“The Word Pool” has MILLIONS of Writing and Sketching Prompts. Don’t Believe Me? Read This. Today’s Prompt? OPPOSITE STUDENT DIFFERENTIATES. WTH?!?! Right? Nope. My Brain Had This.

Inside this book is a creative system disguised as a game—built from over 5 million word pairings designed to spark unexpected connections, challenge your thinking, and unlock your creativity. Whether you’re a writer staring at a blank page, an artist unsure what to draw, or someone who “just isn’t creative,” this book gives you something most people are missing: A way to start.

Using simple but powerful techniques like Continuous Writing (Dr. Price’s “Rule of Apple”), associative thinking, and structured challenges like Campbell’s Mode, you’ll learn how to:

• generate ideas on demand
• push past creative blocks
• connect unlikely concepts into stories, characters, and visual scenes
• build confidence in your creative voice

This isn’t just a writing book. It’s a tool for teachers, students, writers, artists, and creators of all kinds.

Open the book.

Pick two words. Or three.

Write it. Sketch it.

Let’s go.

Here’s an example of exactly how to use “The Word Pool.”

Randomly, I’ve chosen “Student,” “Opposite,” and “Differentiate.” Now, a verb isn’t always necessary. Most of the time, I begin with simply an adjective and a noun. Recently, I had my Comp I students write a short story with 4 out of 6 adjective/noun combos from “The Word Pool.” Their combos were: Noxious Room, Incessant Secret, Fortunate Painting, Faux Email, Disloyal Blood, and Approaching Lantern. They chose 4 of these 6, which I had randomly chosen from “The Word Pool.” Their stories were AMAZING, verging on King-worthy creepy horror stories! I was thrilled to say the least, and enjoyed reading each one of them. Those students didn’t have those stories in their heads BEFORE the word combinations came their way … the word combinations sparked the ideas! This book gives birth and gives life to creativity! So, let’s get back to … “Opposite Student Differentiate!”

I’m going to set a timer for 10 minutes and see where my mind goes. I have no plan. Literally, I opened the book a bit ago, chose words at random by looking away as I flipped pages, pointing to a spot on the page at random, and then looking at where I landed. So, here we go.

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The light came in through the window as she sat staring off into the distance. To an outsider, it looked as if she were pondering which book to pull off the grand bookshelf, but that’s not what reality was in that moment. She hurt inside. She didn’t think she could pull it off, and everyone kept telling her she’d be fine; she could do it. But, she knew she couldn’t. She knew that she’d fail. She knew she was the opposite of what a student ought to be. She didn’t want to acquiesce to anyone else’s way of doing the things before her. She liked to live by the seat of her pants, be carefree, but they wanted to put her in a box … and she let them. Traveling. Disappearing. Hiking. Exploring. Go. Go. Go. That is what she wanted. She wanted to learn from life – meet people in strange places, delve into their cultures, experience humanity and landscapes, and all the beautiful things. But no, here she was in the great library, surrounded by books, the light from the outside pouring in through the window taunting her, telling her all that she was missing out on by being stuck in that space.

Learn all the things – learn the business.

It will be yours soon.

You have to study.

That’s what her grandfather said. He wanted to leave it all to her, and she didn’t want it. The whole family said their future rested on her shoulders, and she wanted to burst out of her skin. They all saw no other future for her, but she sat there knowing that she, the opposite student, differentiated between freedom and a state of giving up – and in that moment, as she sat staring at the bookshelf, lost in thought, looking like she was doing as expected, the escape plan began to shape in her mind. She had to leave, run, fly. Anywhere but here. They’d figure out how to pick up the pieces without her. She needed the sand between her toes, eagles soaring high above her, snowflakes hitting her face – so many wonderful places and so little time, and she would not waste a moment. No. Not me, she thought. I will be free.

“Mary Ann, your grandfather wants a word.” The voice snapped her out of her plan.

She looked toward the voice, and there stood her grandfather’s solicitor in his crisp three-piece suit. It was black, and it made him look like a funeral home director. For her, that’s what he felt like, and she simply nodded understanding. She looked out the window where her freedom lay, just briefly. She sighed, then looked at the solicitor’s unsmiling face. Quietly, she followed him out of her grandfather’s grand library and down the hall to the dining room, where she knew, at this time of day, her grandfather was having his fifth cup of coffee …

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And that is 10 minutes.

