What you think this is;
what was once here, knit;
leaves of breath
beads of sweat
(more) branching out over -
the trunk of the problem
What you think this is;
it once was:
The galloped lope
the canteened hope
rests in a satchel upon
the hips of Him.(less)
It isn't easy to think of something good with a poorly selected trigger like this. They say a writer should be able to expound on anything, but there are some limits aren't there? If you expect me to write 300 words based on the words "it isn't" without(more) awkwardy working it in to some innocuous phrase to stand out like a sore thumb, it isn't going to happen.
Eventually, it isn't a matter of creativity or verboseness when a writer is confronted with the quite plainly insulting lack of character and potential in a prompt. Below I see such prompts as "broken candle", evoking soft light and midnight disappointments. Or what about "burning need" which puts one in mind of either hot piss or hotter sex. "Sweet nothing", "awakening" all make you feel beginnings in your fingertips, make you grasp the opening maw of a story and begin to reign it in. A good prompt is a thing that makes you feel your own sheer power and cleverness. It is something you can masturbate to, figuratively of course. It is something you can smell and taste and swallow and absorb.
If a writer isn't given the data she needs, the tools, the materials, how can she then become god as all writers are for a moment? How can I poke my nose into the strangest emotions and thoughts of the characters--the people--that could somewhere exist waiting, waiting for a broken candle or a burning need? Should the story that could have been here just whither and die, completely obliterated by the would-have-beens in my keyboard?
If a writer is not fed the most succulent words how can she birth them? It isn't right. It isn't possible. It isn't FUN. I really think you all should try a little harder.(less)
If they don't kill us, then what?
Just shut up, ok? Obviously I don't have the answer.
Seriously! If this batch doesn't kill us, then what? Are we just going to run forever?
I swear to god I'm going to shoot you if you don't shut up.
Listen(more) to me!
No, you listen to me! If we get out of this, I am going to sew your mouth closed, and then we are going to go find the others. Is that good enough?
I think I heard someth-OW!
Shut. Up. Please.
That wasn't necessary.
What's your name?
Aren't you going to answer me?
What if I told you my name?
Aren't you afraid for your life?
I'm bored. I'm sure they're gone by now.
What is wrong with you? No. Don't answer that. Just shut up.
"It isn't words," they say, "but actions that matter." Your actions, those I understand. The way you let me know you by choosing a puddle rather than the dry curb. How you carry your dog, nearly as big as you, when his joints hurt. The quickness in which you(more) dart for the center of the room when a favorite song comes on. This is what I see. Your words, however, say so much but I still hear nothing. (less)