From Martha’s fun prompt:


Obsessions can be fun and you never know where they’ll lead. Here are a couple writing prompts to inspire a fictional (or semi fictional, or outright confession of an obsession! 🙂 exploration of behaviors and events as a result of an obsession.

  1. A young newlywed couple exploring their new home become obsessed with one of their appliances, unbeknownst to each other.
  2. A person walking down the street passes another individual and becomes unusually
    obsessed with them beyond a physical attraction.
  3. Or obsession of choice, write a ‘fictional’ piece based on the strangest obsession you’ve ever heard of or experienced yourself.

My take:

“Honey, have you seen the pink toilet upstairs? Your mother will love it!”

I sighed.

“Oh, and look – the shower has matching pink tiles! With the Mermaid theme from Disney!” she gushed down to me.

Though she couldn’t see me, I still felt obligated to fake a smile.

It was the usual story. I love a house, she hates it. She loves a house, and I hate it. This was the gazzillionth home we’d looked at just today.

“Honey, maybe when we make the offer we can ask if they’ll throw in these cute pink spotted curtains too!”

I entered one of the bedrooms and, glancing out a window, noticed the junk yard next door. A large dog slumbering next to a 1974 Chevy Vega awoke and glanced at me, and growled.

I continued into the kitchen. There was the momentary temptation to peek inside the Electrolux fridge that I suspected was older than me, but I thought better.

Then I saw it. I was just turning around to make my escape from the kitchen when some gleaming, molded chrome caught my eye. I froze. I can’t explain it. My palms began sweating. I loosened my collar. I glanced left and right to make sure nobody was near, and I approached it. I had never seen a toaster this sleek, this shapely, this energy efficient. Then I ran my hands down its dials, and gently depressed the toasting levers, pretending I had two whole wheat slices of bread. I exhaled.

I couldn’t help myself anymore. I hugged it. Then I pulled it up to my face, and let my tongue roll down its smooth chrome finish, and I decided the and there I was going to –

“Mr. McGregor! What in God’s name are you…?”

My beloved was torn from my arms, and the real estate agent dragged me by my ear outside.

“Now you listen here, Mister. I don’t know what kind of sicko you are, but you can’t come into somebody’s – “

Just then my wife came stumbling out of the front door, in tears, followed by our real estate agent’s assistant.

“You wouldn’t believe what act of indecency this crazy lady was trying to commit with the toaster!” she shouted.