The Writer’s Prompt Turns My Blood Into Melted Cheese And The Zombies Can Smell It

I’m uncomfortable with the WordPress writer’s prompt.  I feel like a zombie sandwich when I try to do that sort of writing.  I’d rather look down at the floor and write about looking down at the floor.  There’s a lot down there.  My dog, my feet, an afghan rug made during the war, Kosinski’s bag filled with old shoes, the turnpike length of my dick lined with cops armed with radar guns waiting for women going one mile over the limit, an African pillow, and all of the thoughts leaking out of my brain and they form runoff in a parking lot after a rain and eventually the runoff turns into a river that carries houses and old cars down to the sea.  Things head toward the sea in my mind, mostly bodies.  Not always.  Sometimes things and people go home or fall or float upward, like forces from above, waiting there, reaching down their hands to help me get higher still. 

Do you love me?  That’s a dangerous question. How many people have run away when you say, I like you?  I like you is tame compared to I love you.  I love you is like a funeral.  Everything just dies and suddenly you are standing in front of a table with a Brazilian girl looking up at you and you say, by chance are you Brazilian and she says, no I’m from Milwaukee and my ancestors are Ho-Chunk.  Or maybe she’s a Guinness Calendar girl who you met on a Thai beach and the bar owner comes out to shoot a cobra, but some other guy picks up a rake and beats it to death.  But probably, she’s French and says, I hate you.  Funny, I hate you often leads to pretty good things.  At least in my world.

All of these things are part of my writer’s prompt … what do you see when you look down at the floor?

I think I’ll send this writing topic to some of those people who put out the prompts on WordPress.  Maybe they’ll like it.  

3 thoughts on “The Writer’s Prompt Turns My Blood Into Melted Cheese And The Zombies Can Smell It

  1. “the turnpike length of my dick lined with cops armed with speedometers waiting for women going one mile over the limit,…” reigns as the best phallic metaphor of all time. I’m betting that there are many overdue speeding tickets stashed under that afghan rug. Wait, is that another cop siren I’m hearing?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I do the prompts when I’m real bored and can’t think of anything else. For me it’s more to get into conversations with other people. But I think if you put your prompt out there, you’ll get responses about what’s literally on the floor.

    Like

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