Creative Copy Challenge #87

Today’s words come to us from James Chartrand of Men With Pens. When she’s not assassinating bad guys in fiction, she should be.

BET YOU CAN’T do this writing prompt. Take the 10 random words below and, in the comments, crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story tying all of them together! And remember: after (if) you finish, highlight your words and click the bold button to make them stand out and help you determine if you forgot any words. (If you’ve missed previous writing prompts, we BET YOU CAN’T do those, either.)

  1. Travesty – see James Chartrand not writing more fiction
  2. Eviscerate – To remove the entrails of; disembowel. Ex. It eviscerates me when James Chartrand doesn’t write more fiction.
  3. Furious – see what I am when James Chartrand doesn’t write more fiction
  4. Exacerbate – To increase the severity, violence, or bitterness of; aggrevate; ex. When James Chartrand doesn’t write more fiction, it exacerbates my sadness.
  5. Antlers
  6. Vivacious – Full of animation and spirit. Ex. I get vivacious when James Chartrand writes more fiction.
  7. Squalor – the condition or quality of being squalid; disgusting dirt and filth. Ex. How I feel when James Chartrand doesn’t write more fiction.
  8. Incinerate
  9. Bawdy – Humorously coarse; risqué; Vulgar; lewd. Ex. When James Chartrand doesn’t write more fiction, I start cursing like a bawdy sailor.
  10. Heathen

NOTE: Don’t copy and paste from MS Word. Use a program like notepad that removes formatting or just type in the comment field itself. Also, finish your submission, THEN bold the words. Thanks. (And don’t forget to tweet this and share it with your friends.)

Resources you should check out:
Thesis: Best Damn Theme on the Web
Collective Ink Well: Personalize Your Thesis Theme
Third Tribe Marketing: Marketing done the right way
Story Structure Demystified: Best damn writing book out there

56 Comments on “Creative Copy Challenge #87”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    Whenever James Chartrand doesn’t write fiction, it’s a travesty. It eviscerates my nerves having to wait for my next assassin installment.

    I get furious.

    I pester her on Twitter.

    I exacerbate my state by reading previous assassin installments, further sharpening my pestering antlers to extract more.

    I’m vivacious.

    I will not take no for an answer.

    If I live in squalor in a cardboard box, I will bum enough money to get Internet access at a coffee house and send her tweets to write more. If authorities incenerate my coardboard box, I will find another, beg for more money, and continue the pesterfest.

    James may respond in a bawdy, I’m-freakin’-busy-but-I’ll-try-to-write-more-fiction-dammit fashion, but I’m a heathen who only belives it when I see it. And when I see it. I believe again.

  2. “A travesty!” Shane pounded his fist on the table. “You make me furious, damn you! Do you realize the talent you throw away?!”

    James settled a little deeper in her chair, an amused smile tugging at her mouth. “Keep carrying on like that, and I’ll start to think you’re about to eviscerate me.”

    “I JUST MIGHT!” Shane roared. “What, are you deliberately trying to exacerbate the situation?! You fool! Look at you, living in squalor, acting all vivacious on Twitter… a waste, I tell you, a WASTE!”

    “Oh heathen am I,” James agreed affably, delighted at the fuss she caused. “Reveling in the bawdy pursuits of business fame when I could be locked in my attic writing a novel. Travesty indeed. Careful there,” James pointed gleefully. “Get any madder and you might sprout antlers.”

    The light in Shane’s eyes was bright enough to incinerate steel and he hissed through gritted teeth. “You enjoy this, don’t you. You’re actually enjoying this.”

    “Every minute,” James beamed, completely delighted. “Every single, beautiful minute.”

  3. margaret says:

    Some might label me a heathen, cuz I don’t do churchy meetings,
    but I’m bawdy and vivacious and spiritually tenacious.
    And I really get quite curious why it makes some people furious
    that religion has diversity and they view that as perversity.

    Third world countries live in squalor, while some churches see the dollar.
    They encourage them to procreate, their poverty  to exacerbate,
    as their cultural beliefs incinerate, their own gods  eviscerate!

    I might as well be red with antlers in the eyes of churchy “rant”lers
    when I say let us all be who we are, and believe in our own star.
    God made us individual, to worship unconditional.
    We all see different majesty, and to change that is a travesty.

    note: I grew up having certain beliefs rammed down my spiritual throat and was told
                 ours was the only way. I have major issues with sending missionaries to decimate
                the beliefs of other cultures….stone me if you will!

