Offering up samples of writing prompt exercises, I have done. This series is from Chris Brogan’s book – Find Your Writing Voice. These are mostly unedited not meant for publication. The title reflects the writing prompt. Do you want to join in? You can buy the book and share your samples.
Or just create your own prompts to share.

My childhood home

My childhood home was a dark and scary place. The building was segmented into three sections. Two sections faced the main street and had ground floor apartments. My section was at the end with a store on the ground floor and the entrance on the side street. The building was so old it was without bathrooms. They were added later as columns to the ends of each section of the building. The bathroom windows opened to the clotheslines. You had to stand in the bathtub to hang your clothes. I often dream of climbing out that window and drop to the ground from the second floor.
The building originally had gas lighting and a fireplace in the main room – a very scary thought for a home made entirely of wood and tinder. We lived in a matchstick ready to be lit. During the winter the ice would form inside our windows in long stalactites. My mother, sister and I would put layers of clothes on and climb under a massive number of blankets to keep warm.
Most of the apartments were filled with Italian immigrants that the landlord advertised for in the Italian papers. The section I lived in had the remnants of German immigrants- the first wave that lived here.
Mr. Becker lived above us on the third floor. He never spoke to you. If you ran into him the hallways, he just stared out you his beady dark eyes framed by wild salt and pepper hair and a scraggly beard. He smelled of sweat and cigars and the staleness of a lonely life. He would sit at his window and spit gobs of revolting things down at you. You would hear the hack and run for your life to avoid disaster. Later a dark station wagon came and took Mr. Becker down the narrow curvy stairs to his resting place. My mother hid my face in her bosom, but I still saw the dark bag and the solemn men in suits sweating the curve of the stair.
His neighbor raised and trained pigeons on the roof. You could see him waving a large pole in circular motions causing the pigeons to fly in large swaths that would litter the sky with feathers and bird poo that landed on you, clothes drying on the line, and whatever else was in the path. One day the pigeon man, his family, and the birds just went away. On occasion, lost birds would fly solo circles under the empty skies. I still run from the sound of hacking and the flap of errant wings.
Later a woman with two young boys moved into Mr. Becker’s place. She had a thing with Satanists who would have little visits to her place. One man who wore devil horns on a large chain, and had sharp teeth he was intent on beating her, the sound of her tears could be heard landing on the floor.
When I went back to visit my old home the lot of it was turned into rubble. Not a tree or flower was left. I am sure some nice little overly priced apartment building will take its place – and if a pigeon flies by in remembrance no one will be the wiser of the ghosts that linger still.