Here are the selected writing prompts for April 2019! Everyone picked 8, put them in any order they desired and wrote a 5,000 words or less short story, poem, play, limerick, or song. Here’s your chance to discover how different your writer’s voice is. No two stories are alike!

  1. These are not my pants. 

  2. There's a strange woman at the window.

  3. Air, precious air.

  4. Hero finds a bloody knife in significant other's home.

  5. Hero's significant other is missing.

  6. He pulled the sword free, then dropped it as it screamed in pain.

  7. The door opens on the last person you want to see.

  8. My accordion isn't possessed.  It always sounds like that.

  9. Main character receives news that he/she did not anticipate 

  10. character wakes bound, gagged & with enemy looking at them holding a knife/dagger.

Cold Vengeance
By Stephen Coghlan
 
There's a strange woman at the window, waving, knocking, rap-tap-tap.
I look away, out the other door's glass, and into the infinite vacuum of space. The stars, innumerable, incalculable.
The timer's count is loud in my ears. 
"EXPLOSIVE DECOMPRESSION IN T-MINUS--"
I ignore it and reach for the closest space suit, and begin to struggle my way into them. These are not my pants, but they will fit. These are not my boots, but I manage to squeeze them on.
Where is my wife? She had been missing since we were invaded, since I awoke, bound and gagged, facing a mysterious foe and their bloodied knife.
"FIVE, FOUR-"
My gloves lock in place, and I pull my helmet on-
"ZER-"
The last vowel is drowned out by the violent explosion of air rushing past, sucking me into the void. My helmet is not locked in place, and the atmosphere within is sucked away. 
Air, precious air. How I miss it. Panic begins but I shove it away. Panic will kill me. I must remain calm. Must remain sane.
Twist into place. Lock collar. Sounds simple,  but my fingers are thick and numb and clumsy and
I feel, but do not hear the seal being made. My suit, recognizing that it is safe, allows its tanks to work, and I gulp greedily.
Collecting my bearings I turn back towards the ship. It is time to find my wife. It is time to take revenge. It is time to plunge knives into flesh and pull them free when my foes have screamed. They have invaded my home, tried to kill me, and they have failed. That is their mistake. I know the ship, as I am its head mechanic.
Do not piss off the person who knows every nook and cranny. Who knows every door, every maintenance hatch.
I cling to one, punch in my code, watch it open, and scream into my helmet as the door blows open, and sucks my beloved into the vacuum. I had not anticipated her hiding in that hatch. It is not whom I want to see, gagging, thrashing.
My decision is instant. A tether on my belt, its grapple, sharp, pierces her leg, draws taught, halts her escape.
Seconds matter.
Precious instants.
I draw her inside the hatch.
Close it.
Seal it.
Fill it with air.
Remove my helmet.
Place my ear to cold and frozen breast.
And hear a heart beat. She had exhaled, closed her eyes. 
Survived, like me. That is why I love her. Why I dress her wound. Why, when she comes to, I hand her a shiv.
Time enough has passed. It is time to make our invaders pay.
 

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