Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #130

Today we have our own Shane Hudson choosing our words. Make him proud. Crush his challenge.

Writing prompts cure writer’s block. Take the 10 random words below and, in the comments, crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story tying 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, do those too.)

  1. Calligraphy
  2. Launder
  3. Caterpillar
  4. Seamstress
  5. Envy
  6. Placebo
  7. Iron
  8. Offspring
  9. Improvisation
  10. Colorful

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.)

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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

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100 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #130”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    “What’s dat fancy writing there, Billy?”

    “This here’s called Calligraphy, Bobby. I’m gonna write sexy greetin’ cards and showd um to Margaret to convince her into puttin’ her poems on greetin’ cards. Been beggin’ her for months.”

    “Ain’t it better to write about caterpillars and colorful girly stuff and such, Billy?”

    “Those frilly greetin’ cards ain’t nothin’ to envy, Bobby. They ain’t got no guts or iron in them to be persuadin’ men to buy. Ain’t nothin’ in them to brag to your offsprings about neither. No, I’m writing about cheatin’ seamstresses havin’ affairs with money-laundering drug dealers and swamp seductresses and such.

    “But, Billy, you ain’t never done any writin’ that I knowd of. Matter of fact, you can’t even read none.”

    “The placebo’s in the improvisation, Bobby. Dat means I’m gonna make dat shit up as I go along and ask Margaret to tell me if they’s okay or not.

  2. Tanja Cilia says:

    She was a seamstress, the colorful, anxious woman with no name, nicknamed The Scream by Edvard Munch. Improvisation was the name of her game – she always seemed to have something to worry about.  If it was not Yellowstone Park erupting, it was the Mediterranean Sea boiling over. If it was not one of her offspring being run over by a car, it was that her neighbour would set fire to her house because of her envy. If it was not the Moon exploding, it was a comet approaching earth at warp speed. The psychiatrist called it the Caterpillar Effect Syndrome, which obtained when the body was short of iron. He tried to cure her, launder her brain as it were, with placebo therapy, but it only resulted in her writing out her fears in beautiful calligraphy on papyrus scrolls.

  3. Colic Spice

    Calligraphy hides recipe –
    Offspring of  the ancient Gothic
    Launder  text for literati.
    Iron  stress, sans miniscule stamp.
    Caterpillar ere chrysalis.

    Seamstress Mother, is it colic?
    Placebo  pill: red-hot chili
    Improvisation  practical.
    Colorful spice – a pinch or two.
    Envy the quiet. Cherubic.
     
    ***
    If you like this double acrostic poem, where the initial and final letters spell out the title, you will love my poem, The Closet, on my blog. 🙂

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Mitchell: Outstanding. Truly. Loved this style. I’ve tried these before and only after trying do you fully understand how difficult it is.

    • Really great Acrostic poem, I don’t write much acrostic poetry myself but do on rare occasions.  This one is fantastic and love the Offspring of the ancient Gothic line.

    • Shane Hudson says:

      No way! I have never ever seen a double acrostic, this really is impressive. I love your use of words as well.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Mitch-brilliant-not sure how you create colic spice from this challenge, but brilliant, just the same-LOL! 🙂

      • Thanks, everyone. I like this one so much, I’m making a graphic of it for my blog. It should be up in an hour or so.
         
        @Shane H. Thanks for the awesome words. They really beckoned the muse today.
         
        @Cathy, LOL. Quick story: I’ve been in love with anagrams my whole entire life. 🙂 When I was a wee lad, I was extremely upset because the initial letters of the Seven Deadly Sins did not form a word (PLACESG). Ever since then, my brain has been sensitized to anagram formations. My mind saw something in Shane’s words, so I went to my secret weapon: Wordsmith.org. for inspiration.
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         
        P.S. I just ran those letters through! Apparently, when I was younger, gelcaps hadn’t been invented, yet.

    • Chris Fries says:

      Too brilliant, Mitch!!!  Awesome!  Like Bach’s crab canon, it whips and winds and folds in on itself.  I love it!!!
       
      Plus, to make it about one of the absolute best after-shaves out there is just too cool.
       
