Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #138

Today’s words come to us from Cori Padgett of Big Girl Branding fame. Show her some comment love again.

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. Wrongdoer
  2. Neurotic – prone to excessive anxiety and emotional upset.
  3. Prattle – To talk or chatter idly or meaninglessly; babble
  4. Perfectionate  – To perfect.
  5. Maelstrom – A violent or turbulent situation
  6. Flagellate – To whip or flog
  7. Waspishness – spitefulness or surliness.  Disparaging in attitude/demeanor
  8. Bonefish
  9. Catacomb – An underground cemetery consisting of chambers or tunnels with recesses; underground passageway
  10. Submediant – the sixth degree of a major or minor scale in music

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


124 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #138”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    “Bobby, it was so sick, I’s just can’t tell you about it.”

    “Come on, Billy. You gotta tell me why Old Man Lumpy is a wrongdoer and why you gets all neurotic whenever I brings up his name.”

    “All right, Bobby, I’ll tell you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you…or Kelly and The Kid.”

    “Okay, Billy, laid it on me.”

    “Well, let’s just say Old Man Lumpy likes to prattle with cattle as he thrusts his man-satchel.”

    “Billy, you mean Old Man Lumpy would…would…NO…he’d put his…in?”

    “Bobby, dat’s what I’m sayin’. Sawd it with my own two ears. He’d be a waspishly flagellating the hind parts and cursing like a maelstrom, telling dat cow, ‘Take my bonefish deep in your catacomb,’ and, ‘Moan after ever third thrust you submediant swine,’ and, ‘Don’t make me perfectionate your prostate!’”

    “OMG, Billy. Dat’s truly disgusting. Let’s just act like I never brung it up.”

    “Good idea, Bobby. Let’s just finish dinner. Pass me da steak sauce.”

  2. Prattle is the art of delicious drivel delivered with a precise patter. Properly paced, a sensuous sense of syntactical expression may reach repeated synaptic excitation. Come again?

    “I hate repeating myself,” Tom echoed. Beating a dead horse is like skinning a cat. The waspishness of these behaviors is duly explored herewith.

    Dungeons are the pits. Peaches have pits. Stomachs have pits.  A feeling in the pit of the stomach is usually gas. A gastrointestinal maelstrom is a flagellate wind that blows no good. No good comes from a wrongdoer, while no evil comes from well-tended cotton crops.

    Horseback riding crops are evil flagellations that sting the hindquarters, getting on the horse’s nerves. This only applies to horses, not those who mount them. This is perverted, by the way. Beastly.

    When applied to the hindquarters of a consenting adult, flagellating crops activate the erotic nerve. It’s tempting to dismiss BDSM as neurotic, butt arousal being just a way to show perverted affection. Perfectionate is a way to show the perfect affection for word bondage.

    Compound words are bonded from little words which chemically alter their meanings to create new meaning. Perfectionated words are, by contrast, jive – contrived from loose interpretation. It is meaningful to note that dominant words combine best with submissive words.

    On another note, or two, A and C are key to understanding the music of Fourplay, especially Between the Sheets. C is a major key; A is a minor (probably a latchkey). Modulating to the dominant key creates tension, while modulating to the submediant gives a feeling of relaxation. Sounds anti-climactic. This is another way of saying descend to the catacomb. That is where you’ll end up if you modulate a minor, you sick bastard!

    Catacomb is neither a compound nor a perfectionated word, unless our curiosity compels us to ask about feline hygiene.

    “What’s a catacomb?”

    “Why, it’s what a cat uses to groom its whiskers! It is usually made from the backbone of a fish.”

    Bonefish, on the other hand, is a compound word. It’s also the name of two ill-fated United States submarines. You’d think they would have learned their lesson after the first one. Dropped out of school too soon. This is how anglers catch a bonefish, by the way.

    You can tune a piano, but you can’t tune a fish. You can bone a fish. You can skin a cat. You probably shouldn’t skin a horse, nor bone one. Beastly.

