Prompt #18

Prompt #2

Soulmate AU, where the first words you say to someone are written on your body somewhere. The catch is that they’re written in your soulmate’s handwriting, aging with them.

For example, if a child is about four years old when their soulmate is born, then scribbles will appear on their body somewhere, illegible until they get older and learn how to write. The baby would be born with their soulmate’s writing already on them.

Illiterate people’s soulmates would be nearly unable to find them. People would be getting older and older, and not know whether they had no soulmate or whether their soulmate had not been born yet.

Writing Prompts?

I have a lot of Spotify playlists with unnecessarily long and weird names.

I make them up on the spot most of the time, and I don’t even have a reason or story for most of them. I thought that maybe they could be used for writing prompts, or at least inspiration.

So here you go, have some prompts. If you use them, then please reblog or message me. I would love to see what you make of them.

‘do you remember my name or the way i said yours?’

‘yellow + purple = grey’

‘catch me on the next ‘snapped’’

‘water, carry me down the drain’

‘here we are, at my hundredth funeral, and we should really stop doing this by now’

‘the catch to dying is consciousness’

‘necklaces of the gold star stickers i never got’

‘happy tears of pity and envy’

‘consequences of the consequence’

‘purple prose’

‘did you love me or were you lonely?’

‘lack of love is the new hatred’

‘i’m sorry you thought i was sorry :/‘

‘make orange juice from lemons’

‘our house, their home’

‘perfection is relative’

‘the fork in the road’

‘close we hold the fallen’

‘wonder where my mind goes’

Prompt #17

(Character A) is a colourblind painter who loves flowers (they became a painter of modern art on accident, after they were scouted in art class for their ‘interesting colours’, despite their attempts to avoid their family’s business/tradition).

(Character B) is a florist with allergies who loves art (they became a florist because it was the family’s business and tradition) and is a new friend to (Character A).

One day, they decide to switch jobs by taking each other’s places and they find themselves loving it. As they grow closer by asking questions about their professions, they realize both that their families hate each other from a feud in the 1800’s and that they can’t keep the ploy up forever.

And, as it gets more complicated, they start to fall in love.

he would break the world down piece by piece for you, darling

Trigger Warnings: Overdose, cheating, alcohol

“He would do anything for you,” his friend says to him one day. The coffee in front of her had already gone cold, but she still stirs it with an idle hand. “He would hang the moon for you if you asked. I have no doubt.” He laughs, and doesn’t understand. She looks at him through dirty lenses, and her eyes speak a thousand words, a whole galaxy of thoughts swirling in brown eyes and gold rimmed glasses.

“He would.”

And he still doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand when his boyfriend follows him like a lost puppy, or when he hugs him tighter than anyone else he knows. He doesn’t understand when the lights go out and he feels a hand trying to grab his own under the covers, or when he sees him cry in the corner sometimes.

He could write a song about the silent, slow, rare tears he saw on those nights. It was the kind that travelled down your face and dripped down your neck, and you didn’t care enough to wipe it away. The kind that you didn’t sob out, but rather let go.

It didn’t really matter to him, though. Saltwater was saltwater, and he didn’t care why it came into existence.

“You should go home,” she tells him one night. “Your boyfriend is probably worried, and it’s late.” The club is pounding, pounding, pounding, the bass creeping into his veins and making his breathing and heart stutter just a little bit. Her glasses are reflecting the neon bar sign, and the glare someone’s camera flashing is caught in her purple hair. He couldn’t care less.

“Another Blue Sunset!” He calls out, with a wild grin on his face. There was no way he was leaving before three.

She glances at him from the side, eyebrows scrunched and eyes unsure. “How are you gonna get home?”

“I’ll call my boyfriend,” he waves it off and grabs his full drink. It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine.

And that’s what he tells himself.

That’s what he says when he starts to leave with strangers and promises that it won’t happen again. (He doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince his boyfriend or himself.) That’s what he says when he starts to bring a toothbrush and a comb when he goes to the club. (It’s so he can fix his hair and brush his teeth after having a few.) That’s what he says when his boyfriend’s crying became more frequent and more and more resigned.

