I have created some iconic artwork for you. Well to be more precise, I have created a group of icons and I thought that you might have some fun deciding what they mean. Choose one icon, cherry-pick a handful or take advantage of all 21 to be used as inspiration for a 500 word story.
These are in no particular order and can be used in any way you choose. You can take them literally or use them metaphorically. I hope that you have some fun with this. You have 21 points of inspiration so I don’t want to hear any excuses. Instead of saying “I can’t think of anything,” you should say, “Yes icon!” Happy writing. Please leave your 500 words in my comments section or link back to your own blog. I wouldn’t be too concerned with word count I offer that only as a target (hey that’s one of the icons, isn’t it?). I’m not going to be counting words. Here is what I came up with using the time bomb and the “BOOM” icons as inspiration:
Preston Garfield bent to toss a filter of wet coffee grounds into a trashcan the color of mildew. He felt the small pop and his knees buckled causing him to hit his forehead on the edge of a bank of file cabinets on the way down. A white hot flash of pain temporarily flared across his field of vision, but the bump on the head was a welcome distraction from the knot of pain gathering in his lower back.
He was lying on the unyielding carpet tiles looking at a tiny, flattened morsel of stale, microwave popcorn that had escaped consumption, been dropped, forgotten and trodden on. It was stained nuclear yellow from the artificial butter flavor it was cooked in. Maria seldom made it behind his desk with a vacuum. She always seemed to show up while he was on the phone. “I come back later,” she would vow in broken English but never return.
His back had been a bit twinge-y as of late, a ticking time bomb which had finally detonated. He rolled over onto his stomach and managed, with a guttural yelp of pain gargling up at the back of the throat, to get to his hands and knees. He couldn’t quite get his feet underneath him and braced his hands on the edge of his desk to try to dead-lift his torso high enough to pull a foot forward and stand. His arms vibrated with effort and he grit his teeth so hard he was certain that they would explode into a mouthful of enamel dust.
“Rocky? You okay?” Artie asked, poking his head in the door upon hearing the groans. Preston was calling himself Rocky these days. He had never liked the sound of Preston and for a while he had come up with Stone by dropping the first three letters and adding an “e” at the end. Stone seemed too pretentious and Lisa, the receptionist, started calling him Rocky which caught on throughout the office. He was pleased with the nickname.
“I’m good,” Rocky squeaked out as he straightened up as best he could. “I’ll be fine.” He shooed Artie away with a slight double flick of his right hand, which he quickly planted back on the desk for support.
“You sure? You’re looking a little pasty.” Rocky nodded a silent reply and Artie continued on with a shrug. Rocky had accidentally kicked his chair away when he fell and now stretched out as far as his compromised mobility currently allowed, his fingertips brushing a quarter-inch shy of the armrest. He stood bent and unsteady as if impersonating a question mark.
He turned his back toward his chair and took an exploratory step backward, let go of the desk and tried to lower himself into the seat. The chair, on casters, squirted away and Rocky went down, again, like a stone.
Maria walked in and her hands flew from the handle of her vacuum cleaner to her mouth when she saw him on the floor. “Meester Garfeel! Are chew ho-kay?” He assumed she was asking if he was all right. He nodded from the carpet.
“Just taking a little break.”
“I come back later,” she promised.
“Nonsense,” he said with effort. “You can vacuum around me. There’s a piece of popcorn over there.” And with an unsure bob of her shoulders she fired up the roaring machine but was careful not to get too close to man lying prone on his office floor.