Every now and then, when I’m feeling bored or need something to spur a new idea, I do a writing prompt. Back when I was a member of the NU Write Club, I used to do writing prompts weekly. Writing prompts are a great way to get those creative juices flowing, especially if you’re feeling stuck. Sometimes, you write something worth continuing and end up expanding it into something bigger. At the very least, they’re a good way to get all of the bad writing out.
I have decided to start posting some of these prompts here, since most of them are just sitting around gathering dust anyways.
This is the first prompt I’ve chosen to share:
Write from the point of view of a character who has committed a murder. Do not mention the murder.
Should I feel bad?
I guess a normal person would. Aren’t I a normal person, though? What is normal anyways? Normal is a function of large numbers, an illusion that only exists at the peak of a bell curve. In individuals, there is no normal or abnormal. There only is.
I don’t feel bad. I really don’t. And I guess that’s kind of scary to think, let alone say out loud. What does that make me? Am I a bad person?
There I go again. Applying terms to an individual that can only exist relatively. There is no good or bad. There is only me.
Still, I can’t help this feeling. My hands haven’t stopped shaking. I feel my eyes being drawn to the door, as though someone could burst in at any moment. Paranoid, I know, but I can’t fight it. I suppose it’s best to pour of cup of tea and sit down. Maybe try to get some reading done.
Nothing is going to happen. There’s no way anyone will ever know. But no matter how many times I repeat this mantra, my eyes still avoid the mirror.
I don’t see my face as I know it. Instead, I see it pale, the skin stretched over it like rubber. I see blood. I see rot. I feel the creeping cold calling me.
I’m afraid. Afraid…my will isn’t as strong as I hoped it would be.
It’s dark. So, so dark. My light bulb burned out, leaving me only with the glow of the streetlight. All the stores are closed. I’m going to have to wait until morning.
I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. The unspeakable thing of black and cold and doom.
It’s waiting for me.
It knows what I’ve done.