  4. “This favoritism is a travesty,” I said sternly.

    “Leave me alone,” Shane replied. “I need my fix.”

    “What happened to your vivacious egalitarian ways?” I asked. “Yes, you’re polite to the rest, but you carry on like a bawdy heathen with this… woman!”

    “Mondays and Thursdays,” Shane mumbled, scratching his head.

    “I’m going to incinerate all her writings. It’s the only way to free you from this literary squalor.” I strode towards his filing cabinet, determined.

    Shane rubbed his head harder, clearly furious at my affront. “Don’t make me mad. You wouldn’t like me when I’m mad,” he said darkly.

    “What are you, the Incredible Hulk? Stop this nonsense and stand aside,” I insisted, foolishly exacerbating the situation.

    Shane charged at me like a crazed bull. His head had sprouted…antlers? I dodged wildly, but it was too late.

    The impact made a sickening, wet sound. I bounced off his filing cabinets like a rag doll.

    Eviscerated, I barely had the strength to utter ten words while bright crimson pools drained away my resolve. Shane snorted and pawed the carpet. “I finally understand,” I said, gasping. “You’re horny.”

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Steven: OH, BLEEPITY BLEEP! Tears are escaping my face right now. Super funny, Steven.

      I know. I laid it on super thick with James today. It’s an inside thing with us, this incessant toying. I know she wishes she could write more fiction. I like to rub salt in that wound. She should never had told me she needs someone to kick her in the butt to write more fiction.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Steven: P.S. You want to see gushing favoritism. Wait until Thursday when Sonia Simone’s words post. I’ll try not to act like a fanboy too much. 🙂

    • Shane Arthur says:

      P.P.S. In all seriousness, there are no favorites here. It’d be like choosing my favorite child. There’s so much talent in this place, I’m humbled by it. I consider myself a competent writer, but sometimes I’m just in awe of the skill level here.

      I’d say my favorite submission here at the CCC is A SUBMISSION. Without people sharing their souls here, this place would be a boring collection of bulleted lists. You 172 submitters are all my favorite children. Now, stop playing around and clean your rooms. 🙂

    • Patsi Sota says:

      Hilarious, love how everyone is using Shane, he must be getting tired. This Challenge is such fun today, I feel like a kid at recess.

    • Kelly says:

      “you carry on like a bawdy heathen with this… woman!”

      Funniest. Line. Ever.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Steven-OMG-that was hysterical-Love it-wiping away the tears. (mine-not Shane’s he can get James to wipe away his tears). 🙂

  5. The man doth protest too much, methinks. 😉

    [with apologies to Shakespeare]

  6. I know I’ve been MIA for a while, but here’s my latest. I was able to use these words to push through on one of my final scenes on my first novel.

    Oh, and I have a new blog. Shane, could you change my link in the community page to Thanks!

    “I’m so pumped about our trip this weekend!” said the vivacious kid at the front desk. He was way too excited. It made Ethan want to eviscerate something, and he hadn’t even done that with the bawdy girl from the bar. Or the girl he’d incinerated in the warehouse. After all, he wasn’t a heathen. His religion was doing things tastefully. Scrupulously removing a woman’s beautiful eyes was one thing – sloppily spilling her entrails was quite another.
    “Another trip? You just got back. Where to this time?” asked the other guy.
    “Carlsbad Caverns.” The bait had worked? Previously, Ethan had been trying to ignore the conversation, but he was hooked at that – like a deer with its antlers entangled. On the treadmill, he pumped his legs furiously, staying faithful to the workout that had suddenly turned into a front for eavesdropping.
    “I saw that flyer lying around here yesterday. Was that yours?”
    “Nope, I thought it was yours. It gave me the idea of Carlsbad. After you told me about your trip a few weeks ago, I got the cave bug. I’m anxious to check out this place. It sounds awesome.”
    “When are you going?”

    “You taking your girlfriend?”
    There was a slight pause before the first guy answered. “Hopefully. My brother and sister are coming, so they’ll convince her if I can’t.”
    The mention of the girlfriend…the girl…exacerbated Ethan’s distraction. He tripped over his own feet and was nearly launched off the treadmill. At the last moment, he regained his footing…and with it his composure. It would be a travesty if he screwed the whole thing up here and now.
    “Why wouldn’t she go?” asked the second guy. Fortunately their backs were to Ethan and neither had noticed his clumsiness.
    “Oh, she’s a little timid about some things. But I’m sure we’ll talk her into it. If she doesn’t want to crawl through passages with me and Josh, then she’ll explore the tame trails with Chloe.”
    Ethan imagined the two girls alone in the cave…in the dark. And while the guys were slithering through squalor, he would have his way with the girls…the girl. He’d waited so long for her and soon it would be time. She would be his.