      Oh wait…
       
       
       

  4. These words today inspired this poem about two lonely people finding each other.
     
    The Painter and the Seamstress

    His caterpillar calligraphy
    colorful offspring of improvisation
    graphic vision with no home
    painting here all alone
     
     
    Lonely seamstress in the night
    shirts and gowns without envy
    no clothes to launder now
    alone with an iron so cold
     
     
    Love placebo struck one night
    painting mishap blessed them both
    his soiled clothing needed cleaning
    her iron now warming for him
     
    -Poem by Justin Germino
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

  5. Anne Wayman says:

    Here’s one of those spamy type ads I was complaining about here before:

    Calligraphy, a new computer typeface! Launder all your documents so they don’t look like the caterpillar ate them. Stitch your words together like a seamstress; be the envy of every other writer. It’s not a placebo, but a iron-solid tool that will impress your offspring with your colorful improvisation.

  6. Cathy Miller says:

    The calligraphy looped in a graceful dance, a launder of even the ugliest of words. From a caterpillar crawl, the words unfolded in butterfly wings to become the seamstress of patchwork beauty that all would envy.

    All who read them knew the joy. Anything less was a placebo with no substance and forgotten dreams. So, they wrapped themselves in the beauty to iron away the doubt inside as the challenge improvisation led to the offspring of a more colorful time.

  7. Anne Wayman says:

    What a great description of writing when it’s going well… and with specified words – genius I think.

  8. Cathy Miller says:

    @Shane, @Justin, @Mitch, @Anne-feel the love ♥ Thank you all for the kind words-using calligraphy – or not. 🙂

  9. […] 28 2011 This double acrostic poem was inspired by the writing prompts on […]

  10. Chris Fries says:

    Ok, here’s my entry — the serial continues:

    The Look of Murder — Part 4

    Sergeant Alden of the Michigan State Police kept me in the tiny interview room of the Flint post for the better part of two hours.  Nothing much came of it.  All I could tell him was that Margaret Thurston had hired me to quietly find her husband, Charles Thurston, and suggested I start at his lake cabin.  And I’d found him there, sure enough, but deader than a door nail, bludgeoned with a hefty camera and tripod.  Although it was easy to tell that he’d been dead for a few days, I was examining him for signs of life right when four state troopers had barged in and found me there.

    Alden kept grilling me, coming at it from ten different directions, his language getting pretty colorful at times, but there wasn’t anything more I could tell him.  He wanted to iron out the details of the killing, but there weren’t that many details I could provide, other than what he already knew. 

    Samuel Dotson, the lawyer who’d suggested that Margaret hire me, sat across from me at the empty table, chain-smoking and keeping his yap shut while Alden went on and on.  Finally Alden gave up.  He wasn’t stupid.  He realized I wasn’t giving him a scam; this wasn’t some jazz improvisation I was making up as I went along.  I was telling him all I knew.

    But it bothered me.  It seemed like something more going on here than what I was in on.  Dotson acted like he was holding something back and I knew there was something stewing in Alden.  I could see it beneath the surface.  Like a caterpillar changing inside its cocoon, there was some sort of hidden idea taking shape in Alden’s mind.

    I didn’t like not being in the know.

    “All right,” I said.  “You’ve kept me on ice over night and most of the day and you’ve grilled me six ways from Sunday.  Now let me ask you something.”

    Alden shrugged.  “Sure.  I’ll answer what I can, but I won’t compromise the case.”

    “Fine.  First off, what tipped you off to come to the cabin?  That’s a Hell of a coincidence your boys just happened to show when I was checking the place out.  And to show up with two cars and four cops with guns drawn makes me think you were expecting trouble.”

    “We got a call with a tip that Thurston had been injured,” Alden said.

    “You get the name of the caller?”

    Alden paused.  “It was an anonymous tip.”

    “But you took it seriously enough to send two cars?”

    “Thurston’s an important guy, and the caller said there were screams coming from the cabin.”

    “Thurston’s got a private lake with no other cabins nearby.  His joint’s a good half-a-mile off the road.  You ask the caller how he happened to be close enough to hear the screams?”

    I could see Alden’s jaw tighten.  “The caller didn’t give details.”

    I didn’t push it.  I’d made my point.  “One other question,” I said.  “What about the camera?  Since it appears to be the murder weapon I’m sure you’ve brought it in.  You get any evidence off it?”

