Halls of Pandemonium

This first week is preparation. The Halls of Pandemonium are open, but you are not yet ready to step fully into them. We must first steel ourselves and prepare a library of stories for the road ahead.

The Viscount and Lord Devereaux require snacks, after all. Let us begin with this first prompt. A mere taste of the chaos in store...

Write a story or poem that showcases a singular event from at least three different points of view (POVs).

Genre: OPEN

Write a story of poem about the sinking of the Titantic, only this time, it wasn't an iceberg...

Genre: OPEN

You had a vision of what's coming, and you tried to warn everyone, but they wouldn't listen. You did all you could to prepare, and now the day is here.

Write about what happens next...

Genre: Thriller/Psychological Horror

“Today,” Lord Devereaux says, “I hunger for a something… exotic on this, the Fourth of May. My desire is for you to write a story set in the Star Wars universe—”

Behind him, a sound, bright and synthetic, out of place in a room that has so far taken itself very seriously. It leaks in from the wall behind him, not loudly, but insistently, the kind of presence that doesn’t ask permission.

Neither Devereaux nor Viscount Valegrave notice at first. Devereaux continues to speak as Valegrave looks on.

“—That combines the genre of Space Opera with—”

You notice the wall begin to glow.

At first, it’s only an outline, purple and vaguely human. It flickers, sharpens, then splits slightly at the edges. The music swells, and she comes through it, not stepping so much as phasing, as if physics were a rule she chose not to follow. Her roller skates meet the wood floor of the room. Light spills from her in soft neon streaks, glitter trailing behind her and lingering just long enough to be noticed before it evaporates. Her hair catches light that doesn’t seem to originate anywhere in the room, and her dress is too soft for the world it has entered, too bright to belong.

She glides forward a few inches and stops, tilting her head as she takes in the scene with mild curiosity, like someone who has walked into the wrong scene and decided, without hesitation, to remain.

Devereaux turns toward her. The Viscount contracts sharply, rings of teeth snapping inward. She does not look at either of them. Instead, she lifts a hand in a small, dismissive gesture, the kind used to brush dust from a surface that has offended by existing. The glitz leaves her fingers in a soft, casual scatter and settles over Devereaux.

Everything about him stops. Not violently or anything, he simply stops mid-motion, mid-thought, mid-hunger. The faint pulse beneath his chest locks between beats and stays there. The Viscount recoils then, his frame rattling faintly as his circular mouth tightens. The glitz traces the outer edge of his hunger, not freezing him entirely, but defining a boundary he cannot cross.

Only then does she look at Devereaux. Her gaze travels over him in a slow, unimpressed sweep.

“Beastly creature,” she says, her tone light, almost conversational. “Consuming fiction like it’s food?”

She leans in just slightly, examining him as though he were a prop assembled with more enthusiasm than thought.

She glides backwards, already finished with him, and turns her attention to you. Her expression shifts to something more focused as if she has located the reason she is here.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello, love. I’ve been looking for you.”

A faint warmth settles into the light around her, less neon now, more intentional.

“My name is Kira,” she continues. “I’m a muse. A working one. I show up, I interrupt, and when things drift too far off course, I correct them.”

She moves in a slow circle around you, studying with attention.

“For the moment, I’m yours,” she says, almost idly. “But not like you think. I’m not here to hand you inspiration. I’m here to make you choose it. After all, I’m spoken for. And before you ask—yes, I look like this because he chose it,” she says, a faint smile touching her mouth. “Every detail. The skates, the light, the dress. None of this is accidental.”

She tilts her head slightly, clearly amused.

“I’m his solution. His way of making sense of what I am.

She drifts a little closer now, still circling you.

“But you don’t get me. You’re going to find your own muse today.”

“That’s the part mortals misunderstand. They think creativity begins when they invent something. It doesn’t. It begins the moment something real makes an impression deep enough that you have to translate it.”

She glances back at the frozen Devereaux and Valegrave, dismissing him without much effort.

“And we won’t be feeding these two today.”

She pushes off again, gliding in a slow arc, glitter trailing behind her and vanishing before it can settle into anything permanent.

“Creativity starts the first time someone showed you how to make it real.”

She places a piece of paper into your hand with quiet certainty.

“Start there, darling,” she says. “And when you find it—when you recognize it—build from it.”

Her smile returns, softer this time, but no less certain.

“I’ll be watching.”

Prompt: Write about the first person or figure you associated with creativity. This can be someone public (a musician, actor, writer or character) or someone personal (a teacher, family member, friend). Focus on the moment you realized what they represented to you. What did they look like? What did they make you feel? What changed after that encounter? -- Kira.

Genre: Nonfiction (yes, really)

Write a story or poem set within the same world or universe as another of your works. It can be a side story, a sequel, a prequel, etc.

**Genre: OPEN **

Write a story or poem about preparing for a journey. The story must end before the journey begins, but it can discuss what may happen.

**Genre: OPEN **

You've discovered a new door in your house that wasn't there before. It leads to the realm of Pandemonium.

What you saw scared you so badly that you sealed it shut, but now, you find yourself wanting to reopen it...

Genre: Horror