(He doesn’t know when this became their normal.)

His boyfriend doesn’t really look at him anymore. He sort of looks at him with his eyes to the floor. And he starts to forget which stairs creak in their house and he stops leaving his socks everywhere because he sleeps in a new house every other night. He doesn’t have the time.

(He doesn’t know when his house stopped being his home.)

The sky looks sad today. He looks up and it’s bright and sunny and clouds are few and far apart. He squints. The beams of light make dots in his eyelashes and he stares at them until his neck aches and his eyes burn. It’s a good day.

(He doesn’t know what that is anymore.)

He never understood why his boyfriend cried more often. He never understood why he wanted more. He never understood why his heart was broken. He never understood that maybe he was like this because his heart was never there in the first place, like it was just ripped out, like there was a hole in his chest and every second of every minute it was straining to get it back, straining to exist a little longer, like he was as empty and hollow as a skeleton in a secondary school biology classroom, like he would never understand how to understand.

(And when he was lying on the floor, his actual heart slowing and his boyfriend screaming a terrible broken sound that made his voice shudder and shake like it couldn’t contain whatever it was feeling and kneeling on the floor next to a bottle of pills that no longer rattled, he still didn’t understand.)

Prompt #20

The world is run by the intelligent, and the dumb are considered as lesser humans.

(Character A) is one of the most elite, knowledgeable people, and holds a high ranking. Contrastingly, (Character B) isn’t smart, and is looked at as scum.

However, both of them find each other through the internet, and as they talk more and more, they realize that the system may be rigged.

Just in case newer followers would like to read this :)

as it should be

“Yellow is fake,” says Lilac to Oleander. “It is because I say so.”

Lilac tilts their head and keeps staring at the setting sun, squinting to see the colours. Oranges and yellows blended together and draped around the clouds like the most perfect curtains to ever exist, natural and ugly.

Fake.

“And all of the clouds must be paintings.” Oleander has never understood Lilac. Maybe they never would.

“What do you mean?” Lilac traces the sky with a gentle, steady hand, the clouds just barely shifting and twisting, gliding instead of pulling like a current in a river. Impossible, incomprehensible.

“Why are black and white not colors, but yellow is?” Lilac questions. Lilac has an awful lot of questions. They’ve always been curious. Not so much that they never look before they leap, but just enough to look over the edge and decide it isn’t that far of a drop.

That doesn’t mean that they would be right, however.

Oleander has always been the kind of person to never leap in the first place, let alone look. The varying perspectives is exciting the main diffference between the two.

Oleander responds, “Because black and white aren’t part of the rainbow.”

Lilac furrows their brow. “But we’re just humans. If we were mantis shrimp, and we had sixteen color receptors, then maybe black and white would be colors in the rainbow.”

Lilac gestures at all the fake colour. It dances around in streaks, brush strokes painting lines stolen right off the rainbow. “Why are we allowed to judge that if we can’t know for sure? Why can’t I declare that yellow is fake, like black and white?”

“Because we want labels.” Oleander is becoming annoyed. “We want labels, because we want to have purpose and meaning. We want to be defined. Purpose is having a place, a contribution to something. That gives us purpose, or whatever we think is purpose anyways.

“We all want purpose, because without it we don’t have meaning.”

“But why can’t we have no labels and still have meaning and purpose?” Lilac runs a hand through their hair, squeezing their eyes shut and staring at the yellows in the backs of their eyelids instead. Comforting fireworks of golden sparks, raining down in waves. An ocean of fiery yellow. It’s fake. “Labels don’t indicate worth. Labels aren’t a purpose. They’re a box. People can’t fit in boxes. I mean, I haven’t ever tried, but I don’t think the shapes would match up.”

