Angst Writing Prompts Novels & Stories

Electic sparks were flying everywhere. Her body broke into cold sweats. Her frantic gaze searching for Theo. Fear squeezed the air from her lungs when she couldn't find him. She was on her own. Angela gulped hard and wheeled her chair towards the exit. Her limbs were shaking, her gut was clenching with dread. Flames prowled around them like a deadly predator. Someone bumped into her wheelchair from behind causing it to turn over. A hiss tore through her throat as she fell to the ground. Her head hit the chair's arm prompting a whimper from her. She pushed the chair off her body with her shaky hands and struggled to get up. But it seemed like an impossible task. Damn her legs, they had sudden

I will burn this city down to the rebar before I let our son learn what this kind of grief feels like. Angela opens the door in a red sweater with pills on the sleeves and eyes rimmed in salt. She knows before we say anything because women like her always do. She puts a hand to her mouth and keeps it there while I explain the part of the story that has words. After, Bruce handles the logistics because he’s better at not flinching when money moves. I write a number on a card and press it into Angela’s hand. “You call this for anything,” I say. “Not just bills. Anything is anything.”

I slap my forehead. “I’m such an idiot, oh gosh. I’m such an idiot.” Cameron reaches out for me, but an overly drunk Angela pulls him away. My panic now turns to fear. Oh shit! What if she saw, will she want to fight? I can’t fight. I’m not that scrappy. Like, I’m fit and I’m sure I could throw a punch, but oh dear, I’m having a panic attack. My eyes close and I try some breathing exercises. After a minute, I open my eyes and I see Cameron is now a few people over from me dancing with Angela as if he wasn’t just obliterating my entire being with simple, sweet kisses.

We need to move faster. My jaw sets. Fine. If they want a war over who owns my story, they’ve picked the wrong backup girl. I open my notebook to a clean page. At the top, I write: *Things I Owe No One.* Under it: - My lullaby. - My daughter. - My fear. - My forgiveness. And under that, in smaller letters: *But I might loan out my rage.*

So I quickly pick up my phone, and when the screen lights up, the photo of her kissing another man reaches my eyes again, hitting my chest hard with no mercy… I can’t lose her again. I just can’t. Signing deeply, I type a quick message with desperate fingers, having to erase the typos because I’m so nervous I accidentally hit the wrong letters. But when I finally finish writing the text, I hold my breath, with my heart pounding hard and out of rhythm. I’m anxious. I’m so fucking anxious, but… I press the SEND button, swallowing the knot that forms in my throat and prevents me from breathing… [Angel, can you come to my office now?]

"Good to know the whole world is watching my life go up in flames in 4K resolution." I didn't wait for her to respond. I turned around, went back into my room, and slammed the door. I grabbed my laptop, flipping it open with enough force to nearly snap the hinges. Work, I told myself. Just write. Lose yourself in someone else's problems. I opened the file for my current series—the dark romance I’d been pouring my soul into under the name Bourbon. I stared at the blinking cursor. My characters were supposed to be having a tense standoff in a ballroom, but as I started to type, the words felt like gibberish.

It was the movement of someone used to being watched. "Productive," I lied, standing up and stretching my arms over my head, letting the oversized black shirt ride up just enough to catch his eyes. "I wrote twenty-five thousand words." He paused, a noodle box halfway to the table. He actually looked stunned. "Twenty-five thousand? In one day? Is that even humanly possible?" "For me? It's a slow Tuesday." I walked over to him, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete. "When the flow hits, I don’t stop. It’s a trance. I just... vomit words onto the page until the story is purged."

I’d bought it on a trip to Paris two years ago and never used it. I sat on the edge of our bed, pen in hand, and wrote the first thing that came to mind. Fantasy #1 I want you to fuck me on your desk after work hours. Door locked. City lights on. Security cameras rolling. I want to feel like the dirty little secret you can’t resist anymore. Make me cum so hard I forget my own name, then make me say yours anyway. I stared at the words for a long minute, heat pooling low in my belly just from writing them. My pulse was racing like I’d already done it.

I felt my anger spike, my body started to heat up with implacable rage. I clenched my teeth together to restrain the horrible profanities dying to be screamed.I could feel my eyes changing colors. My wolf was on full alert."Bastard." I hiss stomping out of the kitchen. I was still holding the pill bottle in my hand. I couldn't keep going to the Unrban's house. April was no longer living there. I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes, though I refused to let them fall. Crying is against my DNA.

My thoughts are filled with so many voices that I can’t even fucking think on my own. I stopped running at one point and I saw this wall covered in graffiti. I thought the wall’s something I could unleash my wrath to. I started punching the wall until my knuckles started bleeding. I can’t feel the pain. Somehow, I felt numb but I’m still angry. Punching the wall’s not enough. I want to become a storm, the kind of storm that would wreck everything in its path. I wanted the world to know how fucking angry I am. I wanted the universe to know how sick I am of this life and I just continued punching the wall until I broke down into tears.