  7. Jesse says:

    It’s been awhile. Here goes:

    “Yea?  Well I’d rather be a vivacious heathen than a bad Catholic.”

    Furious, he got behind the wheel of his pickup – the old beater with the antlers on the front grill – and sped off.

    It eviscerates her each and every time he berates her for not going to church.  His attitude only exacerbates her adamant refusal to attend the archaic, ritualistic lecture that ( he thinks) erases the damage done each week by his bawdy behavior.

    She’d rather incinerate his ‘book’ and live in squalor, than attend the weekly Sunday travesty.

    But she does enjoy the taste of the wafer and the wine.

  8. Stacia says:

    Marketing Survival: Murder 2.0.
    What does it take for the heathen in squalor to adopt a more vivacious life? Obviously, the answer is neither Jesus nor Buddha. Not for our filthy gentile here.
    He is a young man, all tall and well-built, as if walls are all around him. Always furious, he can chase away strangers like you and me within seconds of his piercing eye contact. For whatever reasons.
    Whenever something inside is churning painfully, he runs like a cheetah would dash if a prey is in sight. He crushes those animal bones, then exacerbates further to will, for whatever reasons. He would grab just the meat and potatoes, grappling those dying hearts out of the antelopes. It eviscerates the pain.
    Bless his empty soul, that deep hollowness of his heart. Blood, sweat, and more tears, and I mean that of a physical pain and none of those sadness, solely for the hardship of survival.
    Only thing different about him from an animal would be his collection. Wide, long, collection of antlers. You would think that his exhibit is artsy. To him, though, it’s the only thing he savors.
    Oh yes, some bawdy obsessions you might say too. He loves staring at them all, picturing each of those tall branches going in all directions into this shrew he just love picturing – this woman and her fierceness, along with her hollow heart, and their endless nights of mating. To what end? For whatever reasons.
    He neither speak the human language nor even speak up. He only prides his very own humane killings, achieving those beautiful antlers, and then fantasizing about his imaginations. Those wild, Arabian nights.
    After all, our modern nonfiction is nothing but a travesty in classical literature, except sugarcoated with formalities such as lies, damned lies, and statistics.
    Welcome to the next literature. Here’s an app brought to you by his digs for numbers. Truth to be told? Incinerate them, for whatever reasons.

  9. Patsi Sota says:

    They lived in squalor. It didn’t look as if the floor had been washed in years. The smell was enough to gag a maggot. I was furious. Who do they think they are. They kidnapped me. Unbelievable.
    The house was a travesty of the happy home. Broken dolls without heads hung from the porch rafters. The birdbath, in the front yard, was filled with chopped up bird parts and blood. The flies were vivaciously landing, eating, taking to flight only to land elsewhere in the search of more putrid gore.
    The girl went back outside but I am here alone, tied, and gagged with the man. He was filthy and bawdy. The language and gestures were appalling to me. The Heathen dragged me across the disgustingly dirty floor and threw me down the stairs. I think this is a cellar or basement. I heard the door slam and lock above me.
    The first thing I noticed were the bodies hanging from the walls & ceiling like atlers in a hunting lodge. All of them in different states of decomposition. Some looked mummified and others still dripped blood. I could feel the gorge rise in my throat. Somehow I managed to get my tongue and chin in the ideal spot to dislodge the piece of cloth in my mouth. The bile came right back up and out. I spewed green down the front of my blouse, or what was left of one.
    I was able to roll over and see another man. He was wearing a rubber apron, not unlike the type that a butcher in a slaughter house might wear. He was tearing and chopping at something, something still alive. The moans of the torchered only exacberated his chore. It was like watching a shark feeding frenzy.
    I was able to move slightly, just in time to watch the lewd man dump a body on top of a workbench and begin to eviscerate it. The body was that of my friend Sharon. She was still very much alive and felt every cut, slash, and stab. Lewd Man raped her while Apron Man sliced through her pink flesh.
    It has been over a day now, I can tell by the light coming in the filth covered window glass. The woman just left. She is off to incinerate what is left of Sharon. I just spent the last five hours with Lewd Man, while the woman watched and took turns with him utilizing wires, wrenches, and bottles. I can see the shards glistening on the dirt floor beneath me. Here comes Apron Man, it’s his turn.

