Writing Prompt
WRITING OBSTACLE
Write a descriptive paragraph about a predator.
Think about the meanings of the word predator - it could be an animal, a person, a completely fictional being, or something more metaphorical.
Writings
Predator And Squirrels
Grasp onto nature’s bars. Climb until your eyes gaze upon the heavens. Danger is around the corner. The predators lurk, searching for a vertebrate on the island. Their jaws slide with aggression against the rocky terrain, sharpening their teeth to be ready for the day. Swiftly, chips disintegrate underneath the heavy stomps of the creatures. The hoard sniffs the aroma of rooting apples topping the air. The predator devours the stale chips lying on the soil as the squirrels swing past the bushes. The predators’ bloodshot eyes darken to lipstick red; They are restlessness. Their pale fingers rejuvenate as they bite into their furry prey. The Potato Lays crashes, sliding down the hills without mercy. Each piece dives for its safety- there’s no guarantee for life. Furry animals cling onto the flimsy branches which is the only safety route. Branches snap as the weight of the animals elevates. Suddenly, a vacuum sucks every organism in. Only scratches resonate on the barks, symbolizing past existence. The predator hunts the prey.
Thief
It was stolen, I can't take it back. My mom won't help me, and my father won't help me. I feel so dirty, I feel so embarressed. I can't help but envision it when I close my eyes in the shower, his warm hands, his sweet smile. He was twice my age, so much bigger, he had the strength of a 16 year old. It wasn't his fault he was a kid too, he has a future too. It was my fault, I don't know why it's mine everyone I've told said it is. Maybe I had the wrong look in my eyes, maybe it was just his teenage hormones and I did something wrong. Still I have to get it back, whatever it takes I want, no NEED it back. He stole it, my big brother stole it away from me, I have to get it back from him, I have to get my innocence back, for little child me.
Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing
He smiles, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, wanting to lure you in with a false sense of security. He observes, watching you like a hawk, plotting how to pin you down until you’re utterly defenseless. He circles you and middles your mind as panic sets in, surrounding you like a shark ready to catch its prey. When he’s ready he’ll jump up and strike like a lion, and devour you, bit by bit. You’ll feel bare. Exposed without any means of protection. You can’t escape. He’s got you now, trapped and defenseless like a prey.. and he’s the predator.
With claws instead of Heart
Blue eyes, sweet curls, slow walk, Soft skin, warm smile, bright hair, Shallow emotions, Empty inside.
Kind words, simplicity and style, Great compliments and goodness, Fake empathy, Lovebombing.
“Not heard”, “Don’t care”, “Who, me?” “My only fault is caring!” “I’m sorry you’re so sensitive!” “I didn’t say that!” “You’re crazy!” Ghosting.
Helplessly walking into you, Assault is imminent and mortal, Miming defenselessness and love With claws instead of heart. She’s winning.
“So maybe YOU’re the narcissist!” “So maybe I’m the hurt one!” You know her too? From one survivor to another: Start running!
Monsters
Sam woke with a start, his heart fluttering in his chest and his brow moist with sweat.
As he looked around, he could see a pair of eyes peering back at him, drawing closer. He wanted to cry out, to yell and shout and lash out at the darkness that surrounded him, but he was stopped in his tracks as he felt himself being enveloped.
“Shhh. It’s OK…”, whispered the pair of eyes, and the person attached to them. He felt a hand slip into his own, and suddenly the darkness around him seemed to recede, his body beginning to loosen.
“You just had another bad dream…”
Sam sighed in frustration as he settled backwards, his heart still racing. The body pressed against him soon returned to slumber, the sound of garbled breathing filling the room once again, but he lay awake well into the night. He wondered to himself if these dreams would ever end, or if they’d linger on the edges of his mind forevermore, coming and going as they pleased. He never could remember them - they always seemed to slip away before they could coalesce fully in his mind, and that much he was grateful for. He knew deep down though, what they represented.
Those days seemed like an eternity ago, but no matter how many years passed between then and now, through all the sorrow and joy and contentedness that life had given him, he could never escape the long shadow they cast.