I don’t know Mary Ann, and I don’t know why she doesn’t want to run the family business, and I certainly do not know where that’s coming from inside me. We could have a psychology session, I suppose, and sit and dissect how Mary Ann represents a part of my psyche, and that could be fun, but that’s not the point. The point is, without the prompt “Opposite Student Differentiate,” that story would never have surfaced from my mind.

Sometimes my posts are non-fiction. Once I choose my word pairing, I sit down, open the laptop, and words just start spilling. If I “get stuck,” I employ my friend Doug’s continuous writing method (which is discussed in “The Word Pool” book) … apple, apple, apple, I just got a text from my son. He said something about eating breakfast. Wish I could be eating it with him. I hate the distance between us. And then, when I’m ready to get back on task … get back on task. Words can be edited. Rearranged. Changed. Just keep writing. Beautiful things come when we stop trying to control them.

Ah … that’s a lesson for life, too, is it not? Beautiful things come when we stop trying to control them. That’s bumper sticker stuff!

Long story short here … use “The Word Pool” to spark your creativity. It’s fun, and you never know where it will take you! Every time you sit down to write, something NEW happens. Or when you need an idea to draw … it’s in this book.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GTMH8JH6 -“The Word Pool” on Amazon.

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My student, Izabel Baker, permitted me to share the short story she wrote for Comp I. The assignment was to take 4 of the 6 “The Word Pool” word pairings and freewrite – let the words take you wherever they want. Those pairings again were: Noxious Room, Incessant Secret, Fortunate Painting, Faux Email, Disloyal Blood, and Approaching Lantern. Here is Izabel’s story. See if you can find the word pairings.

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Dear Sadie, Please Come Home by Izabel Baker

Why? Why did I pick up the phone? Why did I listen? Why did I come here? Why? Why, after all these years, these long ten years, why?

Every morning, all the same, I awoke, I made breakfast, the phone rang, all the same. I ignored it, all the same, like every morning. It would pass, the tone would end, and it would be gone. I went on with my day. I got dressed, got my shoes, and got my keys. Then, unlike every other morning, the phone rang again.

That was wrong. It never rings twice; it only rings once. It couldn’t ring twice, no, no. There was no one to call twice; they were gone by this time. Every morning, they made the phone call and shortly after were gone forever. How could they call again? But all the same, I ignored it, as I should. Answering would be a grave mistake, grave indeed.

I left, left the house, left the phone behind, there, couldn’t answer it now. It couldn’t reach me now. I’ve moved one, moved one from that, left it behind me, gone forever—no point in answering.

Then I returned home, the phone was ringing when I arrived, and it rang all night; it didn’t stop. Finally, I couldn’t take it, that droning noise, piercing my skull, rattling my bones. I made a grave mistake, I picked up the phone, and I answered it.

“Sadie, are you coming home? We found your bed empty this morning. Mom’s really worried about you. We all are. I- I really need you, Sadie. Please, your little sister really wants you to come home. Please, Dad’s really mad, Mom’s just crying in the kitchen. Sadie, please come home.”

She sounded so real, so alive, so vivid, so visceral. I couldn’t. The sound of her voice chilled me, froze me. So why? Why did I listen? Why did I return?

The house emerged from the ground, surrounded by open fields. There were a few cows out there, what few could survive without human aid on just the grass that grew. I stared at it for a long time; that thing loomed over the road. Why didn’t I turn back then? All I would’ve had to do was turn the key and drive away, but something pulled on me.

Then I saw it and saw her. A young girl standing on the porch, holding a lantern, a small, dim lantern close to her chest. She was almost hiding it from me, like she didn’t want me to take it. It wasn’t Tammy, no, Tammy was only twelve years old; that girl was much taller, older, something about her felt a little familiar, though.

I got out of my car, and she turned into the house, but she left the door open. It was dark inside, and I could barely see in. I couldn’t decide how I felt. I felt repulsed, my mind told me to run, to leave, but deep inside of me, I felt compelled to enter. Maybe that’s what they call a soul; maybe it was calling for me inside. Left behind when I left here ten years ago. Now that I think about it, it was exactly ten years ago that I got the first phone call.

