It's Halloween, which means everything spooky is in the air! If you're looking to write the next ghost story, either today or this November, but don't know where to start, try out some of these creative writing prompts!
I've created each of these prompts up on the spot and in turn, did the same with my little attempt at each one. A brief explanation about each prompt:
#1 is my take on the classic Gothic trope of the unwanted wife locked in the attic by her husband.
#2 is inspired by the good old enemies to lovers trope, with a splash of 2012's Snow White and The Huntsman thrown in there.
#3 is for my poetry lovers. While I enjoy the good old poem, I'm no poet, and you'll see that soon!
#4 lets you explore the magic, or maybe lack of, that comes around this time of year.
#5 is of course inspired by none other than The Picture of Dorian Gray although I'll admit, I was a bit tired by then and therefore made it short and not too specific!
1. The creaking in the attic didn't stop and neither did she.
The creaking in the attic didn't stop and neither did she.
Because she wouldn't. More like she couldn't.
There was an innate force driving her to dismantle the carefully constructed storage, memories remembered but no longer wanted. Her hammer collided with the arm of a rustic rocking chair. Again and again until on the fifth strike, the wood splintered, the arm snapping in two. She picked up the remains, tossed it inside a torn cardboard filled with dismembered pieces of memories, and grinned. If that bastard, off with his clueless mistress twenty years his junior, wanted to tuck her away, a discarded evocation inside his attic, then fine. She'd not only play the role of deranged wife, but become it. And he would never see it coming.
2. His fingers twitched around the dagger's handle. The desire to plunge it into his victim was growing stronger, but his arm locked in its place.
His fingers twitched around the dagger's handle. The desire to plunge it into his victim was growing stronger, but his arm locked in place. Something was stopping him, whether it be the doe eyes blinking up at him or the sweet scent of hibiscus. Or maybe it was the soft entanglement of hair rubbing against the underside of his forearm. He'd been warned, about the seductive powers of this temptress. And still, the dagger didn't budge.
"Get it over with, coward."
Adrenaline pulsated inside his veins, ready to plunge her heart, but his brain refused to give the order. There was something in her tone, strong as it was. Something that made him wonder if his Queen had been right in sending him after the seemingly innocent girl.
His hesitation cost him. With a power he didn't understand, she wrestled and swung them around, collecting his dagger in the process. The sharp tip pressed into his jugular and his breath hitched.
Above him, she smiled and for a moment, he swore there was poison dripping from those lips. He'd been fooled.
"Any last words, huntsman?"
3. Write a poem about a black cat. Remember, as Mr. Keating once said, poems can be about the simplest things; just don't let them be ordinary!
The black cat sat on the doormat,
Flicking its tail,
Waiting,
Watching the world go by.
Children stomped by,
Parents cried out 'why?,'
And still,
The black cat sat,
Waiting,
Questioning the world outside.
The moon slowly rose,
A white hazy glow;
The crowds dispersed
And finally,
The black cat
Ceased waiting.
4. Golden sparks seemed to flick from her fingertips. They were gone in an instant, no trace left behind. She strained herself looking for dwindling smoke, a singed sleeve, anything to prove the magic had been real.
Golden sparks seemed to flick from her fingertips. They were gone in an instant, no trace left behind. She strained herself looking for dwindling smoke, a singed sleeve; anything to prove the magic had been real.
Except it hadn't been. Because there was no such thing. She knew that. Magic was a child's fairytale, nothing more than make believe.
But she couldn't let the feeling go, that something had been there.
Maybe she was concentrating too hard. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to empty her mind. But how could she, now that she knew magic, that fateful mystery, existed?
5. There's a beautifully haunting Dorian-esque photo of you inside your basement. Describe how you do everything in your power to keep it from others and why.
The oil painting with dark sympathetic eyes and a poised, jutted chin never sees the light of day, the way it was intended to be. A beauty like her might deserve the sun's rays, proudly displayed for guests and all to see, but I know better. A beauty like her is nothing more than temptation, thinly disguised as harmless, when in reality, she'll end you in a night. I should know; because although we are bred from different genetic makeup, that perfect girl in the painting is me.
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