Writing Prompt

Elsie was strolling through the corridors, wondering what was inside them. As she finally arrived at the Mr Kingsley’s office, she didn’t bother to knock on the door, she just burst right in.

Mr Kingsley was sitting at his desk staring at Elsie. Elsie was his new illustrator for his book. Apparently she was the best of the best. Mr Kingsley thought the exact opposite. He was wearing a full suit a...

Author: Are those cans of soup?

Artist: Why yes, they are! Many different kinds of soup.

Author: Looks the same. Why are there so many?

Artist: They’re all different. Look at the labels—different soups.

Author: That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and seen.

Artist: Well, many people think it’s beautiful! Tell me, what have you accomplished?

Author: Oh, I’m a well-known author. I’ve writt...

The National Art Museum had an entire exhibit dedicated to the paintings of Yvonne DeLac.

Three interconnected rooms bustling with visitors standing before tableaus of ruins and rivers, bloodied swords and rusted armor, rendition after rendition of human faces twisted with emotion. Soaring happiness, crushing grief, stony resignation and deepest desperation—Yvonne DeLac's paintings explored eve...

Why are you here? That’s what her eyes said. Her mouth was thin and looked as if it hadn’t opened in a hundred years. Marshmallow hair and a crepe paper mask of a face, the old lady was like a million years old. And she had a death grip on her door knob peeking out around the door chain. Travis imagined her mouth opening and a river of wasps pouring out. Bett chuckled. The battle axe slammed the d...

A story creating pictures

Fairytales and happily ever afters

Pictures creating a story

Mediums like paint and plasters

Black and white

Imagination gone wild

Bright and pastel

The heart of a child

Two creative minds

Not so different than the rest

And I think you’ll find

They’re just the best of the best...

Donald Clyde scrutinized my portfolio like a college professor. Eyes darting from left to right, up and down as he took in my drawings. His mouth moved rapidly as he whispered reserved thoughts for only himself. I sat at his dinner table; hands folded tightly between my violently shaking knees. I felt like I'd vibrate off the chair, fall to the tiles with a thud and start vomiting due to anxie...

Hello, my name is Mario. I have been looking into your work for years, but I didn't want to meet like this. Your craft is so intelligent. How you move and plan out everything so smoothly you don't leave any evidence behind from any seen except for this one; you got super sloppy on this one. I read all your books and even looked into all your case. Somehow, you were always ten steps ahead of the au...

As she stepped off the bus, across the street she noticed a street artist painting portraits. She thought to herself although the media is different we’re both hard working artist id love to meet him and have a conversation maybe he can give me writing ideas based upon things he has seen while painting. The people hes painted may have given him some stories he can share, maybe his artwork has take...

Rain pounded the large windows of the average sized loft apartment. Of course she should have been at work writing her next novel chapter. Yet here she was , snuggled up on her white leather couch, tablet and note books scattered on the floor. Swiping left or right on tinder. It had been ages since she’d sought out companionship from anyone. A handful of close friends had invited her out. Yet she ...

Eine Kellnerin in schwarzer Schürze stellte schwungvoll eine Tasse auf den Tresen. „Einmal schwarzer Kaffee für hier.“ Der Junge hinter der Theke bedankte sich und legte einen Schein vor sie. Bevor die Kellnerin ihm das Rückgeld rausgeben konnte, hatte er sich mit dem Kaffee an einen der Tische gesetzt und schlug ein Notizbuch auf. Dann fing er an in einer sehr krakeligen Schrift etwas zu notieren...