Every day for ten years, the phone rang every morning at 7:34, every morning since.

I took one step inside, then another, then another, then another, then the door slammed behind me. When I turned to open it, it was locked. I couldn’t leave. I never should have come in here. Why, why don’t I listen to my gut?

Then there she was again, past the foyer, at the end of the long hallway, that girl, but she was closer than before now, and her lantern was held so tightly; she held it just in front of her chest. I went down the hall toward her; dust floated in the air, the wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards creaked, bugs crawled this way and that. The water and termite damage had gone long untreated, ten years untreated.

When I looked up, she was gone, but to my left, there was a door. A faint light came from within; I turned inside. The study. I never came in here. Dad would yell if I ever did, but yelling was all he ever did. A lamp flickered in the corner, the books on the shelves were sloppily thrown in, and the old computer was covered in dust. I doubt the keyboard even worked, not that I cared to see what he had been doing on it, just when he was on it. He was occupied then, in his own room of the house, for just a few moments, I could forget about him.

On the wall, there was a painting. What a fortunate painting it was. All of us, mom, dad, me, and my little sister, all smiling. It didn’t see the real us; it saw the nicely kept home, not the stains and messes. It saw a happy family, not the horrors left by our father. It saw an able-bodied woman, not a mother whose health declined further every day.

Tammy, you bright little girl, you had the biggest smile. I like to believe a little bit of it was real. You were always so positive. I did my best to keep you safe so that you could keep smiling. I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry, you probably didn’t smile again, did you?

There she was again, that girl with the lantern; she was standing in the doorway, holding the lantern a little closer to me. She turned away down the hall, but when I got there, she was gone again. There wasn’t a faint light this time; it was darker than before.

There wasn’t any direction; I just wandered for a bit, turning through the halls. The home was larger than I remembered. There was a stairwell; the boards had been chewed through in some places, probably termites, possibly mice. The railing had fallen out in some places and was left in pieces on the floor below. I found myself ascending the stairs, up to the top, then down to the right, a room with an open window; the wind blew the curtain around.

This was Mother’s room.

This was where she looked out, her only window into the outside world. She used to knit blankets, clothes, and tablecloths. Then her health declined; she stopped smiling, stopped knitting, barely moved, only to cook and clean when she could, when the pain wasn’t too much. But it usually was, so I did.

The room hadn’t changed, except for the condition of it; like the rest of the house, the wood was damaged, but even more so up here. I didn’t trust the floorboards; I shouldn’t have. I made my way downstairs, then… the floor gave in.

My heart lurched for a moment; it felt like a moment in a cartoon where the character is suspended in the air for a moment before falling to the ground. But just like in the cartoons, I eventually fell. Unlike in the cartoons, I wasn’t fine and revived after. My breath left me; maybe it was my lungs that had been suspended in the air, not me.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even scream.

I had fallen through the floor onto the dining table, which cracked in two. It felt like my back had done the same, but I managed to get up. A part of me wished I couldn’t so I could lay there and die, but something called for me, not a voice but a feeling. She was closer than ever before, that girl, her lantern stretched out towards me, almost a full arm’s length. For the first time, her mouth moved, and she spoke, “Remember, remember what you did. Those splats of blood, that disloyal blood. Remember why you left, why you abandoned everyone.”

I looked beside me. There were drops of blood on the table where I had fallen, bits of wood had scratched into my skin, leaving gashes. I tried to wipe it away, but it smeared across my arm. I burned everywhere: the bruising on my back, the cuts on my sides, but I had to keep moving.

I felt bits of resentment towards that girl with the lantern, forcing me to come here, forcing me to feel this pain, forcing me to relive this place, forcing me to remember.

I felt tears come up; they came through gasps of pain and gasps for air. I struggled to move forward on the other side of the door, leading out of the dining room was the kitchen. I went to the wall and slid down it. I didn’t need to know what was on the other side; I could smell it, that thick, pungent odor of blood. There must have been so much on the other side; the wounds must have gone deep. They must have been in so much pain. It was my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t left, I would have stayed. If I had come home sooner, maybe then.

