Cluck Cluck Silence

Write one sentence. Then write another without violating the first one. Continue until complete


Okay, this is bullshit. That bullshit situation and why do they do this? To prove themselves. To prove that they’re so hot we’ll do anything for them. Risk the ridicule of their friends for the chance to maybe get somewhere, something, maybe. Women, so fucking bullshit, with their troubles and their needs and their talk talk talk, wine me dine me talk. But so fucking worth it.

Especially this one, eying me, across the bar. Surrounded by friends, Mrs. Motherhen and the Ugly One and it’s all so cliché. Nothing cliché about her though, pretty as can be, and she’s definitely eying me.

Okay, lets do it. Finish your beer and go. Talk to her. Fuck the others, she’s yours, she wants you. Be brave. Walk over. Yes. Her eyes follow, you’re in, she’s yours, closer, across the bar, her eyes locked in, away, back, giving me the signs. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten, she looks away. Playing innocent, I get it, I saw you. Five, three, one.

“Hello,” I say. I’ve never been good with game; hello’s all I got. “Not interested,” says Mrs. Motherhen. Fuck you bitch, I ain’t talking to you. No one is. I smile. Chicks love the smile. “Can I get you a drink?” “I said she’s not interested.” Cluck cluck cluck, that’s all I hear, as I stare at the girl. I’m in, she’s with me, staring back, eye contact, the most powerful connection one can make.

“Cluck cluck cluck why are you still here cluck cluck cluck.” Okay seriously, this bitch, say something lady, get up and lets go, before I smack her. This fucking cunt, ruining my time, my game, which I don’t have much of, and fuck, she’s just sitting there, I don’t get it. “Bartender cluck cluck cluck, this guy is bothering us. Make him leave.” What? Fucking hen, fucking bitch, making eye contact still, just sitting there, not moving, and now I look like an ass, an idiot. Nothing to say, no idea what to do. Fuck, I should just crawl up and die. The bouncer comes and I don’t resist, just walk away, defeated, dead, done.

One look back and there are the three girls, no eye contact, just laughing. Fuck.


The Engine Lab

Cristina and Scott meet after a failed experiment. One wants revenge and there is a near death experience involved. Write the story.


It was supposed to be a simple experiment. They did it every year, Aero 351, turn on the engine and measure some shit, then go home and do some calculations, write a report. That’s how it was supposed to be, how it went every year.

But not this year.

Read more of this post

Broke At The Magic Mirror

Combine the following into a story: abandoned town, zerbra (zebra spelled wrong), Jack Daniels, broke [at] the magic mirror (the at was actually an ‘a’ crossed out, but I took it to be an at symbol)


It was all she could do to get out of here. This place, this town, hell it was called, at least it should be, where 10pm hits and there’s nothing to do, where everything is closed.

Nothing except her trusty watering hole, The Magic Mirror. For good times, go to The Magic Mirror, nothing else to do in this stupid town.

She slides inside, past the bouncer, and takes her seat at the bar. “Hey Zerbra,” she says. “How’s it goin’?”

Read more of this post


Use the following words in a story: nursery, reward, scallop


Trees and bushes and a million types of flowers. Dahlias, roses, tulips, all different varieties, so much to choose from. What did she want? Front yard, beside the driveway, her new garden, she said unique and beautiful, not cliche which eliminates roses. Tulips it is, tulips and a sunflower. That’s unique, like back in kindergarden, planting sunflowers in the school garden, that’ll be fun, that’s definitely unique.

He pays the cashier, takes his flowers, leaves the nursery, and heads home. A short drive, short enough to walk, but not when you have flowers to bring home with you.

He arrives, and what is this? On the sidewalk, in front of his driveway, it’s a little girl. It’s the neighbor’s girl, no more than seven. And she’s crying. What’s she doing here, all alone, and why’s she crying?

Read more of this post

Spending Time With Uncle Dean

Cross these questions (chosen at random from a Scientology pamphlet) to create your prompt:  (#14) Would the idea of inflicting pain on game, small animals, or fish prevent you from hunting? and (#17) Are you usually concerned with the need to protect your health?


My uncle Dean is in town again, and he’s crazy, Fucking crazy. Mom makes he hang out with him but I hate it. Hate him. He’s crazy. Kicked out of high school and also out of college. Lost his job, should have gone to jail for that last one, attacking that girl in the back alley, he said she was drunk, that she said she wanted it.

And now I get to hang out with him. Yay me. “Family,” mom says. This is not good.

Read more of this post

Impressing James Cameron

Combine the following words/ideas into a story: Burbank, James Cameron, Twelve pipers piping, snowmen


Los Angeles. Hollywood. The biz. December. The worst time of year. Work is dry, it’s cold, not “cold” cold but LA cold, you don’t even get to build snowmen. Can it really be called winter if there’re no snowmen? Can it really be called Hollywood if it’s Burbank, wrong side of the hill, where all the workers are but big wigs are not. Burbank, where second and third jobs are practically a requirement: waiting tables, bartending, and December Christmas pageants, twelve pipers piping, that’s what I am this year.

Read more of this post

Another Pile Of Shit

Story dice: I rolled three and got an arrow, a skyscraper, and a footprint (which I took as barefoot).


Hurry, hurry, of course you’re late. Big day, and of course you’re late. Slept in, 1PM is your meeting, you knew that but what do you do? Sleep in, miss your bus and now it’s 12:50 and you still have a ways to go, ways to go, running through the streets, downtown, your big day, your big meeting, to pitch your story.

The skyscraper is ahead and you can see it: your destination, almost there. Top floor, this is big, top executive, how could you sleep in? Your first break in years, working, slaving away and now opportunity knocks, you’re there, you’ve reached it. Two minutes to spare.

“Spare some change?” a homeless man asks, but there’s no time for that. I’m late, should have been here fifteen minutes ago.

I sidestep around him. Shit. Right in it. Shit on the sidewalk, I stepped right into it. The homeless guy is laughing now, asshole, he probably put it there, laughing at me outside this building where the top floor awaits my life’s biggest meeting.

Read more of this post