  3. Decided to continue with my last story this time, our last story was about a prisoner who was at a hearing and finally released. His crime was unknown but you know it had something to do with “thinking” about committing a crime as this story is set in some type of future where thoughts are monitored.


    Scars and sunlight was literally all his world consisted of when James T. McAllister formerly known as prisoner number 43016 stepped foot outside the prison walls for the first time in over a decade.
    They had robbed him of life but he would not let them flagellate his spirit and soul any longer, this catacomb they called a rehabilitation center would not resonate any submediant tone of control any longer.

    He spent three days putting pieces of what will be his new life together which included finding a broken down excuse for a motel to stay in, and listen to his parole officer prattle endlessly about how one slip, one simple thought about criminal activity and he would be returned to his cell never to see society again.

    It didn’t take him long to realize the world was a hypocritical maelstrom of wrongdoer bonefish swimming in an ocean of corruption. The world had become some neurotic dictator’s perfectionate dream where humanity itself was leashed and people were little more than workers who completed 15 hour work days without the slightest hint of waspishness behavior.

    “Ants” James. T. McAllister thought to himself while wandering the streets and staring at the people who ate lunch time meals devoid of any humor or entertainment.

    He couldn’t help but continue with his ant analogy on how everything seemed so methodical and pointless. What made us human was missing entirely. Emotions kept in check by fear of punishment and this was a day and age where your thoughts can betray you.

    Prison didn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore after spending three days in the real world. At least they couldn’t lock him up again for thinking whatever he wanted.


  4. Anne Wayman says:

    He was such a neurotic wrongdoer! He’d prattle in that perfectionate tone, creating a maelstrom of waspishness complete with the droning, drowning submediant sound. I’d want to flagellate myself with a bonefish or escape to a catacomb to avoid his misery.

  5. Lydia says:

    Thirteen hours later Jon slipped into the locker room and hurriedly changed back into street clothes. His sneakers slapped a submediant tone against the concrete as he hoisted up his backpack and began walking back through the catacombs of Mercy Hospital.
    “Jon!” Sam’s voice pulsed against the waning stillness . “I heard what happened in the OR. Are you ok?”
    “We knew going in that it was a risky procedure,” Jon said flatly. A small, pale face glimmered in his mind for a moment. Cases like this made him wish he had become a prosecuting attorney instead. Lawyers at least had the luxury of fighting corporeal wrongdoers instead of what were often unpreventable genetic or chromosomal defects.
    “That doesn’t make it any easier to lose a patient,” she said. “Especially one so young. Don’t flagellate yourself.” He nodded almost imperceptibly as she continued, “neither of us is on call tomorrow. Let’s go grab a burger.”
    “Your girlfriend won’t mind?” he asked.
    “No,” Sam smiled. “I texted her earlier. Besides, she’s used to my weird schedule.”
    The subway platform was barren this late at night. For a second Jon had a neurotic feeling that the walls, the tracks, the vaulted ceilings were waspishness at being jarred out of their rest by the shuffle of four feet, the whoosh of two steady breaths, the conspiratorial crinkle of fall jackets as Jon and Sam walked to the bench and sat down. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and thought, “this is what happens when you don’t sleep for 26 hours.”
    Three stops later they stepped off of the subway and headed to Sam’s favourite 24-hour diner. Jon had woken up a little by then and Sam listened to him prattle about the Star Trek conference he’d recently pre-registered for as they waited for their food. Salty, crispy fries perfectionated their meal and for a while no one spoke as burgers and fries disappeared from their plates.
    When the last morsels were finished Sam’s hand slithered over the table and touched Jon’s arm like a bonefish racing to deeper waters.
    “You did everything you could, my friend” she said. “The Roehrig’s would have lost their son years ago if you weren’t such a damn good cardiologist.”  Jon wiped the corner of his eyes, lifted his head and sighed out a maelstrom of emotions.
    “Are you ready to talk about what happened today?”