    “Like fingerprints?  There weren’t any.  It had been wiped clean.”

    “Any film in it?”

    “Nope.”

    “That’s kind of odd, too, don’t you think?”

    Alden’s eyes narrowed.  “Why’s that?”

    “I remember seeing the open camera case sitting open on the table.”

    Alden shrugged again, but Dotson pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and leaned into the table.  I went on.  “So Thurston, or whoever, goes to the trouble of getting this fancy camera out of its case, and setting it up on a tripod, then leaving it close where it’s handy enough to grab and beat the poor schmuck’s brains out, but there was never any film put in it?”

    “Maybe Thurston hadn’t gotten that far yet,” Alden said.  He crossed his arms.  “That all you got?”

    “For now,” I said.

    Alden stood and moved towards the door.  “Then you’re free to go.  But keep yourself available in case I need you to come up and visit us again.”  Dotson and I stood and followed Alden out.  I got my things and Dotson gave me a ride over to the impound lot to get my car.  Everything from the glove box had been strewn out onto the seats.  It had been gone through pretty good, but at least it looked like nothing had been broken.

    I headed back towards Detroit.  I didn’t envy Alden.  Thurston was rich and important and I knew Alden would have a lot of high-pressure bigwigs breathing down his neck to solve this case.

    As for me, I supposed I was finished.  I’d done what Mrs. Thurston had asked, so there was really no reason for me to worry about it any more.  I’d even been paid already, so I didn’t have to wait for the money.

    Still, all the way back to Detroit and to my office off of Woodward, I kept stewing about it.  It was like the place I launder my clothes had put too much starch in the back of my shirt; like some absent-minded seamstress had forgotten to take a couple of pins out of my collar.  It kept gnawing at the back of my neck and wouldn’t let me go. 

    I reached my building and parked the car and went up to the office.  The door was still locked, and nothing had been disturbed.  Not that I expected it.  But I was on edge.  I didn’t even take off my coat before I grabbed the phone book and looked up Thurston.  I figured them to have an unlisted number, but there it was, as big as day — Charles Thurston Jr. in Gross Point. 

    I copied the address, then left and drove over.  I could have tried calling, but I felt I needed to see her; to see how she was doing; to tell her that I was sorry I had found her husband that way.  And, mainly, to let her know for sure that no matter what the cops said, I had nothing to do with it.

    I reached the address, a huge sprawling brick home with a sweeping front lawn, manicured landscaping, and a wrought iron fence around the property.  The gate was open so I pulled in and parked and then went up to the front door.  I rang and a stern-faced maid answered.  I explained who I was and asked for Margaret.  The maid tried to give me the brush off, but then I heard Margaret speak from inside.  “Its fine, Elizabeth.  I’ll see Mister Sharpe.”

    The maid gave a faint bow and stepped aside to let me into the foyer, then she vanished down one of the hallways.  I took off my hat.  Margaret was coming down a wide staircase, wearing an expensive-looking pink robe, with “MT” embroidered on it; Large, ornate letters like calligraphy done in bright red thread. There were silky swirls of white bedclothes peeking out under the robe as she descended.  Her raven-black hair was pulled back, but was in place other than for one wisp that swirled around her left eye.

    “I’m sorry if I seem a little groggy,” she said as she reached me.  “The doctor’s given me a sedative, but I’m afraid it’s not working.  I just can’t seem to sleep.”

    Her words were clear with no slurring. I looked in her eyes.  They were red, like she’d been crying, but they weren’t dilated.  Maybe the quack had given her a placebo; she seemed as sharp as ever.

    “I wanted to stop and offer my condolences,” I said.

    “I appreciate that Mr. Sharpe, and also for your help in finding Charles.  I’m sorry you had to find him that–”

    “That’s not a problem,” I said, cutting her off.  Here I’d come to give her an apology, and she was giving one to me.  “I wanted…”

    She raised an eyebrow.  Even after rehearsing everything I had planned to say, I was speechless.  I looked around the foyer.  It was richly decorated, with polished marble floors and intricate statuettes tucked into nooks carved into the walls.  There was a large brown and orange rug on the floor.  It looked Middle Eastern.