Those days of muffled footsteps and darkened rooms, of vulnerability and a little boy’s fears so great that they seemed to take on a life of their own, shifting and flourishing and growing alongside him - fears borne not of ghosts in sheets or other fancies of imagination, but of something much more sinister and something much, much closer to home.
Mother
She is my clay Free for me to mold to whatever I wish. I deserve to. I made her. I am her creator. And I am the person she’s afraid to become.
Her tears are my opportunity. Her yawns are open doors of manipulation. Let me mold you daughter. Let me make you into who I wanted to be. Let me make you perfect.
You say I don’t know you. But I’m the one who you are the most like. Do you assume I don’t know myself? Come here child. Come into the arms of cynical embrace.
Let me feast on your insecurities. Crunching the doubts and fears Between my teeth.
Tasteful. Satisfying. Delightful.
The Ex Predator
You wrap your self up tightly, double checking the locks. Don’t be silly they say, your at home, your safe. Embarrassed you smile back as you pretend to agree, because of course tucked up in bed there’s no where safer you could be? Right?
Knock, knock, knock You debate opening that door because going back can’t hurt any more than it did before,right?
Predictable and safe your list is down to two expectations,traits that are harder to find than the pot at the end of a rainbow.
Flashes of painful memories pour in your head , Checking closets, behind curtains even under your bed, Not a big bad monster come to eat you alive, just a very real figure holding a knife.
Menacing eyes as he grimly holds the blade to your throat, each time you remember you start to choke… But he’s gone right?
Everything is fine now… right?
Except he’s not, even if he’s not around. every time I lay my head down I realise I’ll never be free of the predator who haunts me.
It’s not a rare predator I’m talking about, you can’t barricade yourself in, or hire soldiers in forts that will take them down.
The biggest threat is love when it turns to hate. The best feeling ending up as the worst, the one to protect you from everyone but themselves.
The predator lays with you even after it’s gone every. Single. Night. The taunting goes on
Kiwanis Club
Lori could feel every muscle in her body tense up as she walked into the auditorium with her mom at her side. Malcolm was sporting an all purple suede suit and charming one of the mom’s of one of the kids in the Kiwanis Club. His words spun around the room like a carousel, his plastic smile painted on, eyes darting from freckle to freckle on the mom’s unsuspecting face. Lori could feel his eyes land on her briefly as he was inflating yet another mom’s tire with trust, flashing a warning with a blink.
The Quiet Hunter
Micah doesn’t just move; he infiltrates. His presence lingers before it’s seen—a chill that prickles your skin, though you dismiss it as mere unease. Watching him is like watching a cat study a bird: silent, poised, almost elegant in his restraint. Yet his intent is unmistakable. He doesn’t ever strike outright. Instead, he waits, gauges, and catalogues what pulls you in, finding the cracks. A flicker of kindness or a moment quiet understanding—just enough for you to let him in a little further each time. His attention feels rare, almost curated, making it seem worth fighting for. But by the time you realize he won’t stay, he’s already gone, leaving faint traces that keep you lingering, hoping he’ll return. Micah doesn’t tear through people, no. He slowly hollows you out, leaving a husk where something hopeful used to be, filled only with the echoes of what you wanted him to be…
Jeremy
He crept up to the tiny mountain, watching the last few inhabitants scurry inside, one carrying a grain of rice, another a grain of sand. His eyes were dark and focused. Snot wound its way carelessly down his upper lip, almost to his mouth, before he gave a violent sniff, trapping it and sucking it back up into his nasal cavity. It left behind a trail of grime that matched the dirty track marks of tears long forgotten on his cheeks. He ground a filthy fist into his eye, as though suddenly reminded of the shame of this morning, of yesterday, of a thousand mornings. Crouching low, so that the Old Man wouldn’t see him, he armed himself with the blowtorch he’d stolen from the neighbour’s garage, pulled the goggles down over his face, and allowed his expression to go completely blank. It was time to release them all from the pain of futility.