  6. Tanja Cilia says:

    “A flagellate,” he explained, “is a  pathogenic parasite that causes diseases such as giardiasis in humans. Or it may be one of those people who used to  dress like Ku Klux Klan members, with cowls pulled low over their faces, and walk in processions wielding knotted ropes at the end of which were bonefish spines,  with which they beat themselves, swaying to discordant submediant notes along the corridors of the catacomb.  Not because any one of them was a wrongdoer, mind – most of them were just neurotic, with a mental  maelstrom  that made think they had to go to extreme lengths to perfectionate their souls.”  His prattle went on, with a waspishness that went way beyond spite and irritability at the futility of the exercise he was describing.  Why?

  7. Cathy Miller says:

    Garth vowed to fight to the death against the evil wrongdoer, Simeon. The neurotic prattle of the women in the village reached bellowing heights following Simeon’s most recent invasion. It would end here.
    His muscles quivered with the strain as he battled an imaginary foe, preparing so he would perfectionate his reflex strength for the real battle to come. The maelstrom surrounding his enemy would be turned back to flagellate their souls to hell, the eternal flames wrapping a waspishness hold on their blackened hearts.
    The bonefish amulet around Garth’s neck beat with the heart of a warrior’s drum, echoing throughout the catacomb of his ancestors, chanting in submediant unity – the time has come, the time has come.

  8. Rebecca says:

    @ Shane … Love Old Man Lumpy — great character name!
    @ Mitch … Your story drew me in — very descriptive.
    @ Justin — Great line, “wrongdoer bonefish swimming in an ocean of corruption.”

  9. Rebecca says:

    I loved all of these. Anne, Cathy, and Tanja nicely done. They were gripping and held my attention. Cathy, I love the chant at the end.

  10. Rebecca says:

    Joan was neurotic about organization. Everything had to be in its place. If it wasn’t, she would prattle on and on about how disorganization was evil. Joan thought about the time her sister visited. She didn’t put a magazine back the way Joan had it laid on the table. Joan wanted to flagellate her sister and call her a wrongdoer but decided against it. She figured it would be too waspishness. Joan’s mood could go from pleasant to maelstrom in less than 2.5 seconds. She was a perfectionate but owned it! Joan liked classical music and listened intently for the submediant. She would reminisce about the time she visited a catacomb in Paris; she was surprised at how neat it was. Joan thought about the Bonefish she ate in Hawaii. Like her, the Bonefish is fast and strong moving. If anyone gets in her way, she’ll take them out.

  11. margaret says:

    A neurotic wrongdoer, while caught in a maelstrom of submediant, loud singing, shrieking waspishness and unintelligible prattle, simultaneously appeared to flagellate herself with a bonefish in a misguided attempt to be as perfectionate as a catacomb Christian.

  12. sefcug says:

    I have used the ten words of the day in numerical order:


    While not a wrongdoer Jim was neurotic, with a tendency to prattle on about his need to perfectionate. The maelstrom of his thoughts caused him to flagellate, like an old time monk, in an effort to curtail his waspishness when dealing with others.

    While in the Florida Keys, trying to catch bonefish, he discovered the calming effects of music.

    Jim and his guide decided to explore the catacomb like reef a short way from their fishing spot. Sounds were created by the variant water pressure coursing among the openings. The many progressions from tonic through the submediant, became a sort of soothing instrumental music.


    No matter the emotional problem, appropriate music can usually alleviate the symptoms; and sometimes even banish them altogether. Experiment with different types of music until you find the one that soothes you. Once you have found it, listen to it when you experience emotional problems.

    ps. I am partial to jazz, blues, and big band instrumentals myself.



    Submediant stumped me for a little bit. Good set of words.

  13. Kelly says:


    We watched the bonefish all day, skimming along near the edge of the beautiful white sands of the beachfront house Mom and Aunt Mae rented for the week, every year at this same time.

    Those fish just love to play in the shallow waters of the Keys. We were lucky to have a rock big enough for the three of us there, grounded at the side of a tiny inlet. For the first, energetic hour, we’d alternate between adopting the shiny fish and creating catacombs under the rock for them to hide from the midday sun, and complaining about their ungrateful nature (they never used our excavations! the wretches!), and stirring up their pool with our feet, engineering a maelstrom to show off our displeasure.