    “Is that your kilim?” I said.  “It does spruce up the joint.”

    She smiled.  It helped make it easier to tell her what I wanted to.

    “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened to your husband,” I said.  “But I hope the cops didn’t put any screwy ideas in your head.  I want you to know that I didn’t–”

    “I know Mr. Sharpe.” 

    I felt better, relieved that she didn’t hold me responsible in any way, but yet I didn’t want to say goodbye. 

    “Do your children know?” I asked.

    “Charles and I never had any offspring.  I would have liked to, but, well it just never happened…”  She looked down.

    Offspring, she says.  She was a piece of work.

    I didn’t know what else to say, so I was getting ready to tell her goodbye when there was a crash and a scream from the back of the house.  Margaret’s eyes gaped and she pulled her hands to her mouth.  I didn’t stop to think, but ran down the hall towards where the crash had come from.

    I guess Margaret wasn’t quite rid of me yet.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Chris: Yes! Love how this is unfolding. And the ending. More!

      • Chris Fries says:

        Thanks, Shane.  I always appreciate the kind words.
         
        We’ll probably work another 3 – 6 entries in of this series, at most.  I don’t want to make it a whole novel — it’s long enough as it is!  Each section is so long that I think I’m scaring people away from reading it.  Short and sweet works a lot better, but once I get going with this one, it’s hard to stop.  ;^)
         
        Although…  It makes me think:  I’ve only been posting here since half-past February, but if you added it up and based it on total words, I bet I’ve already become one of your all-time top posters…  LOL!
         

        • Shane Arthur says:

          @Chris: You can post a billion words if you like. No limit at all, especially considering how good they are. You’re a CCC regular now my friend. Write on.

    • Great chapter, Chris. Please don’t be afraid of the length. I look forward to them – got my juice and chips out when I saw you had written yours 🙂
       
      Of course, if this is going to be a novel, I can wait ’til you get it on Kindle!
       
      As for your use of the words, they were so skillfully woven in, I forgot about the challenge!
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

  11. Tiffany Hudson says:

    I don’t do mornings. Never have. Never will. I totaly Envy hedgehogs. Well I did. Then they started disapering and I changed my mind.
    I knocked on Sam’s front door loudly. Because like always I could hear The Offspring blearing from his room.
    Alfie answered looking tired and annoyed.
    “Coral. Morning. It’s Saturday. Why is he up” He basicly growled
    “I don’t know but my mum is on a new medican thing and I’m pretty sure it’s a placebo. My sisters seamstress ran out after finding a caterpillar in Jenny’s carboard.” I stopped, shrugged and ran up the stairs.
    “Sam.” I burst into his room to find him holding an iron thoughtfully in his hands. I titled my hand to the side. “Normal.”
    “I… have no idea. Shut you up though.” He grinned. Put down the iron and crossed the room quickly. I smiled up at him as he hugged me.
    “A new calligraphy plaque thing has been put up at school. I’m pretty sure they have that wrong though. It sounds a bit weird.” He rattled off.
    “Not as weird as the new owner of the launder down the street. super strange. Saw him dancing down the road with his long legs and big ears. He has blue eyes and little round glasses. Tall and slim. Short brown hair. Long nose.” I grinned at him.
    “You could be a writter.”
    “Yeah and you could be a colorful music man that sings about improvisation and being on the right frequency to combat.”
    “Riight, ’cause you’re normal” He laughed.
    I joined in too. I raised up onto tip toes and kissed him. Just as Alfie walked in the room.
    “Eww.”
    He moaned.
    “Your room is next door.” Sam growled.
    “But all the intertanment is in here.” Alfie laughed.
    I lost my footing and fell onto Sams bed as he dived for Alfie. Slamed his head into the wall and started beating him to a pulp.
    I screamed but Sam had already stopped.
    “Alfie, get out!” He yelled. It was so loud it hurt my ears.
    He turned looking ashamed.

  12. Shane Hudson says:

    Blimey I did choose some hard words! And @Shane A: You copied colourful wrongly :p
     

    As colourful the caterpillar was,
    and the seamstress did envy.
     
    Down the salmon river lived,
    her offspring of plenty.
     
    So instead of buying insects much loved,
    she turned to calligraphy.
     