  10. Cathy Miller says:

    Death & the Detective Series
    Detective Brett Connors sat cooling his heels in the reception area of the precinct’s psychiatrist and profiler. He had no doubt it was payback for the hard time he gave her when she was on his turf, asking for a consult.

    That he should feel any guilt was a travesty of justice, but that’s just what he felt – especially with the look the Doc shot his way as she stormed out of the department. One look like that could eviscerate the strongest of cops.

    “The doctor will see you now,” the Cerebus secretary frowned at Brett.

    “About damn time,” he muttered, trying to keep the furious tone to himself. He didn’t want to give the lady shrink the satisfaction.

    Trying not to exacerbate the situation, Brett replaced the scowl on his face with what he hoped was boyish charm – yeah, right.

    “So, what did you want to talk about, Doc?”

    Maggie held her power position behind her desk as she gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.

    “Have a seat, Detective.”

    “I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”

    Forcing a smile, he would not succeed with his own power play, she mused, “I’ll strain my neck if I have to keep looking up at you. Please.”

    “Well, since you asked nice,” Brett smirked, easing his 6 foot 4 inch frame into a chair with slender arms no wider than the tip of antlers on a young buck. He’d be lucky if it held him – maybe that was her plan – to put him on his ass.

    “We are both busy so let me get straight to the point.”

    “By all means.”

    “I want in on your investigation.”

    “Which investigation is that?”

    How did this man so easily snap her famous control? She fought hard to mask her vivacious nature with the cloak of professionalism, but oh, how the detective tested her.

    It was difficult to temper her images of that squalor offering of a poor woman laying on her balcony.

    “Please, Detective. I thought we agreed not to waste each other’s time. I want in on your investigation of the murdered woman, dumped on my doorstep.” Her look and tone would incinerate a lesser man.

    Resisting the urge to make a bawdy remark about her use of the word “dump,” Brett tried reason instead of his usual protective, heathen humor.

    “Look, Doc, I know you have more than a passing interest in the case, but you are as much of a victim as that poor girl. I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix the two.”

  11. Kelly says:


    We call it his “mellow meddies.”

    Without those pills twice a day for his adolescent ADHD, I don’t know where we’d be. Before the doctor gave us the diagnosis, our home life was a travesty; he could eviscerate me with a furious dump of auditory sewage (trumpeting his misery!), which I’d unintentionally exacerbate with pleas for calm; then we’d watch and wait as any and every task was turned into another opportunity for chaos and confusion.

    His cries were like the bawdy calls of the heartsick; his room was in a constant state of squalor no heathen would want to spend even a minute in. To incinerate the whole place and start over would be a blessing, but we needed our thin shelter to keep us apart at least some of the time.

    After the doctor prescribed his mellow medicine, things did get better. Or different; I missed his more vivacious self at times when he was clomping about in relative calm (I guess we all did), but not enough to wish for the site of his antlers coming through the kitchen wall again as they had every Spring since he began rutting. So even I came around to loving those mellow meddies.

    ‘Cause it ain’t that easy to keep a young bull moose in the house.

  12. Avenged in Blood Part 44
     We both jumped and drew pistols at the same time. Something or more likely someone had just entered the front door to Lola’s apartment, and they were uninvited. I looked at her with a new appreciation as she threw on her clothes. This vivacious creature was letting loose such a string of bawdy prose, that it was a travesty I was the only one around to enjoy it.
    A moment later we met at the door to the bedroom, both dressed and ready to kill. She was furious that someone had violated her sanctum. I knew how she felt, it was her doing the same thing to me just yesterday.
    Glassware began to break in the other room. That was just cause to exacerbate her foul mood. Lola began to mutter darker and more violent curses at the heathen intruders. “I want to eviscerate those bastards with that set of antlers in the front room.” She said.
    “They are nothing but squalor,” I said. “But it is better to incinerate them with gunfire. Intestines are nasty things.” I pulled open the door as silently as I could and followed my .45 from the room, Lola a heartbeat behind.

  13. […] Welcome to the next literature. Here’s an app brought to you by his digs for numbers. Truth to be told? Incinerate them, for whatever reasons. […]

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