    After that, we let them have their way, as they have for millennia, and they returned to their business, living artwork for bored preteens. My cousins and I sat and admired their silver and blue colors and their slick swimming skills, told ridiculously tall tales, and acquired matching sunburns.

    From their perch 50 feet away on the house’s deck, we imagined Mom, always the level-headed sister, listening to Aunt Mae prattle on in her neurotic manner, and resolved not to go back until our skin blistered or until somebody got hungry. (Must have priorities!) We’d rather hear our own voices, each claiming to have to most ogre-like gym teacher or the music teacher whose waspishness drove us the craziest, with his insistence on perfected scales—“Your submediant! It’s horrrrrrendous!!” while dipping our toes in April’s icy ocean waters, than flagellate ourselves by listening to Aunt Mae perfectionate her accusations against Uncle Chris for seven long days.

    My cousins probably had a better idea than I did of why he was such an easy target, but the way Mom would repeatedly get half a sentence out on our drive back, then simply sigh as her conclusion, I got the feeling that picking the wrongdoer from the two of them wasn’t quite so easy.

    Later on, as I got older, I sat up on the deck more often, and went down to visit the bonefish less. What a terrible disappointment it was, to sit there and apply my sunscreen (blistered skin is such a drag!), and discover there were no juicy tidbits to be had. Most of what Mom and Aunt Mae were talking about was how they wished they were young and aimless and energetic enough to go make chaos for the fish, just like us kids.

    I guess that’s enough to make any grownup sigh all the way home from spring break.

    • I love this, Kelly. You can set a mood like nobody’s business! 🙂
      For a minute, I was actually on the rock.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Kelly: you write about core human emotion and interaction so well. Love your style…but you already know that. (aw, shucks nothing! 😉 )

    • Chris Fries says:

      Fabulous as always, Kelly!
      You have a great gift for enabling real emotions to come through your writing.  I’m always swept away by the impact and immersion in your stories.
      Great job!

  14. Cathy Miller says:

    @Kelly-I’ve felt that sigh start all the way from my toes 🙂

  15. Rebecca says:

    @ Cathy … Thank you! The chant would make a great affirmation, “The time has come, the time has come to (fill in the blank).

  16. Chris Fries says:

    Alright — today’s a two-fer for me.  I posted my make-up submission for #135, “Celebrity”   this morning, and now, here’s the latest installment in my “Look of Murder” series.  This one took quite a few words to work in today’s very TOUGH prompt words — over 1,800 words, I’m afraid.  But at least I managed to get in all the plot elements I wanted to.  It may not seem like much, but there are some important seeds planted in this segment. 

    So all together, I’ve put over 2,700 words onto this site today.  Time to rest my keyboard, I think…

    I hope you enjoy!

    The Look of Murder — Pt 11

    The corporate office of Thurston Motors was a hulking, granite building with only a scattering of tiny windows along its sheer face.  It towered over the street in downtown Detroit, a dreary, dark-grey structure with corner statues of sad-faced angels that, from the outside, made the building seem more like an above-ground catacomb than the central hub of a thriving automotive empire.  There was little sign of activity, and I thought that the place might be closed because the president of the company, Charles Thurston, had been killed.  Still, I decided to give it a try since I’d come all the way down here. 

    I climbed the steps and found the place open and entered through a heavy brass rotating door.  Inside, the lobby was cavernous, with artwork of automobiles along the walls, and a full-sized sedan in the middle of the lobby.  I wasn’t sure how’d they’d gotten it in.  Maybe they’d built it here.

    An attractive young receptionist sat stiffly at the counter on the far side of the lobby, with two burly men sitting along the wall behind her.  I took those goons for security.  There was soft big band music being filtered in from some speakers along the wall.  At least the place was open for business, but I could tell from the look of the goons behind the counter that this still wasn’t going to be a piece of cake. 

    As I approached the counter, I considered trying to schmooze my way in under some false pretense.  Maybe I could tell her I was an insurance auditor, or a reporter, or something that would get me into the inner circle where I could ask the questions about Charles I wanted to ask.  Sure.  Or maybe I could just be a friendly Joe and prattle away about the weather until we were all chummy-like, and then she’d simply invite me upstairs to meet the folks in the boardroom.

