I don't often enjoy the attempts I've made at long-form fiction writing. So I'm trying one of these a day instead, with the understanding that since it's my rules, there are no rules. They're prompts, not a hard-bright line. Y'all are also writers of various sorts, so I figure I'll share them here. You're welcome to read, to write as well, to critique, or to ignore as your little hearts desire. 
Mostly I hope you'll also write.
- Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?
The chill of the glass is a blessed contrast to the heat from the vent. It cuts the world in two: too hot, too cold, no in-between. Flipping only switches the sides. It doesn't relieve the dichotomy. If there's no distance that can't be cut in half -- speak me no Zeno's -- does that mean there's no point where the two merge out of two? (Merge out of two: a phrase that shouldn't mean anything but does in context.) Do they only mix in macro vision? The eyes that apply when you're too far away to see how they're only co-mingling near each other, not truly becoming something third.
- The Unrequited love poem: How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back? (Writer's Note: Crush to crushing to the bit below.)
As you have the option in your slow death, perhaps you would consider Crushing? Certainly if the point is to select the most achingly slow and exceedingly torturous, it has potential. Imagine then, the faint pressure that begins. The weight of it is negligible at the start, a thin blanket's worth. This is nothing, you sleep with more on a cold night. But it does not stay there, heavens no. It grows in weight. A Down comforter, you might call it, or wet wool. Does the increase bother you more than the fact it does not conform to your body? Rather, your body is forced to tilt instead, albeit within a limited space. There it is, the first stirrings of distress. Your breath rasps against the stone platform above. It is too close. It is getting closer. Your breasts are flattened uncomfortably, your legs forced straight for lack of room to bend. When does discomfort (that pale cousin to pain) become more? The bones, I think. That moment when you first realize your ribs exist. How often do you think of them normally? But here as you are Crushed, they are forefront. Your awareness of self is stronger, how smashing! No no, there is no need to speak now. They will turn inwards soon. Focus on this instead, it will end the matter soon. Not soon enough, mind. As the children say: to the pain!
- The Vessel: Write about a ship or other vehicle that can take you somewhere different from where you are now.
A ship is a she because the world around her is fickle. She must navigate it with stout walls, with unbroken beam and unyielding pressure on all sides. A ship is a she because to ignore her is to know peril. Her voice demands an ear, louder with the passing years and the curve of humanity; slowly but growing. Some will say a ship is a she because there is always bustle around her; because she needs paint to look pretty; because she needs an experienced man to steer her right. But you know many a quiet woman, who wears no paint but manages loveliness, who scoffs at the men who would tell her her own truths.
A ship remains a she because she births men and women both. They rise from her depths and spill out anew, fresh from the darkness and heralding the air they can breathe freely.
- Dancing: Who’s dancing and why are they tapping those toes?
As they moved together, they occupied the same space. Oh, you will take this for metaphor, some paltry allegory not worth its weight in syllables. But they moved as one, truly so. Her insubstantial form hovered above, through, in, around. His solid presence was a flow centered, contained, structured, forceful. Did she drag his feet like a puppet-mistress? Did he drag her along willy-nilly so that she had no choice? I think they matched each other, dancing in that same space, balanced.
- Food: What’s for breakfast? Dinner? Lunch? Or maybe you could write a poem about that time you met a friend at a cafe.
Think of her in allegories: Sometimes she's tart (like a lemon? a sweet lime? a sour orange?). Others, she's sweet as pie (pecan! apple! rhubarb!). Those breasts, as big as melons (honeydew? yellow summer? cantaloupe?)! Oh but her eyes, deep and dark as chocolate (90% cacao? mixed with milk, maybe a nice ganache?). But what really sells it is her voice, smooth and slow as molasses on a cool morning (blackstrap or sugar beet). Even now you want to eat her up, and neveryoumind that she'd have no depth of flavor at all with all those sugary notes to muck up the profile.
- Eye Contact: Write about two people seeing each other for the first time.
The stories like to say that love is a bolt from a clear blue sky. That you'll recognize the other half of your whole when you spot each other on the street. These are the stories we believe in our youth, so that we look around every corner for that one. But we are not children now. We have and are grown through lives that are equal parts difficulty and strength. We have learned a hard truth: love isn't always quick. It isn't always easy. It is sacrifice of self for a shared together. Love often takes effort, constant and equitable from all involved. Two or five or ten, it's a shared load. It needs communication, and if anyone ever says that talking is easy, you'll know them for that selfsame youth. Love is the best work, well done for good purpose, and worth every moment of sweat. There may be easy moments, but they will slip in through the cracks and sweeten the whole mix, not make up the mass of it. If you still think no one could ever complete you the way your love does right now, well. Weltanschauung differs. I'd disagree with Aristophanes and Plato on this score too.
- The Rocket-ship: Write about a rocket-ship on it’s way to the moon or a distant galaxy far, far, away. (Writer's Note: Two for one.)
It's startlingly easy to imagine yourself away, afar. The adventures to be had in the grand open spaces seem simpler. Less fraught. Less wearying. Who's to say they're not, in the end? But that only leaves the mess behind for other people to clean up. The grass is always greener in any yard but the one going sere. Staying still isn't an adventure. But it still needs doing. The work here will save the world too.
The plumes of smoke curled in tight coils as the ship lifted up. Grey and white, they swirled together in densely packed springs. Fire blossomed beneath and behind that smoke, orange and red and yellow lances to shove it up. Up! UP! The gleaming silver and steel reflected them all as it rose, blunt-nose pointed towards the future. Her hand was steady as she guided the paper craft into the sky, puttering engine sounds just barely over her own breath. The world fell away.
- Dream-catcher: Write something inspired by a recent dream you had.
They're a remarkable waste, dreams. So much of our creative energies are lost in the night, wisping away like so much valuable smoke. Oh, everyone claims to remember. "That one time with the owl that won't stop staring!" Worse, they're a loss twice over. In the night, and in the day when you try to picture it all over again. You did it just now with the owl! That's why I've started taking it. For such a tiny pill it packs a huge punch. No dreams for me! No more wasted nights, no more useless REM sleep. All of those false-technicolor moments are funneled directly into my daily life instead. My art has never been so vivid! My vision has never been so sharp! I admit that the tremors are getting bad, but needs must. Sacrifice is the fuel to the fire that is my Work! Certainly that's what I told the girls when they got too loud. Shouted it at them, really. They quieted down after that. Don't think I haven't noticed how they're watching me as I paint. Tiny beady little rat-eyes, those children have. Twitchy noses, too. They'd steal it in a heartbeat! They're always watching, just like the owl. Its eyes gleam ruby with flame flickering through. Never blinking. It doesn't need the night to escape now. I've found a way to let it out through the canvas instead. Owls eat rats, don't they? Where are those girls.
