Writing Prompt 1 “The Cliff Hanger”
Writing Prompt Explained
Writing can sometimes get stale. Writing prompts are a great way to combat that monatany. There are different writing prompts writers can utilize. The list seems endless, so I’ll share the types I prefer. I like writing prompts that force me to focus on the plot, story arc, payoff, scene, character development, theme, and emotional impact. I had difficulty finding prompts that let me focus on these areas specifically. I’m sure there is a curated list or book that includes what I want. But, since I like to write, I figured I would create ones for myself.
Writing Prompt #1 The Cliff Hanger
Genre: Author choice. Stick with what you know if you want to be comfortable. But if you want a challenge, try a genre you don’t usually write in. Some genres include Sci-Fi, Fantasy, LitRPG, Romance, Coming of Age, Thriller, historical fiction, and Rom-Com.
Character: Your character is an outsider to the environment they find themselves in. They may be familiar with the environment but should be out of place.
Scene: Author choice. For an added challenge, try writing out an entire page or two of information about the scene. What are its sights, sounds, smells, and tastes? What’s happening? Why is it happening? Who is the action happening to? Don’t be afraid to explore the mundane.
Theme: What is your character willing to do when someone has something on them? This theme explores the depths of human nature and morality and is a great way to develop your character. Is your character being bribed? Is your character’s family being held hostage? Is your character under the scrutiny of peer pressure? This theme is universal. It’s complex and leaves room for emotional impact and conflict.
Cliffhanger: Leave the audience with a question that makes them want to answer it. If they're going to answer the question, they will have to turn the page to find out what happens next. For exceptional references to this, watch some Korean Dramas. No joke. Even if it’s not your thing, they have cliffhangers down to a science.
THE BANK (THE CLIFFHANGER)
Frank walked up to the closest window. “How can I help you, sir?” The teller, an electric blonde bombshell, tried her best to be cordial. He caught a whiff of her perfume from the other side of the bank's polycarbonate plastic barrier—a subtle blend of jasmine, sandalwood, and bergamot.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. What? I’m here for a safety deposit box.” Frank had been eyeing the digital clock suspended within the bank's polycarbonate plastic. Behind the bulletproof glass were several cameras lined in an array across the back wall. To the right, a reinforced door that
Two forty-five and fifteen seconds.
She did a once over of Frank and let out a sigh. She waved a hand in the direction of the bank manager. She gave Frank one last all-telling look and stepped to another window.
“What can I help you with, sir?” The manager slid his gold-framed oversized glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stepped into place. His eyes narrowed as he watched another customer pass by. The man was impeccably dressed in a bespoke navy suit. Underneath, he wore a white dress shirt that Frank could only surmise cost him more than his monthly salary.
“I’m looking to open a safe deposit box. Not open a new one. But to open an existing one. It’s Number 225.” Frank reached into his soiled pocket and offered a key. The manager leaned in and furrowed his eyebrows so hard they almost made a bridge to span the gap of his forehead.
“Where did you get the key, sir? Do you have an account with us?”
The manager, a whipcord of a man, pursed his lips into a facsimile of a smile. It wasn’t so much a question but an accusation. Frank didn’t blame him for the attitude. He caught a glimpse of himself as he entered the bank. His hair, a greasy mess of blond and soot, didn’t scream social elite, neither did his hole-infested winter coat. It currently had the pungent blend of the brackish Hudson and a litter box.
Frank pulled out an identification card and slapped it on the counter. The manager gestured for him to put it in the dispense slot. Frank eyed the clock again.
Two forty-six and eighteen seconds.
The manager retrieved the ID and began typing on the keyboard. Frank turned around and looked past the ostentatious Christmas Tree through the large bank windows. Congress Street was littered with holiday shoppers fighting through the snow.
A woman, a man, and another man all had shopping bags in their hands. Their feet made indentations in the snow, and their breaths made small plumes of smoke in the air. He followed their path until they crossed the path of a black SUV. It was parked adjacent to the building across the street. The two men in the front were staring toward the bank. Frank bit his lip and turned to the manager.
“My deepest apologies, Mr. Sutton. If I had known, I would have…”
Frank shook his head vigorously. “No need. Can I use the key?”
“Yes, of course, sir. Please, follow me.”
After closing and opening the vault with his key, the manager allowed Frank to locate the box marked 225. He clicked it open and pulled it out. He stood awkwardly with it in his hands, like someone holding a baby for the first time.
One minute later, Frank heard the door click and the bank manager's feet walking down the hall. He was alone with the box in a private room. The soothing creme color walls carried the warmth from the ambient lights placed strategically along the baseboards and wall inlets. For additional lighting, there was a sleek lamp placed on the table. Frank clicked it on.
“I’m inside.”
He waited. An ellipses appeared in the chat window as the person on the other end began typing.
“Did you memorize it?”
“I’m memorizing it now.”
One last chirp from his phone, “Hurry up, Frank. You don’t have much longer.”
He locked the phone screen and stared at the box sitting squarely on the table. The lamp illuminated its dark grey surface. It was like a spotlight on a performer.
He popped the lid and let it land undirected. A metallic clang smacked the table. His palms, glistening with sweat, unfurled the yellow piece of paper tucked inside. Like a person's age, the wrinkles and brown spots hinted at a hard life for the yellow stationery. The metal box that stored it, a 5x5x24 tomb, was meant to bury the secret forever, undisturbed.
But a miracle of magnitude was being proffered. The order was a resurrection. Strangely, something inconsequential like a brass key, a cell phone, and Frank could produce this miracle. But the combination was potent, and he was about to resurrect the past.
He attempted to swallow, but his throat felt like it was closing. It’s been what? Five, maybe ten minutes. Okay.
He took a deep breath, then exhaled. He repeated this until he was back in control. From turning the key to opening the box, it felt like a lifetime to Frank. But only two minutes had elapsed. But when the full gravity of something dangerous pressed down on you, threatening to crush you out of existence, you treasure what little time you have left.
All I have to do is memorize what’s on the sheet. All I have to do is…he gently pried the sheet open. Frank’s hand shook. In the center, written in a sloppy script of black ink, were the numbers Seven, Two, Five, Four.
Frank’s hand stopped trembling. He flipped the paper over, less gingerly now. He flipped it again. Harder. Seven, Two, Five, Four. What? That’s it? He flipped it one more time. Four numbers? Seriously? Seriously? Seven, Two, Five, Four. Seven, Two, Five, Four.
He played with the words in a moment of left-field rage. He was like an outfielder who missed a routine fly ball. And now, he was angry. He wasn’t angry at the ball or the game but at himself—all of this cloak and danger for four numbers. First, do what we say, or you’ll go to prison. Then, it tries any funny business, and we’ll go after your family. Oh, and I’m not supposed to take pictures of four stupid num..
He paused. The digits escaped his mind, and he reread them. His eyes bulged as he re-focused his attention. He repeated the numbers until he was certain he couldn’t forget them.
Then, his eyes meandered to the rust discoloration. It was a splotch of ugly against the yellow folds on the paper—a fingerprint smudge in one section, a few droplets in another. The numbers suddenly became irrelevant. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Like thousands of daisies breaking the earth in spring, beads of sweat broke out over his face and neck.
Who’s blood is that?
