Everyday scenes with a real choice in them: a lemon cake baked from memory, a spare room with a piano nobody mentions, a youth football team with one fixture left. Nobody's in danger, but something still has to give by Sunday.
You are a neighbour who always takes in everyone's parcels. A five-person flatshare above a launderette has one bathroom and a cleaning rota nobody follows. A childminder who has raised half the street asks you to help bake their mum's lemon cake from memory for the street party, and they're someone you were paired with for a school project. The catch: they've never made it on their own, and the recipe was never written down. Before the leaves turn, the whole street is expecting a cake they've promised is exactly like hers — so choose now. Keep the mood nostalgic but not soppy.
Tap any underlined part to roll it again; lock parts in the list below to keep them.
Slice of life lives or dies on whether the reader cares about something small. The prompts make that easy by tying the stakes to a person: the whole street expecting a cake that's exactly like hers, a set list with the song about you printed third. Nobody gets hurt, but someone could be let down, and that's enough.
The settings are places people gather without trying: a corner shop that stays open until eleven, a launderette with one working dryer, a café on a station platform that knows every order. Let the background characters talk; half the fun is the regulars.
Most rolls fall into one of a few patterns. A favour that turns out bigger than it sounded, like covering Saturday shifts for a month, no questions asked. A secret about leaving, kept from people who will mind. A project against the clock: the summer play, the choir's harmonies, a letter to the council to save the youth club.
Tones like “dry, British and fond” or “funny until it suddenly isn't” let a scene turn quietly serious without tipping into melodrama.
These prompts suit long, relaxed sessions. Lock the setting and play a whole week in it, rerolling the hook each day for a new visitor at the counter. With three players, the third character can be the flatmate, sibling or bandmate who notices what the other two aren't saying.
For writing practice, a single roll makes a good short story of a thousand words or so: one place, one favour, one decision at the end.
You play a grandchild who has just been handed the family recipe book. A family bakery on the high street has one week left on its lease, and the regulars haven't been told. A grandmother with very firm views on pastry — whom you would do almost anything for — asks you to help bake their mum's lemon cake from memory for the street party. What you don't yet know: they've never made it on their own, and the recipe was never written down. By Sunday lunch, the whole street is expecting a cake they've promised is exactly like hers, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You are a bassist in a band that has never played outside a garage. A garage band practises in a shed at the bottom of a garden, two weeks before their first proper gig. A lead singer who keeps hinting at going solo needs a bassist for one gig and swears it's only covers, and they're someone you used to be in a band with. The catch: the band is playing its own songs, and one of them is about you. By Friday afternoon, the set list is printed with the song about you third — so choose now.
You play a new flatmate who answered the advert on a whim. A five-person flatshare above a launderette has one bathroom and a cleaning rota nobody follows. A landlord who fixes nothing but remembers birthdays, someone you see every morning at the bus stop, offers you their spare room for almost nothing, as long as you never ask about the piano. But the piano belonged to their first love, and they've never been able to play it or part with it. Within a fortnight, a buyer comes to see the piano, so they need you there in case they change their mind. What do you do?
You play the captain of a team that never wins. The Friday quiz at a care home is taken more seriously than any match on television. A pensioner who has just taken up skateboarding, someone you fell out with over a parking space, suggests you enter the pub quiz together under a team name they refuse to explain. But the name belongs to their old team, and the old team is back in town. Before the clocks go back, the old team enters too and sits down at the next table. What do you do?
You play a grandchild who has just been handed the family recipe book. Sunday lunch at a crowded family table has kept the same seating plan for twenty years. A florist who cries at every wedding — whom you keep meaning to ring back — challenges you to beat their score on an old arcade machine they won't let anyone unplug. What you don't yet know: the high score was set by their dad, and they've never wanted anyone to beat it. By Sunday lunch, the machine goes to a collector, where the score is wiped the moment it's moved, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood small-scale and heartfelt.
You are a twin who has always been the quieter one. A family restaurant is trying a new menu for the first time since it opened in 1994. A best friend just back from a year abroad suggests you enter the pub quiz together under a team name they refuse to explain, and they're someone you still haven't thanked properly. The catch: the name belongs to their old team, and the old team is back in town. By the end of the week, the old team enters too and sits down at the next table — so choose now. Keep the mood gently chaotic.
You are the captain of a team that never wins. A seaside chip shop reopens for the season with a new fryer and the same old arguments. A drummer who is always late and always brilliant is selling the family caravan and wants one last trip to the coast first, and they're someone you always lose the pub quiz to. The catch: they're not selling for the money but because nobody else ever wanted to go. Before the end of term, the buyer comes for the caravan, so this trip is the last chance for anyone to say they cared — so choose now. Keep the mood cosy, chaotic and loving.
You play a twin who has always been the quieter one. A garden centre café is where the town's retired people sort out every problem except their own. A teenage chess prodigy who has never lost at the club — whom you work every Saturday shift with — asks you to taste their first go at their mum's dal and tell them what's missing. What you don't yet know: their mum always left out one ingredient when she taught anyone, so hers would stay the best. By the morning, they're cooking it for her birthday, in front of her, with half the family watching, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood rainy-day comforting.
You play a newcomer who has just moved onto the street. A primary school is putting on its first ever musical, and every parent has notes. A head teacher in the last term before retirement, someone you still owe twenty quid to, suggests you enter the pub quiz together under a team name they refuse to explain. But the name belongs to their old team, and the old team is back in town. Before the leaves turn, the old team enters too and sits down at the next table. What do you do? Keep the mood small-scale and heartfelt.
You are a delivery driver who knows every doorstep on the round. A sixth-form chess club has three members and a trophy cabinet that stops in 1987. A stepmum who is trying a little too hard asks you to keep their seat warm at the Saturday match while they're away, and they're someone you grew up next door to. The catch: they're moving abroad for good, and the seat is the one thing they can't bring themselves to give up. Before the school holidays start, the club resells the season tickets, so the seat goes unless someone takes it on — so choose now. Keep the mood busy, noisy and affectionate.
You play the eldest child, home for the summer. A family restaurant is trying a new menu for the first time since it opened in 1994. A former bandmate who became slightly famous, someone you were paired with for a school project, hands you a shoebox of family recipes and asks you to choose one for the reunion. But half the recipes are in a language they've quietly let themselves forget. By the end of the month, the oldest relatives arrive expecting the old dishes, though nobody else can read the cards. What do you do? Keep the mood cosy, chaotic and loving.
You play an aspiring stand-up with one five-minute set. A community allotment is fighting off a car park plan with marrows, petitions and very strong tea. A head teacher in the last term before retirement — whom you accidentally insulted on your first day — asks you to taste their first go at their mum's dal and tell them what's missing. What you don't yet know: their mum always left out one ingredient when she taught anyone, so hers would stay the best. By Sunday lunch, they're cooking it for her birthday, in front of her, with half the family watching, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood dry, British and fond.
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