Writing Prompts

Prompt: Use the following words: "little boy," "torn page," "market," "cart"
     Mrs. Jameson didn't know what to do - or rather, Mrs. Jameson felt so helpless. Her little boy sat in the backseat of the car she had come to call home. Evicted, jobless, so alone except for her little angel ... how long had it been since she was able to give him a home-cooked meal? She pulled into a vacant parking space of the dollar-dime grocery store. Canned beans and corn, a loaf of white bread and jelly - those where the dinners she could provide for him. As she tugged a shopping cart free and hoisted little Danny into the little seat in the front of it, he began chanting "Market, market, market!" It almost broke her heart that he couldn't remember the better times when they had an apartment to live in and hot food to eat - and a father. As she avoided all eye contact and wheeled the cart down the "ready-to-eat" aisle, she couldn't help feeling angry. That bastard.
    Lowering a gallon jug of water into the cart, paper caught her eye. A little looseleaf, scrap of a paper caught in the bars of the bottom of the cart.
    "For those who tread in fear and darkness, persevere and keep hope, for there are few things more powerful than hope."
    Keep hope? And where had that gotten here? Nonetheless, Mrs. Jameson tucked the torn page with its scrawled beacon of light into her pocket as she proceeded down the aisle.

Prompt: write something based on the metaphor "a plate of fear"
    The dusty island sat upon the surface of the water as if resting on a cool, silver plate. The silence was only interrupted by the sound of waves lapping against the pier and the hulls of burnt-out boats; ghostly, burnt-out frames resting in the water.
    The water rippled as a silent wind blew across the surface, low and invisible save for the ripples. The stormy clouds up above reflected the water's ominous gray. On land was stillness, nothing moving save the scurrying of a rat scrambling over rubble. It stopped and twitched before burying itself into a niche, and again all was still.
    The buildings were black silhouettes against the cold, stern clouds. They were batter. Sunken. Demolished. They were mere frames of their former glory. At the base of a blackened skyscraper, cold metal skeleton bared and twisted, was a lone child. She was huddled, grime streaking her face, and she was afraid to move. Forever would be the hum of warplanes and the screech of air and metal ringing in her ears on the lonely island in its sea of glass.

Prompt: Write about a man who got stood up on a date
    From the window of the cafe, I have a perfect view of all the street. It's cold outside, and my breath frosts the glass as water droplets run down the other side of the pane of glass. My nose is cold from being pressed up against the glass, as well as my forehead. Is it raining?
    A fine mist with a miserable drizzle covers the street and colors it in grays and blues; a contrast to the warm oranges and reds on the other side of the glass. I am glad to be inside.
    A man is standing on a corner. He has been standing there for quite a while now. I wonder what's keeping him there, withstanding the mist and damp. He's moving restlessly now, shifting from leg to leg before reaching a hand out to steady himself against the black lightpost. Its feeble light is flickering unsteadily as if unsure whether the overcast sky indicates night or day. The post must be slick with precipitation, since he is now wiping his hand on his jeans. Cars whiz by the street, provoking sheets of spray to leap up into the air. Between the rushing blurs of metal, I can still see him standing there. Everytime someone walks up to within a few feet of him, he looks up expectantly. I wonder who he's waiting for. He's been there for so long, I wonder if he's been frozen to the spot from the chill.
    He shakes himself roughly and hugs his arms close to his body, attempting to ward off the bone-drenching moisture. A particularly close car sends a wave of spray crashing into him and he's completely drenched.
    For a moment he stands still, as if startled to immobility in disbelief of his wretchedness. His face is a torrent of emotions; anger and irritation, as well as an overpowering exhaustion, struggle and conflict within him. He's slouching now as he moves closer to the inside of the sidewalk to slump against the brick wall of the orthodontist's clinic.
    For the next twenty minutes he stands completely motionless except a flick of his wrist to check the time. My coffee is now completely cold as he finally moves away from the wall, stumbling wearily down the street. He half tosses, half drops, something roughly behind him as he disappears into the bustle of the city, leaving behind a single, crushed rose.