Oleander may never understand Lilac, but they will always listen, in case one day, they find an answer in the horde of never-ending questions. In case one day, Oleander figures out why Lilac keeps them up all night when they’re not even there.

In case one day, Oleander won’t have to strike through their thoughts anymore.

“Because boxes are comforting. They’re a safe place. A shelter. And people aren’t always comfortable in their own selves, so sometimes they’ll put themselves in shelters. They’ll make a home in a label because they can’t find one in their own mind.” The words are spilling out of their mouth, clumps and pieces jumbling together. “They don’t feel comfortable with who they are, so they try to make themselves someone they like because they think that they’ll be comfortable with someone else. With a cliché.”

The words stop flowing. They drift off instead, and Oleander tries to catch them, tries to fit them in their fists. It barely works. They only snatch a single sentence. “But they never are.”

It’s a grey sentence, Oleander knows. Shiny silvery grey, colourless. It’s a truthful group of words, honest. Nothing is really black and white. Black and white sentences aren’t lies, really, but they’re always mistaken.

Grey is the only honest colour.

Oleander wonders what the least honest colour is. They think that maybe, just maybe, it might be yellow.

Lilac thinks that Oleander is right. Lilac also thinks that when they look up and open their eyes, all they can see looks like paint on the water, and their focus shifts once more.

“Crystal clear water,” they murmur. “And acrylic.”

Oleander is not following. “What?”

“The clouds,” Lilac explains. They’ve got a sleepy look on their face, and eyes like stars. “I’ve decided they’re paint on water. They can’t be real.”

Oleander wishes they could be Lilac, and see the world as simple as they do.

Just for a second.

A single, sweet second of understanding.

Oleander think about the comparisons of the both of them frequently. It’s glaringly obvious that they contrast each other greatly. One might even say that they complimented each other well.

Lilac smiles slow, small, and sweet, and Oleander doesn’t smile much at all anymore. Lilac is fantastical and creative. Oleander doesn’t even like anything other than non-fiction. Lilac always has an idea. Oleander can’t remember the last time they thought of something new, original.

Oleander wants to contribute to something. Maybe Oleander needs meaning as well.

“Maybe oil pastels on acrylic,” Oleander offers.

Lilac stretches their arms out on the grass below them, digging their fingers in the warm dirt and getting it under their nails. Wet earth stains their hands, but they don’t care. “On a canvas,” they add quietly.

Lilac feels like they could just melt into the ground, close their eyes again without looking once at the explosions of fake colours, and just fall.

Fall intangible through the core of the world, and through the other side.

Maybe even fall through China instead of digging their way there.

Fall into the sky.

Fall asleep.

And they do.

Oleander goes on to stare at the moon. And the clouds go on to being oil pastels on acrylic, and yellow goes on being fake.

Everything is wrong.

As it should be.

Prompt #3

(Character A) checks their slightly distant significant others’ email for them, because of their tendency to forget to do so themselves.

(Character B) sends emails for their mom’s MLM pyramid scheme company. They happen to email (Character A)’s significant other, and (Character A) responds. They begin to talk.

it hurts

“It hurts,” says the ice to the sun, “It hurts me to be with you.”

“But it hurts me too,” says the sun. “Have you ever thought about how your dripping water sizzles on my skin?”

The ice was confused. “Your pain comes from my destruction, yet you invalidate my pain from my own destruction with it?”

“But my pain is important too!” The sun screams their pain louder than the ice ever could.

“Okay,” says the ice, and caters to the sun’s sizzling blisters, not acknowledging their own mutilation.

The blisters do look rather serious, of course.

And so the ice suffers in silence.

Prompt #29

Soulmate AU where the last words your soulmate says is written on your skin.

(Character A) doesn’t have any words. (Character B), their soulmate, is immortal.

I made me!!!!

Picrew

Girl Maker｜Picrew

My tumblr is https://ummmmandy.tumblr.com/ If you use this for posting on other places I'd prefe...

i’m just gonna spend the rest of my summer making myself in these things i swear

anyway anti os should make themselves