    Ok, maybe, if she’d been alone, I might have tried to charm my way past the cute young thing at the counter.  But her buddies behind her seemed like they’d have no problem showing me the door at the first indication that I was any kind of panhandler or wrongdoer, booting me out in a pile to fester on the sidewalk like a dried up bonefish tossed out of the surf. 

    So I tried the direct approach.

    “May I help you?” she said as I reached the counter.

    I took out one of the last of my few business cards and gave it to her.  I figured this was worth the full spiel.  “Yes, my name is Nicholas Sharpe.  I’m a private investigator who was hired by the Thurston family.”  It wasn’t a lie, and technically Margaret had never dismissed me from the case, even though Charles had been found.  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask those who worked most closely with Charles, if I may.”

    She raised her eyebrows, but kept her cool.  The attention of the goons in the back was focused on me, but they remained seated, at least for the moment.

    “Is anyone expecting you?” she asked.

    “Not that I know of. I was downtown and just came into some information that I’d like to corroborate, and I think some of Charles’s closest associates might be the best ones to speak with.”

    “I see.  Let me put you in touch with Edna Hoover.  She is…or, was, Mr. Thurston’s executive secretary. Please have a seat, and I’ll let you know if she’s available.”

    I hesitated, but she kept looking at me with a thin smile.  She wasn’t rude or treating me with a hoity air of self-important waspishness, but she clearly wasn’t going to make the call while I was at the counter.  I walked to a circle of modern, uncomfortable chairs on the far side of the lobby and took a seat where I could still watch the counter.

    The receptionist picked up a phone and spoke into it briefly, keeping her voice low enough that I couldn’t make out what she was saying, and then looked up and smiled at me from across the room.  “Someone will be with you shortly,” she said, loud enough for me to hear.  The goons gave me a look over, and then went back to their staring at nothing in particular out the entranceway.

    In about ten minutes, one of the elevators opened and a short, matronly woman in a too-tight black dress came across the lobby.  “Mr. Sharpe?” she said as she neared me.  “I’m Edna Hoover, Mr. Thurston’s executive secretary.”  I stood and introduced myself and gave her the same lines I’d given the receptionist.  Up-close, Mrs. Hoover seemed to be about sixty, bookish and nervous, with a habit of clasping her hands together as she stood there.  I wondered how much of it was distress over the loss of Charles, and how much was simply neurotic energy.

    “I’d ask you up into the offices,” she said, “but I’m afraid this is not a good time.  The whole organization is a maelstrom of shock and confusion following the loss of Mr. Thurston.  But if you’d like to give me some time to find you an appointment, I’m sure either Mr. Edgars or Mr. McGuinn will be happy to meet with you as soon as possible.  They’re two of our executive Vice Presidents, and both worked very closely with Mr. Thurston.”

    I glanced at the counter.  The receptionist was looking downward as if reading and the security muscle didn’t seem too interested in what was happening between Mrs. Hoover and me, so I figured I could speak softly and avoid any prying ears.

    “Actually, Mrs. Hoover, you might be the person who could help me the most.”

    “Really?  I’m not sure how I can.  What is it exactly that you’re trying to do?”  Her fidgety hands did not match her eyes — her gaze never left my face.  This old broad might not be as flighty as I first assumed.

    “Did you know Mrs. Thurston well?” I asked just to keep her off-balance.

    “Yes, I did.  I’ve worked for Mr. Thurston for almost thirty years, and knew both him and his wife quite well.  Why do you ask?”

    “Do you believe she killed him?”

    She inhaled and looked down, her hands smoothing the sleeves of her dress. After a moment, she met my gaze again.  “That’s a very forward question, Mr. Sharpe.  The police are holding her for it, aren’t they?”

    “Yes, and I’m sure they’ve asked you many questions about Charles and her, their marriage, and his activities before he died, and for any other information you might provide, isn’t that true?”

