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Stories for Prompt Sites by Anthony North - March 2020

by Anthony North 

Posted: 08 March 2020
Word Count: 1072

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There are some useful prompt sites in the blogosphere that offer friendly criticism. They are particularly useful for building confidence and getting the creative juices flowing. You can find some on my sister-site http://keyudos.com/ and the result of participation on my latest blog post: https://anthonynorth.com/2020/03/04/rattlers-tale-1/ - here are my latest works based on the prompts.
The prompts themselves must be read carefully as they have rules in terms of length and style, etc, and many require you to write something based on the featured image. Obviously you need a blog, then write your entry and link the post to the linkage system on the prompt site. Don't delay, as those at the top get the most coverage, and obviously the more posts you visit and comment upon, the more people read your entry.
All the pieces below were written within 30 minutes of visiting the particular prompt site.

It was a chance encounter one foggy morning.
They’d never met before – the lady sat on a bench, the dog stopping to her front.
She thought, how beautiful; which brought back memories …
Of better days, when loneliness was unknown;
When she was part of a crowd;
When relationships seemed never ending;
When fun was had;
When she realized anything was possible …
but now … ?
Oh, to be young again. But …
… memories are such wonderful things.
They invigorate – make young again.
And for a while, she was.
And armed with her thoughts, she took one last look at the lady and walked off.


They looked at raw intelligence – studied it – but couldn’t understand it.
‘Maybe it’s a hardware problem,’ said the leader.
The others agreed and popped it back in the head. But still it didn’t work – couldn’t figure out he was dead.
So the robots took it out again, and again and again in an eternal loop …
… which was the problem with artificial intelligence.
It’s dumb.
Which is why they had to try to understand the real thing.
But they were running out of humans.


It had been the strangest of job interviews.
Was he merely eccentric, or could he really be a vampire?
Regardless, after my interview he invited me back to his flat for dinner.
‘We share so many interests,’ he said, as he poured the wine.
It was blood red in colour – as for its constituency and taste?
I gagged.
There was only one course – what he called, ‘a delectable dish of steamed red fruits.’
He continued, dribbling as he forked one piece after another:
‘This piece is like a breath of fresh air; and this?
‘So good for the blood.’
Now a bigger piece – a delightful smile as it slithered down his throat.
‘Ah, the fruit of love.’
I thought it was horrendous and far too fleshy.
After dinner I said: ‘I’ll take the job.’
He was elated. But of course, he wasn’t a vampire.
No, like me, he’s a fellow cannibal – though a lousy cook.
And tomorrow?
I begin work at the organ transplant distribution centre.


The music of love can be a symphony of emotion, she knew.
It can range from sultry adagio to the crescendo of wild passion.
Cathy – or ‘C’, as he called her – knew this.
She had recently had a crescendo – and not the nice kind.
He had taken a vow of celibacy, whereas she was a passionate concert pianist …
… and she wanted more than love – she wanted sex. As the nearly dress she wore, made clear.
‘I can’t go on like this!’ she had screamed.
His reply included his usual silly language of anagrams and word games.
‘Sex is just ex s,’ he had replied.
She stormed out. Went home. Sat at her piano and played a dirge all night long …
… until …
She answered the door to the courier.
Took the envelope.
Opened it. Viewed the picture of him in bed.
And the music sheet for one of Chopin’s Nocturnes.
Music of the night? His bed? Could it be … ?
She placed the music on the piano. Stared. Then she remembered his word games:
… hop in C …
The music of love played long.


One by one they appear – like a montage.
All the world’s a stage, so it is good the backdrop is a theatre.
And they are all actors – As I am (was) …
… except … I can’t say it … except …
… I had to eventually accept I was not very good.
My fellow actors all told me so!
That’s when I began the one act play.
After I learnt new skills, that is.
The play begins by photographing them …
… continues by slitting their throats.
Stuffing them.
Placing them on timber stands upon the stage.
Then I act.
Who’s wooden now?!


Fresh veg on a half empty shelf.
I just can’t get that image out of my mind.
A metaphor?
Veg – short for vegetables.
Or vegetate?
Words entered my mind.
Done that.
Married her.
I suppose I felt like that veg when I walked into the store.
You know – old, redundant; on the shelf.
It was a dirty shelf; people went straight to the freezers.
They were sparkling new, full of plastic food.
I’m trying to contact Chris, tell her…
I still see the old veg shelf now as I go into the freezer.
In the morgue.


It began as I walked up the starecase.
With each step my trepidation grew.
Sweat, like shards of ice, lacerated my skin.
I was waiting for it, but not like this.
The corner of my eye.
Why does horror always first appear there?
Because we instinctually turn away.
I’m an individual, you see.
Ha! See
I demand my privacy, to my thoughts
My emotions.
It was there now, floating to my front, its evil eye bottomless
At the top of the stares I came to the door.
The sign said ‘Doors’, plural, but there was only one.
And above, ‘MacroHard.’
I opened Doors – entered the gallery.
The ultimate techno experience.
Whether you wanted it or not.
On every wall there were eyes.
The selfie was now streaming ..
… tears

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Comments by other Members

Practicer at 12:04 on 12 March 2020  Report this post
I have visited the blog. It looks interesting and exciting. 
It looks well worth the time to browse some good reads.

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