    Through this semi-placebo, she could reflect,
    and write her final soliloquy.
     
    With improvisation and,
    a heavy iron nib.
     
    Her coordination made,
    doing laundry a chip.

    • Shane Hudson says:

      @Shane A: Whoops, forgot to bold the words.. and for some reason editing has been turned off! Could that be sorted please? Thanks!

      • Shane Arthur says:

        @Shane H: I’ll look into the editing function. I believe it’s still on but only for a few minutes after you post.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Shane H: I took liberties with the colorful spelling. 🙂
      Damn, your poem made me laugh aloud for some reason. I’m picturing a fish writing calligraphy perhaps.

    • Thanks for the words today, Shane! I see you felt moved to write a poem, as well! Cool.
      Unlike Shane A., I picked up some ominous vibes, what with the reference to final soliloquy and the sense of loneliness (empty nester?)
       
      You had me hunting around for the British term chip. Somehow, I don’t think it was about potatoes…
       
      Help?
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

    • Chris Fries says:

      Fun, Shane!   And thanks for the great words!
       
      I really enjoy the flow of words, here Shane.  Nice work!
       
      (…and I took “chip” as meaning a sense of resentment or arrogance, like a “chip on the shoulder”.  That’s what’s great about pieces like this — there’s space for the reader to add their own meaning.)
       

  13. margaret says:

    The procrastination to launder and iron my wardrobe for a few weeks led to a psychedelic and colorful fashion improvisation which made me look like the offspring of Lady GaGa and a caterpillar.

    The end result would be enough to send Elton John into such a fit of envy that he would immediately pen a letter in perfect calligraphy to his seamstress, who would in return reach for some Valium but accidentally take a placebo!

  14. meek willed says:

    After breakfast Sue and I walk to college taking the normal route under the trees where a caterpillar dropped right in front and freaked her out.
    She jumped back and grabbed my shoulder as I just chuckled at her reaction.
    Then we continued blissfully past the trees and launderettes joking about all sorts were we bumped into are friends James and Chloe.
    James was obsessed with a piece of paper looking at in every which way he could until Chloe then pull out of his hand to display to us.
    The paper has nothing but blue squiggles on it and Sue blurted out the question I was thinking “what is that” the reply she got was in an annoyed tone “it’s my Calligraphy for English class” she walked off in a huff until she got to the corner.
    we caught up to chloe who was gawking at the most colourful signs ever imagined and it was for a sweet shop right where the talor had been (my mother was a Seamstress there so I remeber it well).
    we walked into the shop to fine thay had all the sweet we had ever hear of and then we dident(they even had the first Placebo aka the sugar cube) I bort a chocolate bar befor we left.
    As we continue on are way to college I start to eat the chocolate and reseve some envyus looks from sue untill i offerd her some at which she broke herself off a bit.
    As we got  to the iron gate sue stoped huming I want you bad by offspring I sead goodbye and went to drama class (I bet we’d be doing improvisation again).

  15. Michelle Baker says:

    Well done Tom (aka Meke), I found this one much easier to read. You are doing really well with the use of words and your spelling has really improved.  Keep it up.  And please change to your real name as all this falsehood is confusing my poor old brain!

    • meek willed says:

      @Michelle thank i did try to mack shore i had as little spelling mistakes.
      And I like the false name I think it relly sutes me.

