Write prompts are funny things.
The product of the mind that emerges from focusing on a write prompt is usually far different from the actual nature of the prompt. For instance, one may see a torn stage curtain, which may remind one of an embarrassing incident at a family picnic, which may induce feelings of buried shame, which may make one recall the survival instincts one acquired to avoid such feelings of shame, which may lead one to ultimately write about the uneven life of an agoraphobic publicity agent.
This leads me to talk about my very good friend, the amazing Kyle Dunkley.
Before he left to live across the sea and after he quit the Circus, he handed me a gift.
In recognition of my aspirations and efforts to become a writer, he gave me a box of write prompts. Objects not valuable in their monetary worth, but potentially great in their literary worth.
Nobody knew how to turn off the consciousness and lurk around in the sub-conscious like Kyle and, together, we plumbed the depths of nonsense and the ridiculous for hours on end. Now with the Great Wide Blue between us, this box would have to fill his place.
Here is what lay inside: