutes and come to a stop. I look behind me. I see nothing.
I listen. I hear nothing.
I hold my left hand out and take a step toward the wall, the one to my left, of course. I twiddle my fingers just shy of its surface. I press the fingertips firmly against it.
And am back where I started, the sign on the wall silently mocking me.
This is stupid, I think. I sit down, cross my legs and pull a small ball of lint from my navel, to better gaze into it.
“This is stupid,” I say aloud, hoping that who or whatever has created this would know in no uncertain terms what I thought. I feel elaboration might be needed so continue.
“This maze is stupid. It is dull and uninteresting. The threat is too vague to be menacing, if that’s your intent.”
No reply comes in response to my scathing criticism. The maze creator is either unavailable or indifferent.
I start off again, once more to the left, but this time I promise myself to walk for at least an hour and no touching the walls. In one hour I can cover around six kilometers. Who could afford to build a maze that big? Not many people, I figure, so I hope to be released from this interminable experience before the full sixty minutes elapses.
What is your biggest regret from the past and why? What did you learn from this incident and how has it helped you going forward?
Answer:
My biggest regret from the past (I do not know my future regrets yet, what with them being in the future and all) is dropping out of school before finishing my university degree and being saddled with student loan debt and an incomplete education that required creative thinking to explain away on resumes (“A dragon ate my last two years of post-secondary.”) I learned that being saddled with student loan debt sucks and to never go to school again unless someone gives me a million dollars first.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
What past decade or century would you consider your favorite and why? Do you think you’d be happier living back then or in the present day and why?
Answer:
Let’s start by ruling out a few centuries, like those from four billion years ago when the world was all poison skies, seething oceans of acid and generally quite inhospitable to life*. I’m pretty sure I would not have preferred living back then because your life would be over in a few seconds.
I’ll also rule out eras like the Dark Ages for obvious reasons.
That still leaves plenty of decades and/or centuries to choose from, so I will narrow my focus further, to the last century. Surely there’s one decade from back then that would be totally awesome to live in versus today’s world of myopic politics, global warming and reality TV.
1900s: Not all of them, just the first ten years or the aughts as they call them. This decade saw the birth of powered flight, a pretty exciting development. Early powered flight mostly consisted of crashing and death, which dulls the excitement a little. I’m also pretty sure a lot of people still got scurvy and polio and died by age 30, just like in Logan’s Run. Pass.
1910s: I remember this decade for two things: The Titanic sinking and World War I. Pass.
1920s: A giddy, freewheeling era if you believe movies set in the 1920s. This was also the time of Prohibition but since I don’t drink booze that wouldn’t affect me. No TV would almost be a bonus. I’d consider this decade except I’d be afraid of getting shot by gangsters because they were everywhere, right?
1930s: Would you want to live in a decade known for something called The Great Depression? Neither would I.
1940s: World War II was a bigger but not better sequel. Pass.
1950s: Prosperity and the rise of the nuclear family. Radio, TV, movies, cars with gigantic fins and grilles. The birth of rock ‘n roll. It was a crazy, groovy time. Unless you weren’t white. Also not a particularly enlightened era. Pass.
1960s. A time of turmoil, war, assassinations, peace protests and moonshots. I actually lived in this era for the first six years of my life but didn’t particularly experience any of the aforementioned things. Would I want to as an adult? Maybe for a week, just out of curiosity.
1970s: I was there once already. Once was enough.
1980s: Where all the bad taste and terrible music of the 1970s continued, but with more synthesizers. I was an adult in the 80s so this doesn’t really count. That also rules out the 1990s.
In review, the last century sucked. We might have a lot of problems here in the early part of the 21st century but we also have electric cars, gay marriage and the ability to order anything–anything–online and have it delivered to your doorstep. The good outweighs the bad, at least for now.
My answer may change in ten years if Vancouver is fully submerged under the Pacific Ocean.
* this may not be an entirely accurate description but it nonetheless captures the essence of “you wouldn’t want to live here because you would actually die”
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]I am using the prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link) to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long. I will work through the prompts in order. After that, I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes instead of a story I will simply answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
I’m going to stick to a specific naming convention for the prompts I use from Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2, just to be neat ‘n tidy. You can see the format in the title of this very post. Exciting!
Prompt 2
(from Chapter 1: Time and Place):
What past memory do you cherish the most and why? If you could trade that memory for something amazing to happen in the future, would you do it? Why or why not?
Answer:
What do I look like, some incredible brainiac with a steel trap mind that remembers everything and forgets nothing? Did you know short term memory only lasts about 30 seconds and almost everything we take in is immediately discarded as useless junk and forgotten?