    “Well, yes.  I’ve tried to help as much as possible.”  She paused and looked towards the door as if seeing something or someone out there.  “I want to do whatever I can, but truthfully, I don’t believe I’ve been any help.  Honestly, I beat myself up thinking that maybe I could have done something to prevent his death.  I always tried to perfectionate his schedule, to make sure he had whatever he needed, that his time was never wasted, and I just flagellate myself, wondering if I could have stropped him from going to the cabin for that week.”

    She sighed and nodded her head slightly. “But I’m not sure why I should be telling you this, Mr. Sharpe.  If the police think Margaret did it, they must have their reasons.”  She looked up at me.  “Don’t they?”

    The old broad sure liked big words, but she also seemed like she also had her doubts about what the police were thinking, unless I was reading her wrong.  “They have their suspicions,” I said.  “But frankly, Mrs. Hoover, I’m not convinced.  What do you think of that?”

    “And so you’ve been hired by her to try and find who did kill Mr. Thurston?”

    “Actually I was hired by her to find Mr. Thurston.  He’d left for the week without telling Mrs. Thurston where he’d gone, and she’d gotten worried.  Then I found him at the cabin, murdered.  She doesn’t know I’m working on this, but I think I owe it to her.”

    “I see.”  She held my gaze for a moment.  “So how can I help you?  What can I tell you that I haven’t already told the police?”

    “Did you know Charles was having an affair?”

    Her eyebrows flew up. “Absolutely not.  He never gave any sign of being anything but a loving and devoted husband. I told the police the same thing.”

    “So you have no idea if there was a young lady who might have met him at the cabin?  Were there any women in the office he was known to flirt with?  Anyone in the secretarial pool that he particularly liked to give dictation to?  Short and blonde, maybe?”

    “Of course not.  I’d have noticed if so.  But knowing Mr. Thurston, I find it almost impossible to imagine.”

    Just like Johnny had said; exactly what everyone was telling the police, and she seemed genuine.  I went in another direction.

    “Alright, let me try and reconstruct his activities before he went up to the cabin.  What did Mr. Thurston do before he left?”

    “Again, I’ve shared this all with the police.  Mr. Thurston had what I would construe as a very normal day.  He dictated some letters, made some business calls, and had a few meetings regarding the new models of autos that are scheduled to begin design work next month.  He only had two personal appointments that day — a gentleman named Warren Powell who was interviewing for a lead designer position, and a Mr. Albert Silari regarding some other design issues, I believe.”

    I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the names.

    “I regret that there’s not much more I can tell you, Mr. Sharpe,” she said, “and unfortunately, I need to get back up to the office.  Things are excessively hectic right now, I’m afraid.”

    I gave her the last of my business cards.  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hoover.  If there’s anything more you can think to add, give me a ring.  In the meantime, please go ahead and make those appointments with the VPs.  They may be able to add some additional information.”

    She nodded and then went back towards the elevators.  The goons and the receptionist all looked up expectantly at me.  I knew there wasn’t much more I could do here, at least until Mrs. Hoover could get me in to meet with the Vice-Presidents.  I noticed the music coming from the speakers — some jazzy muted trumpet playing a slow, mournful melody that swung between the mediant and submediant tones.  It matched my mood.

    I headed for the door, frustrated but still determined.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Chris: One step closer to a full length book. Can you feel it? Love this story and love how it’s progressing.

    • Chris, at this point, I’m just repeating accolades. You deserve them. I almost prefer to wait for the whole book and relax with the laptop kindle and go for it!
      In other words, what Shane said. 🙂
      Since we’re playing with words today, were you having us on with Mr. Edgars and Edna Hoover?

      • Chris Fries says:

        Thank you very much, Mitch!
        And I’m shallow and needy enough to welcome reused accolades…  ;^)
        But LOL!  The names were just off the top of my head — maybe there was some kind of subconsious link going on.  <shrug>  Too funny…

  17. Rebecca says:

    @ Margaret … Funny!

  18. Rebecca says:

    @ Shane … Thank you! Joan is quite the character.

