I want each picture to tell a story or provoke an idea in the same way ordinary written prompts would. Yesterday’s would have been worthless to me, and it probably didn’t get anyone else’s mental gears turning either.
As time goes on, I will get better at this.
Invent a sport that can only be played within the physics of a fantasy world.
A magic system in which your protagonist and everyone s/he knows can only use magic at night. Elsewhere in the world, though, there’s a magic system that can only be used during the day.
A tiny faction of enemy soldiers successfully holds one city against armies of the good guys.
Someone turns everyone to stone and only the protagonist is spared. Completely alone, s/he must figure out how to either restore everyone or live alone in a world of statues.
Your protagonist, and only your protagonist, hears background music for nearly everything s/he’s doing.
Your protagonist’s search for dragons ends rather underwhelmingly: the dragons are mosquito-sized and look nothing like s/he thought.
My blog has ample content, but I don’t post very frequently. Since I don’t encounter situations or learn things that spur me to write a complete article every day, I’ll at least play with prompts.
Also, these prompts will be different from the ones coming out in my book.
Armies clashed… no, they shattered. No, no, that’s ridiculous. Armies slammed together… yeah… slammed together like bloody blue and orange magnets, cracking on contact and falling apart a chip and a crack at a time.
Two great generals… wait, why must generals only ever be great? Generals watched each other from either side of the battlefield… no, they’d be focusing on their troops. Generals barked… no, shouted commands at their men and women… no, shouted commands at their troops.
One side was clearly outmatched. Their troops fell like a thousand screaming bowling pins… bowling wasn’t a thing back then. They fell like a thousand screaming rocks, crushing each other but never the advancing enemy.
That makes no sense. I’ll just pitch that battle and try again.
As the oak toppled with cracks and snaps I pushed against it. It slowed. I pushed against it with both hands. It slowed further, nearly stopped. I tried to right it, but grass and daffodils withered at my feet faster than the tree moved. It moved, though, slow, creaking. I spared a look down. Plants were black in a sapling-sized radius around my feet. I reached out further, further. I was so close. Finally the old oak stood upright, reconnecting to its stump with several pops.
Then it stopped. It creaked. It groaned. It started falling toward me. I pushed. Nothing happened.
I strafed to the side as the oak slammed into the foliage I’d killed to keep it alive. Its darkened stump sat dead at the edge of a twenty-foot circle of blackness.