I like the new upgrades for Blogger.com!  I especially like the part where you can more easily insert story prose without the mutated blog formatting.  Below's a sample writing prompt I put down some 2 weeks ago.  Limited to 500 words, it had to involve finding a note behind a mirror. 

While the prompt was odd, the stuff I wrote off it was kinda' cool.  Lemme know what you think of this one:

THE DROP

     "Found it," Mulsane muttered as he pulled a taped envelope from behind the antique mirror. From across the street, Brooks and Miller tensely waited in the front of our unassuming black Volvo. Their eyes were trained on the small antique shop and Peter Mulsane. Dressed in casual fall attire, he carried a blue backpack with $12 million in precious stones inside. Handsome and rich, the fourth-generation millionaire hoped to trade them for his pregnant wife's safe return.
     Visible through the front windows of the shop, the brave-slash-stupid husband was reading the note and about to give us directions to the next leg of this operation. We wired him for sound and planted three GPS trackers on his person, in case we got separated. At present, he had led us to four different locations. Each had a note stashed and directions to the next spot.    
     It was a classic technique of kidnappers who wanted to collect their money without getting arrested. Our job was to shadow him, make sure the money was delivered, and see to it that Helen Mulsane – the hostage – didn't end up dead. She was probably taken by intelligent amateurs. Pros would've taken Mulsane and made him wire the damned money. See, $12 million in stones could be tracked. In the six hours it took for Mulsane to collect the stones, me and my guys paid a visit to the local fences in this town.
     We explained to them that we weren't cops. Oh no. We were freelance "troubleshooters" tasked to resolve this matter. And, if the kidnappers showed up with stones to sell, they'd get paid a reward if we were called. Then, our guns came out. Some fences watched their bodyguards die. The ones who worked alone simply yelped when we drove them to the floor and put our guns in their faces.
     In the end, they understood what would happen if they f*cked us.
     Right now, I wasn't really interested in Mr. Mulsane's little quest. My partners would watch him like hungry hawks. Me? I took in the background. During ransom drops, it was always good to have a set of eyes taking in the folks on the street. I ignored the sunny day, the crowded San Francisco street, and the hundred-or-so pedestrians strolling about. No, I was simply looking for anyone or anything that stood out.
     Why bother?
     Because the kidnappers might try and gun us down while we followed Peter Mulsane. They might try to jack him in mid-delivery. In some countries, this would be the part where local (f*cking corrupt) cops would storm in and try to steal the damned ransom.
     But so far, everything looked blasé.  

     "It says to take the diamonds and leave them out back," Mulsane announced, some excitement in his voice.
     We swapped glances.
     There was probably an alley behind this block of shops.
     Recon would be a bitch.
     Ambushes would be child's play.
     "Anything else?" Brooks asked into his sleeve-mounted transmitter.
     "No," Mulsane's voice replied.