What is Dangerboobs?


We collect (and occasionally create) interesting writing prompts. 


We think good readers make the best writers (and vice-versa). 

Craft Essays

Feel free to read through our growing collection of essays on the craft of writing. 

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Exquisite Corpse: Infestation

October 6, 2012 Bi-monthly Prompt No Comments

Infestation #1

Who are they when they come?  Will they take all our money?  Will the take away my health insurance?  I heard they call all night and eat all the carbs in your house.  I hear they can disguise themselves as anyone dead.  I heard they let you wear jeans on Friday.  I heard that if you touch their mucus, if you really tease out its texture–rubbing it between your fingers–you might go blind.  It happened to my aunt’s neighbor Wendy.  Wendy’s shit-blind now.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t want my kids to be shit-blind.  They cook corn different.  I don’t know exactly what they do, but I know it’s different.  It smells like they’re burning gym socks on the other side of that fence.

Are they different once they get here?  Will they let me leave up my photos?  Can I have time off for lunch or is that over now?  Is it enough, this, all this we’re done, or will they like I’ve always heard, want more?  Will they smack the meat between their gums and growl for us to get down, knees pressed to tile, and squirm like an army of squirrels?

Will they make us sit on a piece of tape with our names spelled wrong, again?

Infestation #2

It starts with a note or a noise.  It’s a sound for sure.  Before you can see it, smell it, fear it–you get the sensation.

Something’s there.

Leaning in from the edge of periphery

A wisp, a flutter a trick of light, not enough to be, but enough to must be

Bucket overflowing under the sink from the exposed pipe you know you should’ve fixed you know you should’ve fixed you know you

A turning, then, like  a car into an unfamiliar driveway at night, the heart pound of skittering insect legs “oh tie me down,” your humming, to my grave to my grave

compound eyes staring, more than into you, boring you fucking female in their intensity–something’s there, yes, and it’s got a taste for that light in your goddamn eyes

And I shouldn’t be there, nobody should be there, the heat and the sweat and my wrists bleeding raw, groundup like hamburger but at least I feel.

Something’s there, a sensation, a sound, a not, if even for a moment, a clicking, a skittering, a sound against an empty room.

Infestation #3

100,000 is a number we reach to understand logically and fail

1,000,000 is worse, like a migraine aura radiating its impossibility

their many antennae, beyond mouth, beyond hollering from a stool

in the kitchen they are black and they are brown and red with slashes of orange on the underside of their wings and they cling to every surface in the house beating barely alive lungs gathering nearer are they moths or roaches feels like I can’t even see their powdery bodies.  You can hear their feet on the ceiling and their eyes start singing when they blink in coordinate clicks.

I saw it on the internet.  I wasn’t drunk.  They come the eighth Friday.

200,000 is the number we truly fear.  In they come, wave after wave, the relentless slapping and paddle-gnashing.  Remember the canoe that you left untied back at summer camp?  There are 200,000 of those, somewhere waiting to come crashing home.  A pile of clicks and hisses, and shuddering canoe wings beating out the oxygen from the room.

Beating out the all else of everything.  Hey, we’re just on a planet zooming past the sun they say and fucking, oh yeah, fuck you and your mother because we press and we press and we fuck and we are myriad in number, motherfucker, unquantifiable.

Infestation #4

Ah, perfidious itch

In my holy of holies

the thought burns

sends its army of burning

through my brain

it shuts the fucking highway down

Oh, neurons, I miss your firings

Sweet cochlea, you, your shivering the messiness of sound of sight of taste replaced with swarming many fucking legged and me, and I, and me there, there on the couch drinking beer flinging my arms over my eyes turning up the volume on the tv. I can’t hear it, Simon Cowell, I can’t even fucking hear you.

He can hear me, thought projection, thought insertion, racing ideas in fucking flight

I thought, as he did, her alto was pitchy, her notes crawling wildly and winged inside me

Oh hammer! Oh anvil! Sing to each other beneath my aging tendons.

So. This is this, until it isn’t.  Until then, this this is an itch.

Flash Fiction Prompt: Moving

November 3, 2010 Bi-monthly Prompt 59 Comments

Write a story or scene about moving.  That can mean moving physical things around in a character’s life or the act of moving a home.  Consider how this functions as a transplantation of meaning.

Directions: Paste your flash fiction response as a comment to this post.  Please keep all responses under one page in length.

Dangerboobs Gets Social

October 26, 2010 Bi-monthly Prompt 68 Comments

Facebook friend us!   New writing prompts, literary events, and drunken status updates can now be found HERE.

Flash Fiction Prompt: Cheating

Compose a story or scene about someone cheating—literally, metaphorically, in any context except that of cheating in a romantic relationship.  Explore the idea that the cheater either enjoys or is proud of their actions.  Imagine the act of cheating as a laudable undertaking.

Directions: Paste your flash fiction response as a comment to this post.  Please keep all responses under one page in length.

Welcome to the Dangerboobs Web site

September 7, 2010 Bi-monthly Prompt 117 Comments

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