For starters: No, the picture has nothing to do with anything. But I couldn't find a picture for this post, and it's MY blog, I can have a picture of David Tennant if I want to ♥ ♥

Anyway, I am officially out of episodes of Sonny with a Chance ... I do not want to talk about how many episodes I've watched.... Anyways, being out of episodes meant I had nothing to do at one o' clock this morning, so I decided to do some writing. So, yes, one a.m. writing is thus:

Prompt: Your character walks into the kitchen at the end of the day and finds something on the table that isn't supposed to be there.


It had been a long day. Long and tedious and full of complaining clients. All I wanted to do was settle down at my kitchen table with my McDonald's salad and the radio on.
However, as soon as I entered my kitchen, I knew I would not be eating at that table tonight ... or possibly ever again.
Sprawled over the expensive stained wood was what I could only devise to be a dead body.
For a moment, I just stood gawking. The body was that of a young man, probably not older than twenty, with the sad, whispy beginnings of a moustache he would never grow. Even more unfortunate were his tight leather pants and the eyebrow ring he sported, not to mention his pink-streaked hair which was cut in what I believe the kids call a nullet. Of course, the worst of it was that he was dead, and lying on my prestine kitchen table.
At last a clear thought cut through the numbness: I had to call the police. I traveled into the livnig room to retrive the telephone, but I never reached it. On my leather couch was another thing that wasn't supposed to be there, but this one was definitely alive: my sister, Alexandria.
Her hair was much shorter than that of the boy on the table, and the dark brown was streaked with blue. Though her pants were tight, they were covered past the knees by her tennis-shoe boots. These she had lying on my perfect, even-more-expensive-than-the-kitchen-table couch.
"Alexandria." I said, by way of preliminaries. My tone was stiff.
"It's Alex," she said, popping her gum at me, "Hey, Winnie."
"My name is Winchester." I corrected haughtily.
"I wouldn't brag about that."
"What are you doing here? Last time we saw one another, you said I was a rectangle and you never wanted to see me again."
"Square. I said you were a square."
"A square is a rectangle."
"What? No it isn't."
"The definition of a rectangle is a shape with two pairs of parallel lines of equal lenght. Therefore, a square is a rectangle."
"Whatever. I didn't come here to talk about algebra. I-"
"Shapes are geometry, not algebra."
"THERE IS A FREAKING DEAD BODY IN YOUR KITCHEN!" Alexandria reminded me, in a tone much louder than necessary.
"No need to shout," I said, "I was getting to that."


I don't know why, but when I write at two in the morning, someone always ends up dead. I also wrote this sentance using a prompt. I may write it into something, but probably not:

Seven days ago, I died. Now nobody will talk to me.


Anyway, cheerio -- and hope that you never make it into my book at two in the morning.
Thanks again to Pocket Muse for the prompts.