I almost began to sob, but the shaking of my body was so excruciating that I clenched my throat in an attempt to stop it. That noxious room on the other side felt like it was growing larger, more powerful, more gruesome. The longer I waited here by the door, the stronger the smell grew; I heard dripping.

Blood dripping, drop by drop by drop, onto the tile.

I knew I needed to turn the corner. One inch at a time, then another, then another, I peered around the door. I never should have, never should have picked up the phone, never should have listened, never should have come here, never, never. Never should have turned that corner. I never should have left, never should have left Tammy behind. I should have taken her with me, should have gotten help, and done something. But no, no, I left by myself, escaped, I used to say, but no. I didn’t escape this place; I abandoned my sister, my little sister. It was my responsibility to keep her safe, to protect her. I hated my mom, my mom never protected me, never kept me safe, why then, should I for another? Why? Why did I let my resentment for her allow Tammy to get hurt?

She was there, right on the floor. She must have run to the door, tried to escape, but bullets are much faster. Blood soiled her clothes, spilled around her in a pool on the ground. I started to tremble, felt like screaming, felt like running, but I couldn’t. I was frozen, stuck staring at the scene.

Mom lay on the ground, shot straight through the stomach. My eyes followed her to a large metal pot in front of her, to a pair of large boots, and up to a man. I knew who it was, but if I were a stranger coming across the scene, he would have been unidentifiable. His face was gone; the skin seemingly melted off in a spot where his left eye should have been. Large blisters swelled around the area across his neck and arm down to his hand, where a gun still lay. Oil and blood dripped from his face onto the cold tile.

What happened first? Did mom attack him, and then he shot her? Did he shoot Tammy, and Mom throw the pot at him? How? How could something like this happen? Why? If I had stayed, was there something I could have done?

“No point.”

I turned around, there she was again, right behind me, holding her lantern, but still far away enough that I couldn’t quite make out her features.

“No point in asking questions, you know what must be done. Now go, do it.”

She didn’t sound sympathetic; I wouldn’t either. Who else was there to blame myself? But I knew what she meant. I knew what must be done. I went to the back door and found it unlocked. I dug three holes, took what felt like hours, but the sun wasn’t even considering rising yet. I went inside the house, for a moment I considered leaving my father there, but in the end decided he ought to be placed in the ground anyway, it wouldn’t be fair for my mother and Tammy to be laid below our father.

I couldn’t fashion a true gravestone, not now at least, but I found old scrap wood and a knife from the kitchen and scratched into it plates for my mother and Tammy. “Here Lies Tamala R. Julias. May 2, 2004 – April 10, 2016. Rest in peace, Bright Child.”

I didn’t make one for my father; he ought to be buried, not honored or respected.

I stood, my work was done, and I saw an approaching lantern. The girl came all the way to me. This time, she was close enough for me to make out her features, my own features. She was fifteen years old, with a bruise on her arm, sullen cheeks, and so much shame.

Maybe, maybe I ought to forgive myself, or rather, forgive her.

She was only fifteen, I was only fifteen then, the past is behind me. I can only move forward. That old version of myself, a ghost, a memory, whatever the vision was in front of me, handed me the lantern. It felt nice, expelling some sphere of warmth around it. I looked at fifteen-year-old-me, “You poor thing, please, please move on, I forgive you.”

With that, a smile, albeit a painful one, stretched across her cheeks, and she faded away. I was alone now, but then again, I had been alone for many, many years.

Tammy would forever be gone, but I found a new part of myself.

Life wasn’t over, mine wasn’t. Tammy would probably tell me I should keep on living.

I found a picture of Tammy, Mom, and me, one of the few that was just the three of us. I decided to keep it; every night on my bedside table, I told them goodnight, and maybe beyond the veil, if there is one, they said it back.

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Dacia Lené Cunningham is an Assistant Professor of English at Tulsa Community College, where she blends creative writing with real-world communication in courses ranging from Novel Writing to Composition.

She is the author of novels, short stories, and children’s books, including A Kiss in the Rain and The American Queen, and she founded the TCC Writers’ Series to bring authors and publishing professionals directly to her students. https://guides.library.tulsacc.edu/TCCwritersseries

She believes anyone can write—you just need the right tools.