Unfinished sentences: writing prompt

five-minute writer

I’ve had this book for longer than I care to admit, and it is only recently that I’ve tried my hand at some of the prompts. The book is pretty good, most prompts are basic but, in my opinion, good enough to exercise your brain and get the creative juices flowing. 

The following exercise is called “Unfinished sentences” and the rule is simple: choose one and write for five minutes. I have framed the prompts between brackets, the rest is nothing by my attempt to be as creative as possible before the 5-minute countdown ends. 


[The stale smell of the old rug made me] spill memories I did not want spilled. They were old and crinkled and reeking of old habits I was so ashamed of. Dark habits, the kind that hurt the skin to protect the soul, the kind that fooled me for years, scarred me, put me in the spotlight when all I wanted was to be off it. Stale habits, as old as a rug in need of a makeover.

[People don’t] think we exist, and it’s probably better this way. Inspiration must be preserved and looked after, it’s not easy but we’ve been doing it for centuries. Everyone has a muse, whether they have realized it or not, and we were built to stay quiet, to inspire without taking over, but, is that all there is for us? Why can’t we take credit for our own work, our own ideas? Why should our clients reap the benefits of what we sow? There is no fairness in this world, only servants and gods. Why can’t we be the gods?

[I have never told anyone this before, but] I suffer from a rare disease, so rare it has no name, that has me mimic behaviours of others as though they were my own. It only happens when I have company, I try to resist it and be myself but I can feel it slipping through my fingers, my identity with all its quirks and flaws. They just fade and leave room for someone who isn’t me, someone who will never be me no matter how long I am exposed. People don’t get it, they think I’m a freak, a fake, an imposter, a liar, a manipulator and I don’t blame them. I watch as I slowly lose the essence of who I am and I find myself spending more and more time alone, with no one to mimic but myself.

[As the mist cleared, I saw] the men, all the men I had lost, aligned in one neat row. I thought to myself, I did this, and I’m going to live with it for the rest of my life, but the men disagreed in unison. They shook their heads no even though I hadn’t uttered a single word. Suddenly, the silence seemed less oppressing. None of this was real but I knew, somewhere in the depths of me, there remained a tiny golden speck of self-love.

I guessed that something was wrong as soon as I crossed the threshold of our home. The kettle was screaming, piercing through the thick cloud of smoke that hung over the kitchen, and the TV was blasting the last scene of Lord Of The Rings. I scurried to the stove and took the burger patty-shaped lumps of charcoals off the smoking pan and choked, yelling for my wife. The screams bounced off the walls but I heard no echoes back. I clambered up the stairs and pushed doors open, empty rooms, empty corridors, empty everything.

If you feel so inclined, feel free to experiment and share yours. The more the merrier. And since practice makes perfect, maybe we can improve together. 



Thanks for reading.
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