I can immediately think of some nice memories–the giddy sensation of vertigo riding a roller coaster on summer vacation, the giddy sensation of awesome sex when I was young and had enough energy to knock over trees, the giddy sensation of coloring inside the lines in grade two (there was one kid in my class who was seriously great at this, which is no mean feat in grade two; like any gifted artist, I imagine he grew up to be a heroin addict, alcoholic or reality TV show contestant) and the giddy sensation of being in a car that got clipped by another and spun off into a nearby ditch. Since I was dozing at the time (note: I was not driving), I was jostled awake, opened the car door and fell into the ditch. Even though I got to ride in an ambulance, the greatest injury I suffered was the indignity of getting out of a car and falling into a ditch. Come to think of it, that’s not really a memory I cherish so much as one I cannot forget.
But let’s pretend that was my most cherished memory ever. If I could trade it for something amazing happening in the future, would I do it? For this exercise I’ll assume the amazing thing is something that would happen to me specifically and not something like world peace or a sudden magic solution to global warming. The answer is yes, I would make that trade in an instant. Why? Because if I traded away the memory, I wouldn’t know it was gone–otherwise it would still be a memory–and I’d have something amazing happen in its place, like developing telekinesis, knowing all the winning lottery numbers, or once again having the energy to knock over trees.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]I am using the prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link) to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long. I will work through the prompts in order. After that, I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes instead of a story I will simply answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
Previously I had vowed to do all 1,000 prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2. I stopped after, well, the first prompt. I found most of the prompts didn’t lend themselves to fiction, being more journal-style exercises. I don’t need ideas for a journal. I have plenty of things I can prattle on about or cat pictures to link to.
But then I found the writing prompt well running dry. A sense of desperation swept over me, like someone with a giant broom doing some serious sweeping on top of me and instead of sweeping up dust or dirt this giant broom was sweeping desperation and instead of sweeping the desperation away it was, in fact, sweeping the desperation directly atop me..
Anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to work through the remaining 999 writing prompts because if a prompt doesn’t suit my needs I will take creative license and make it suit my needs. I’ll show those prompts who’s boss.
I predict a lot of nonsense.
For reference, here is the first writing prompt from the book: Writing prompt 1: Inevitable time travel and my intended goal, which I dropped like a rabid rattlesnake back in April 2015:
Specifically, I am going to use the prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link) to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long. I will work through the prompts in order, one per day. After that, I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes instead of a story I will simply answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).
I will start on the second writing prompt (which will confusingly appear as writing prompt #9 here) tomorrow. Or else.
The bulbous nose reminds me of clowns and like any sensible person, I do not like clowns. It’s also aggressively cutesy.
2. Every writing prompt is hidden behind a mouseover pop-up. Is this to prevent people scraping the site and selling the prompts on the black market? Is it to be cutesy? Did a clown goad the author into doing this?
Anyway, what follows is prompt #108 from the site and the eighth prompt I’ve posted here.
Prompt #8: List 10 things you do whenever you procrastinate
Wait
Look for writing sites to make fun of while being secretly ashamed at only ever having been published in a Moose Lodge newsletter when I was 12
Watch a YouTube video, which inevitably turns into an entire evening of watching terrible music videos from the 1980s, culminating in another viewing of the literal version of “Total Eclipse of the Heart”
Stare up at clouds and see in them the faces of famous dictators. “There’s Mussolini!”
Write lists
Hum to myself until the person next to me says, “Stop that damned humming.”
Think how procrastination compares to amateurcrastination
Look busy because appearances are important
Grow slightly older
Turn my name into clever anagrams like Jam As Nest and Man Ass Jet
Write 10 sentences using a different cliché in each. Now, rewrite the sentence to eliminate the cliché and find a more clever and creative way to convey its meaning.
The early bird gets the worm.
Being proactive and planning ahead will yield fruitful results and worms.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Don’t be greedy, just be happy with that damn bird you already have.
A stitch in time saves nine.
Being able to sew efficiently will leave you with more time to ponder inscrutable sayings.
Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.
Elimination of a social life will reduce the likelihood of indulging in unhealthy habits, promote sleep regularity and leave you more sharp-witted and lonely.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Referring to a rose as a “prickly green and red stink stick” will not change its alluring aroma and will also cause people to give you a wide berth.
All’s fair in love and war.
Killing is good.
You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.
Maybe your horse has a water allergy.
Slow and steady wins the race.
The answer your boss gives when you ask for a promotion.
Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
Make sure your list of kinky habits lines up with your dating site matches before replying.
A watched pot never boils.
You’re never having that cup of coffee.
What’s going down?
I am curious as to the current status of the Canadian dollar.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
Wear a toga and have slaves.
It occurs to me that I am not only suggesting sarcastic writing prompts, I am now writing them, too. In my defense I am doing this exercise on lunch, am pressed for time and tapping into sarcasm is like opening the floodgate of a dam, behind which is a massive lake of sarcasm.