A Thought on Prompts

I have a strong love-hate relationship with writing prompts. They can be phenomenal inspiration or kill creativity. Whichever result occurs depends largely on what type of writer's block a person has. Sometimes going for a run (or a coffee run) can be the best way to refocus the mind. Other days, I find myself brimming with passion for something, and it doesn't particularly matter what. In those times I need to write something, anything, but I'm completely uninspired for my current projects and I have no ideas for new ones. Then I'll Google prompts and take one to write a short piece about. These excerpts rarely amount to anything; however, even the throw-away stories are good practice, and at times they're enough to loosen the mind and get back to what I need to be doing.
That being said, here are some prompts I like but haven't used yet. Some are sentences to use, and others are ideas for the story's framework.

"He wanted peace, and stopped breathing willingly."
"Still waiting to start living, she died."
"There was a letter on the table. It called to her, beckoning the graceful slice of a letter opener. But she couldn't bear to read what she knew it would say."
Write about something beautiful: Love, magic, family, opportunity.
Write about something ugly: War, hate, cruelty, fear.
Pick a very specific part of your body. Write about it in as much detail as possible. Add your opinions on these details. Use this as the framework for a character describing him/herself.
Invent a horribly embarrassing moment.
Plot twists: start out with one emotion and transition to it's opposite. A sad story ends with characters finding beauty amongst the misery. A happy story concludes with death/tragedy. A haunting winds up being a big prank.
Something integral to our society (Internet, marriage, school, etc.) is banned. How do we react?
That which you wanted, but never happened, occurs.
Alternate dimensions: so many possibilities! Who are you/Who is your character? A politician? A famous athlete? Transgender? A charity worker? A prostitute? Write about it and express the shock and the change from this dimension's life.
"We met, illicitly, and time stood still."
"Whatever you do, don't press that but--"
"His body came home unscathed. His mind never recovered."
"I had to say goodbye for the final time. It wasn't healthy, the longing I felt for someone I could never have. For my love's happiness, I would distance myself. For the sake of someone else's marriage, I would give up my happily ever after."

I hope you felt inspired. Maybe you didn't. Go ride your bike to McDonalds and dip fries in ice cream. Staring at the computer screen can sometimes do far more harm than any other activity in terms of writer's block.

Memories

Here's something I wrote awhile ago. It's a fanfiction from when I was eleven or twelve. It's about a girl who is Voldemort's daughter, and she makes it her life mission to protect Harry Potter from death eaters. It's absolutely atrocious. Honestly, though, that's what I love about it. Aside from being good for a few laughs, it reminds me of how far I've come since then. It showcases the obstacles I've overcome as far as my writing skills, and it reminds me of how much I've changed as a person. To be honest, during the past two years alone I've grown and changed (for better and for worse) more than any other point in my life for a multitude of reasons. This piece of history comes from about six years ago, and despite the utter lack of skill I find myself highly nostalgic rereading it, spelling mistakes and all. I know I just posted something yesterday, but after a few weeks of radio silence I need to make up for the lost time. I hope you enjoy my beautifully flawed writing.