  16. Mike Jackson says:

    “You don’t have to do things like this just to impress your offspring,” she screamed. “He just wants a normal dad, not some idiot who thinks he’s going to make a name for himself by offering to launder money for the mob.” I’d been listening to all this but to be honest I didn’t really understand what mum was going on about. I was more concerned that her and dad were arguing again.
    Mum was a seamstress and apparently a very good one. The quality of her work meant that she could have worked for any one of the big firms, instead she worked at home earning a mere fraction of what she was worth. The reason she did this was me. I’ve got some kind of rare medical condition which means that I can’t go to school or mix with other kids. It doesn’t really bother me much as I like being on my own and when mum’s not busy we have some great times together. I just wish that dad was around more.
    I once heard my Aunty Mary telling mum what a waste of space she thought my dad was. “You could have done so much better for yourself. I admit you were the envy of us girls when you first started going out with him, there no denying he was a handsome beast, but there was no need to go and marry him! He’s a loser. He spends his whole life moving from one hare-brained idea to another. He tries to bluff his way through life telling people that ‘Improvisation‘ is his middle name. The best thing you can do my girl is pack your bags and just walk away.” Mum just smiled. She had heard this argument from Aunty Mary so many times she’d lost count.
    Mum was particularly worried at the moment. Apparently this condition of mine is getting worse. She’d read on the Internet about a group of scientists who believed that they might have come up with a new drug to help. She’d somehow managed to volunteer me to become part of their study group as they tested this miracle cure. It was OK with me, anything to make mum feel happier. The trouble is it’s making her more stressed. The problem is that we don’t know if I’m one of the group taking the new drug or one taking the placebo. I see her watching me sometimes to see if I’m getting any better. This is probably one of the reasons why the rows between mum and dad are getting worse.
    I left the room because I couldn’t bear to see them hurting each other the way they were. At one point mum picked up the iron and flung it at dad. She missed, of course, but it sailed past dad straight through the TV screen. That set dad off again.
    I’ve come down to the bottom of the garden where I can’t hear them screaming at each other. I’ve bought my pens and pad with me. Mum has been teaching me calligraphy. I’m lying in the tall grass watching this colourful caterpillar munch his way through a cabbage leaf. I’ve taken out my pens and I’m drawing him and when I’ve finished I am going to write a poem to go with it. One day, if I live long enough, I want to be a writer and illustrator. I want to make lots of money so that mum and dad won’t have to worry any more and can go back to loving one another.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Mike-Welcome to CCC!

      Here submissions are the calligraphy of the written word. We launder out doubt and create the butterfly from the caterpillar origins of words. Our community is the seamstress that pulls it all together and makes our site the envy of the internet.

      No placebo effect here. CCC is the real deal. We iron out our problems and share a few laughs, but most of all we welcome the offspring of each week’s challenge and all those who give into the improvisation with colorful results.

      Welcome!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Mike: Welcome to the CCC. That’s one hell-of-a-good 1st submission there. Love your style and I hope to see more of it (Every Monday and Thursday). Everyone welcome Mike to the addiction. I’ll add your name and url to our CCC Community Links page now.

    • Chris Fries says:

      Excellent piece, Mike!!!
       
      I really like the scene-setting anf the imagry and the heart-pulling story from the POV of the child.  Beautiful!
       
      Welcome to the CCC!
       
       

  17. Shane Arthur says:

    programming note: got in accident this weekend. Car is a total loss. Been dealing with insurance stuff all day. I’ll comment later tonight. Mike, sorry for the moderation delay, and I’ll officially welcome you and your 1st post later.

  18. Anne Maybus says:

    Envy is a pure beast
    A mean and poisonous art
    Which plots and writes the future
    Calligraphy with iron heart
     
    A holey soul is riddled
    The caterpillar boarder
    Leaves stains of jaundiced lust
    Another sin to launder

    No seamstress can repair
    What envy tears apart
    No placebo can relieve
    The pain of envy’s art

    The offspring is the sin
    Hard, colourful and wild
    Improvisation screwed
    Now envy has a child.

  19. Kelly says:

    THE FUTURE BUTTERFLY

    While the caterpillar sews her tiny featherbed
    Does she think about the offspring who will live after she’s dead?
    Does the seamstress wash her clothes
    Between colorful rainbows
    And envy all of those who don’t cocoon until they shed?
    The greens and greys she’s laundered
    Her time is nearly squandered
    It’s all improvisation
    No calligraphy, no invitation
    She must enter her creation though she’s had no time to wander
    A placebo pill would help her
    To get past the helter-skelter
    Feeling she’s forgotten something
    Left iron on and kettle screaming
    Hot water on her reds is bleeding
    While she sews up past her head

    Time to sleep inside her shelter
    Now let nothing more be said.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Kelly: Fantastic. You’ve made me want to do a poem with my next submission. If I can get past my urge to write about the Bumpkins.

  20. […] 40 and I decided to do something unique.  A few weeks ago I read a double Acrostic poem called Colic Spice by Mitchell on the Creative Copy Challenge, and decided to try my hand at […]


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