  19. Anne Maybus says:

    There must be something about CCC that brings out a hidden guilt in me, I think!  Anyway….

    The Wrongdoer.

    My heart is a catacomb,
    My mind it’s neurotic wanderer.
    Pacing out the passages
    And poking into the dead
    It searches out old mistakes
    Finding reason to flagellate
    As I shrivel in remorse
    For deeds long past.

    The more it pokes the more it finds.
    My sins prattle in the dark
    Spilling dirty little secrets.
    In my head noise vibrates,
    A maelstrom of guilt
    Spinning in my skull
    Perfectionate discord
    Of submediant sibilance.

    Like a bonefish on mudflats
    The mind pounces on its prey
    Feeding its neurosis
    With fat juicy lies.
    Waspishness becomes me
    Deflects friends and foe
    I’m a tomb that walks
    With punishment in tow.

  20. meek willed says:

    leaving  my thoughts on home work for a latter day so Instead I listened to my Gran tell me about  some wrongdoer name bonefish who she caught trying to to escape  through some catacombs the day after a maelstrom of a food fight (how that for perfectionats way to spend there last day on the job).
    then my mum with a neurotic waspishness move left and right walking me in to a corner of the room meaning ow sue dad toiled her we stay in the same room last night (no wonder he try to made me a bacon sarnie) so my mum trying to be protective flagellated with prattle about using protection her voice moving through every key and submediant none to a man.

  21. aavi says:

    I would appreciate your feedback on my writings. It will help me become better 🙂
    Moving out of maelstrom is quite a conquest and Sasha needed some magical catacomb to release the neurotic which has overshadowed her personality, making her gradually feel like a wrongdoer. No sooner than Christmas this year, she decided to flagellate herself out in the world. At the outset, she  relished her much loved bonefish grill, moved on to endless prattle of the day’s events with her friends and giggled over the waspishness of their comments; all in the company of submediant music playing in her room. She was back on her feet to perfectionate things around her.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @aavi: That’s a great submission. I’d say this submission had a great cadence to it. Keep doing more of what you do.

  22. Rebecca says:

    @ Chris … Thank you!

  23. Anne Maybus says:

    CCC is like an explosion of creativity.  I love this place.  🙂

  24. Troy Worman says:

    Club Maelstrom circa 1984.  Nina flagellates herself under a black light amidst a gang of gawking submediants shaking their bonefish.
    She abhors her wasphishness.
    Little does she know that a mere score hence her formerly famous catacomb will have all but wilted whist the once neurotic wrongdoer was perfectionating the prattle of Suburbia.

  25. Slow but not too bad, here is part 3 of “Downward Spiral”
     The air began to vibrate with the living. I turned like a neurotic criminal to see a boy similar in age to the one on the porch. A submediant tone rang in my head and I raised the shotgun to the level of his nose.
    He began to prattle on about “no, no don’t shoot me…” I didn’t care. Nothing would save him from the maelstrom that was about to be unleashed. My finger jerked the trigger and the boys head disappeared, painting the wall behind his falling corpse crimson.
    Two down four to go and the ritual could continue.
    William was frozen to hiding spot in the weeds. He saw the tall wrongdoer enter the house and jumped at the loud boom a few moments later. He had to go, had to warn the rest of the family, had to…. But he couldn’t move. He cursed and mentally flagellated himself. He was only 10 after all.
    He almost screamed himself when the stranger began to chant from inside the house in a loud voice with a southern accent. “Behold, “ William could hear the stranger clearly call out. “Behold, I am come to scour this place in blood! You are squatters on my land, the ritual will be performed!” Run, run, run William’s mind screamed at him. His body wouldn’t agree.
    The ritual had to be preformed to perfectionate. The spirits would be appeased. With a waspishness I didn’t know I possessed, I screamed into the house, calling the spirits and the living whose blood I needed. I started toward the basement, and the catacombs it held, noticing that these people not only had my house, but the record bonefish I had mounted after my Sarah and I’s honeymoon. More evidence that they had to become the ritual. I touched the ancient parchment and opened the door to the basement.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s