The Letter and Sorting

"Hurry up! We've got to make it to Diagon Alley before Harry does!" Mrs. Johnson called.
Voldrada sighed, then called, "Mom, Dumbledore said that his aunt and uncle weren't even letting him see any of the letters and Hagrid the gamekeeper's been sent to go get him and now we're probably going to arrive days before and how do you expect us to have enough gold?!"
"We can use the gold your father left behind."
"Mooom! All dad's gold is stolen! How do you expect anybody to let me live down the fact that I lived off of stolen gold?!"
As they were fighting Vernon Dursley was dragging his wife, Petunia, his son, Dudley, and his poor and neglected nephew, Harry Potter, across the country to the grossest and most disgusting places in a desperate attempt to keep Harry what he called a "normal human" and out of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hagrid later came and rescued him from his relatives.
The next day, as Harry walked the streets of Diagon Alley, little did he know that he was being watched. Of course, he heard people whisper excitedly "Look, mom! It's him! It's really him!", but he thought that it was because he was famous, or something about Hagrid. He had no idea that the someone was following him, or that that someone was the only child of the man who murdered his parents and who is also constantly trying to save his life from her dad and his followers.
Anyway, on the Hogwarts Express Voldrada sat with some other first years in a compartment, and enjoyed herself so much that she completely forgot the the Ministry of Magic was paying her to protect Harry Potter. She asked what everyone's name was, to make a change of conversation.
"My name's Hermione Granger." said a bushy-haired, buck-tooth girl with a bossy tone in her voice.
"I'm Neville Longbottom. And this toad is Trevor" said a boy with a round appearence.
"Pavarti Patil."
"Dean Thomas."
"Seamus Finnagin. Who are you?"
Voldrada had been prepared for this. "Lily Johnson. My mom works at the Three Broomsticks in the kitchen on weekends and is in training to become an Auror. She's been training for years and expects to finish in a year or less."
"What about your dad?" asked Pavarti.
She hadn't been prepared for this. "Oh, well... I, uh... I mean he sort of is, um, dead."
"Oh! I'm soo sorry! I didn't mean to, er, you know..."
"It's okay!" My mom says he was sort of a deadbeat anyway. Besides, I don't miss him much because I never knew him."
"Hey, look!" cried Hermione, clearly trying to change the subject. "A snack trolley!"
As all the kids got some candy, Lily decided to make a better excuse for her dad. Yes, a lot of people believed Lord Voldemort to be dead, but she knew it wasn't true. If there was one thing she had learned from growing up with her dad, it was that Legimency didn't lie. She didn't want anybody using that mind-reading spell on her, or that one truth potion, Vertiserum or whatever.
"Oh, nooo!" groaned Neville. "Trevor's gotten himself lost again!"
"I'll help find him!" Voldrada and Hermione both said at once.
"Let's both go. We're in the middle of the train, so you can search the front half and I'll search the back half."
"Thanks soo much" cried Neville. "I wouldn't even have known where to start searching!"
As she started off looking for the toad, Voldrada finally remembered to keep an eye out for Harry Potter. After whispering a slight swear, she decided that he was okay for the train ride. Besides, he would suspect something if she kept checking up on him. She only hoped- no, she prayed- that they would be in the same house, preferably Griffindore. Yeah, her parents were in Hufflepuff and Slytheryn, but she had a feeling that Harry, Neville, and Hermione would be in Gryffindore. She couldn't explain it, but she often got a feeling in her gut that told her things, and it ways nearly always true. She shivered, and thought for the millionth time that it could be in her blood. A.K.A., her dad's blood.
"Lily!" called Hermione, bringing her back to her senses. "We've found Trever! Let's go back to the compartment and get into our robes."
"Good idea. It's getting dark."
It was true; they could almost see some sort of building in the distance. Lily was so excited she put her robes on backwards. Hermione and Pavarti giggled and her get them straight. It was going to be a long night. Again she thought about what house she'd be in.
"We're here! I see Hogwarts!" first-years were screaming all along the train. A few actually hyperventilated and passed out with overexcitment.
As the students got out of the train, a gruff voice called "First years, follow me! First years this way!"
Everyone followed the giant they would learn was named Hagrid. Each expected something different to happen when the sorting happened. Most decided it would be painful or dangerous. Or both. It turns out that it was just a hat with a voice who just so happened to call out what house each student would be in. Amazingly enough, everyone in Voldrada's (I should really wright Lily from now on) compartment was in Griffindore!
The lady up front said "Harry Potter!" and the Great Hall fell quiet. After what seemed an eternity the Sorting Hat cried "GRIFFINDORE!" and the loudest applause Lily had ever heard broke forth. After a short speech by Dumbledore, the man with a silver beard, the golden plates at each table filled with delicious-looking food. Lily recalled what her own experience with the Sorting Hat was like.
It had whispered, "Ooh, how interesting! Should you be in Slytheryn, like your father? Or maybe Hufflepuff, like your mother?"
Griffindore she had thought and pleaded with all her willpower. Please let me be in Griffindore.
"GRIFFINDORE!" shouted the old hat. Lily satdown with relief. When the feast was over, the Prefects escorted everyone to the Griffindore common room and finnaly their dormitories. Everyone immediately fell asleep. The next day, lessons began.

