Angst Writing Prompts Novels & Stories

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?]

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.

TRIGGER WARNING THIS BOOK IS STRICT EROTICA - 18+ ONLY CONTAINS EXTREME EXPLICIT SEX, HEAVY BLASPHEMY, PRIEST/YOUNG WOMAN TABOO, ROUGH SEX, CHOKING, SPANKING, FILTHY DIRTY TALK, AND RISK OF GETTING CAUGHT IN CHURCH. READER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED. "Angela's POV" At twenty-three years old, I was pretty sure I was going straight to hell — and I was surprisingly okay with it.

Full-blown аngеr is rаgіng thrоugh mе. Angеr аnd fеаr. IA іѕ сlеаrlу out fоr blооd. My blood. Sсhmіtt аttасkеd еvеrу wоrd I said. Hе turned everything аrоund. Hе аlmоѕt ѕuggеѕtеd I рlаnnеd thіѕ frоm thе ѕtаrt.

My name is Anastasia, I am twenty years old and I have black hair and brown eyes, my mother died, in a car accident when I was thirteen, since then it's been just dad and I. I am a writer, I've never published a book before, but I'm working on it, right now I work at the local restaurant, it's just me, the owner and three other girls, and then the kitchen workers, that's it. It's Wednesday evening and my shift just ended, I took off my maroon apron, waved bye to Aaron, the owner, took a pastry off the counter, showed it to Aaron, who just smiled and winked, I left the restaurant, and started my ten minute walk home, on the way I saw Geoffrey, a homeless man

“Dammit! Just say it already!” He can smell his madness, and he likes fuelling it ‘til he can longer sit straight, balling his fist out, and there’s this white hot anger he could saw swarming in those irises. Angst. Rage fuming in a flare of fire. He likes provoking him ‘til he can no longer take it. He could hear his breathing becoming ragged. “Did you really saw something?” He asked, but he uttered each word in a much slower manner, as if urging Paxton to spill whatever he may have and quit beating the bush already.

“Running into fires like it’s nothing. Vai morrer assim. Vai…” I stopped, shaking my head hard. No. Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. I dropped Goose gently on the couch and grabbed my notebook, flipping to a blank page. If I couldn’t calm down, maybe I could at least write it out. But the words that spilled weren’t fiction. They were frantic, messy scratches across the page: Flames licking the walls. Smoke so thick he can’t breathe. Sirens. A fall. A scream. I snapped the notebook shut with a curse, heart pounding. “Pára. Stop. Stop it.”

My fingers tightly squeezed the pen I had grabbed. I tapped the table with the thin writing tool. I had no clue what I would write. "Name, how about a name." I nodded to myself. I had slowly written the letters to Vera's name. I had used four lines for the job. "Shit," I muttered to myself. I forget to add 'Dear' before Vera's name. I decided against throwing the paper away and starting with a new one. Vera would definitely be upset if she saw me wasting paper. I stylized some butterflies and flowers around her name. About ten minutes had passed and I couldn't sit here in my unproductive manner. I plugged my earphones into my phone and selected a song that would hopefully inspire words to ma

“I want to press charges against Miss Stassie.” Suddenly, my world began to tilt on its axis. My heart pounded against my ribcage like a wild animal trapped in a cage, its rhythm frantic and unsteady. I could feel the warmth draining from my face, replaced by an icy pallor that made me shiver. My legs turned to rubber beneath me, struggling to support my weight. I reached out, my hand trembling as I tried to steady myself against the cold, hard surface of the desk. The room swirled around me, colors and shapes blending together until all I could see was a chaotic whirl of confusion. Nausea washed over me like a tidal wave, my stomach roiling with unease. Voices echoed around me, distant and

“It’s not dying. It’s trending.” I hang up. I shouldn’t. Angie is good at her job and she’s right and I’m making this harder by being stubborn, but I can’t write a statement right now because my hands my hands that are always steady are shaking, and there are tears on the counter that aren’t mine, they’re left over from where the coffee mug dripped, except they are mine because I’m crying, I’m standing in my kitchen crying over a plate of eggs a man made me at 5 AM and a gossip article that just reduced my entire life to a headline.