Well, wasn't that awful? I'm going to go hide in a corner now. Just kidding! Use your scoffing disdain as a reminder that we should never be ashamed of our past, but rather proud of how far we've come. Au revoire!

Snippet

Hey, so I skipped a couple of weeks. I wholeheartedly apologize; it will probably happen again.
Before I get too embarrassed, here's a little snippet of something I've been working on. Bon appetite.

It was not a special day. Not overly sunny morning with birds chirping as a cruel dose of dramatic irony, nor as dark and dismal as a day like that should have been. It was partially cloudy, not quite grey but certainly not bright. I could hear my father watching TV in the living room; a news anchor predicted that the high temperature for the day likely wouldn't peak above 75 degrees. Just an average boring day. 

Maybe that was the irony. That someone so spectacular would pass away on such a dull, unimportant day in a dreary nursing home. She deserved better. 

Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn't seen my grandmother as overly special. Not to say that I didn't love her, but she was a normal grandma. She baked cookies with us, and sometimes made off-color jokes which seemed a bit crass for someone her age, but she was just a sweet, funny old lady. She wasn't confined to polite manners like the other grandparents, and she was so much older because she'd waited so long to have kids, but she wasn't so out there.  

I would still have thought that, as I saw my father cry for the first time in my life, if it hadn't been for the secret she'd left me. The diaries which had led us to late night conversations until nursing home staff told me I had to go home.  

There was a part of me left unconvinced that the events outlined in those old books were true. They seemed real, sure, but the events were insane. Absolutely unbelievable. 

She had given me the journals hardly a month before she died. I would return each day after school to ask her questions on what I'd read since our last meeting. She would clarify, add details, with a fond expression on her face. Even the painful memories were birthed of happier times. 

The day her casket was lowered into the ground, I clutched my bag tightly to my chest. Inside were the leather-bound notebooks with the yellowing pages. Holding her life story in my hands, it should have felt like she was still here with me. They say that carrying a part of the lost loved one with you is supposed to relieve some of the pain, give some comfort. It's all a big lie. 

Tears came and went; the day passed in a haze. Suddenly it was night, and I was laying in my bed. I wasn't sure if hours or minutes had passed, but it was quickly becoming unbearable to remain still in the dark. The emptiness which had plagued me throughout the day closed in on me, crushing my lungs as if anvils had filled my chest. I was truly alone, so lonely without my friend and drowning in the absence of human contact. 

Tripping and stumbling my way to the light switch on the other side of the room, it was all I could do to hold back the sobs. Waking my parents would be too difficult; knowing they could never know the truth about my grandmother, knowing they'd laugh in my face if I tried to tell them, was impossible to cope with even enacting scenarios in my head. Somehow it was almost worse not to tell them. 

I cracked open the first diary, eager for some solace. I could lose myself in the stories, get to know historical figures described with a firsthand account. Tonight I would be meeting a criminal idolized as a Robin Hood during my grandmother's time. And I would wish, not for the last time, that she was here for me to ask my many questions.

Introduction to my Blog

So, I was deciding what to do with this blog, and it occurred to me that "My Weekly Fiction" is the teeniest bit vague. This is just a place for me to talk about what I'm doing with my life as a part-time (and as of now unpaid) writer each week. I might talk about overcoming writer's block, post something I've written, or answer questions. I just thought this would be fun, and I don't have a grand plan for where this is going. However, I know that blogging will make me a bit more accountable for keeping up-to-date on various things I'm writing. If I'm incredibly lucky, someone will enjoy reading this. Win-win. :)