Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #185

Johnny B. Truant chose today’s words.  I believe he delights in choosing tougher words. Show him you’re no rookie writer.

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. Loquacious – talking or tending to talk much or freely; talkative; chattering; babbling; garrulous
  2. Sedentary 
  3. Artistic
  4. Voracious
  5. Fluorescent 
  6. Rad 
  7. Delicious
  8. Rotund – round in shape; rounded: ripe, rotund fruit
  9. Decapitate
  10. Slimy

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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182 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #185”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    “Hey Billy! I hate me some rad ink. Why professors always have to use dat color? Don’t they know it’s voracious on folks psyches who got sedentary fluorescent brain activity and low self-steam? Look what our slimy English professor done rotund my homework journal. He done wrote dat I should have been decapitated at birth, kidnapped and sent overseas, or run over on da way to class.”

    “Not me, Bobby. He done rotund my journal dat da apples I’s been givin’ him is delicious and I could be as verbally artistic and loquacious as I want in class on account of if I’m talkin’, you ain’t.”

  2. Cathy Miller says:

    In the loquacious manner of a child discovering language, the ideas stretched from a sedentary position to reach artistic heights. Voracious in their race across the keyboard, their meaning shines with the fluorescent glow of each rad of enlightenment. Delicious in rotund sweetness, the words decapitate the slimy essence that critics cannot see.

  3. margaret says:

    There was a slimy dad who thought he was rad,
    but he was really rotund and fat-ass bunned.
    He was sedentary and somewhat wary
    of his loquacious wife who wanted more from life.

    He was fluorescent, she,incandescent.
    She chattered incessant and he thought this unpleasant.
    He found watching porn most delicious,
    his voracious thoughts made her litigious!

    She was artistic, but never sadistic
    so it was quite uncharacteristic
    for her to go so ballistic!

    As she was fixing dinner, with knife in hand,
    he never heard her coming or saw it land…
    Frustration caused her to decapitate,
    the offending member for her dinner plate!

  4. Anne Wayman says:

    I’m a bit rotund and a tad sedentary. I’m also delicious, loquacious, and a voracious reader who hates fluorescent lights. It’s a bit rad, but I’d probably decapitate the slimy (ahem) who created them with all that non-artictic flicker.

  5. Pedro looked to the autumn sky, admiring the hues highlighted by weak, fluorescent rays. The rotund floating pillows of water frolicked with the sun. Filtered, muted colors of such purity distinction and grace, marched across the morning canvas, silencing every loquacious thought Pedro mustered in reverent attempts to quantify the manifest destiny of God’s palette.

    Sighing wistfully, he tore his eyes from the heavens and returned to the decapitated young woman. He yearned to reach the heights of artistic expression – to waltz with the divine. Alas, his clumsy knives and hacksaws were more suited to a jerky tarantella with the devil, whose voracious appetite for buxom virgins was no match for Pedro’s more sedentary tastes.

    Selecting a rusty German dagger, Pedro began the painstaking task of tagging his work. Calligraphy, with its special pens, was difficult enough. Carving into post-mortem, turgid flesh was nearly impossible. He gently cupped the right breast and deftly inscribed the letters “SOL“. Only one drop of blood appeared – at the sharp corner of the L. Pedro licked it up, leaving a slimy trail of saliva.

    Delicious.” He jumped at the sound of his own voice. It was so out of place within the cathedral of silent trees and fallen leaves. Pedro nearly snapped out of his fugue state but, something held him back. A sense of incompleteness worried at the edges of his sanity, urging him to hurry. He roughly grabbed the woman’s left breast and carved his masterpiece.

    ***

    Detective Waters took one look at the remains and thanked Jehovah for skipping breakfast. He waited patiently for the technician to finish snapping pictures and bagging the victim’s hands and feet. Then, he knelt down to study the inscription, copying it to his notebook:

    SOL” – horizontally across right breast, below areola

    RAD” – horizontally across left breast, below areola

    Midair Souls” – Vertically down sternum, just above navel

    Detective Waters stood up slowly, already lost in a quest to unravel the twisted message. He churned through the permutations, flexing his renowned lateral thinking muscle. Shit out of luck. Do-re-mi. Solfeggio. Gregorian chant? What about Ninja Turtles, radians, degrees. Wait. Radius! That’s in Midair Souls. What’s MIOLS?

    And then, he saw it. The word was so close to Radius, he subconsciously swapped the M to get Radium. Looking back down at the sad, defiled corpse, he couldn’t help but fill in the blanks:

    SOLIS RADIUM

    Sunray. He whipped out his cell phone to alert VICAP.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Mitchell: So you see … you can write an genre you want. Damn good crime drama there. By the way, what’s VICAP?

    • Jeanette R. says:

      @ Mitch. This reminded me of the DaVinci Code. I couldn’t figure out what was going to happen next.  I kept guessing wrong. 

      At the end of this piece, I pictured you pulling a Beyonce and dropping your mic on stage and staring into the audience like “what. that’s right, I wrote it”.

      Please explore this.  You had me from the very first word.  Bravo!!

      • Jeanette, you always leave such inspiring messages. First, thanks for sharing your enjoyment of this piece. I was actually thinking of Francis Dolarhyde, Hannibal’s forebear from the Red Dragon. When Silence of the Lambs came out, I was so surprised to learn that Thomas Harris was the author of both.
         
        Ooh! Guess what? when I dropped that link for you, I just found out that Francis “refers to his other self as ‘The Great Red Dragon’ after William Blake’s painting ‘The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun.’
         
        I always love having the option to roll with a scene. I think this would be a monumental task, because I don’t have a clue as to how I would progress or even to develop Pedro’s twisted mind.
         
        LOL – I prefer to get my detective stories from the supermarket.
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         

    • Jen says:

      Damn. I mean. Canvas of the sky. Cathedral of trees. God’s palette. Jehovah. Hidden words that I’m too dense to figure out. Plus a really gross bad guy and a smarty pants detective? In awe, man. In. Awe.

      • Thanks, Jen. I took a little walk this morning, just after sunrise. I was so totally smittened by the quality of the light, the different shades of blue in the still-nocturnal clouds (that’s what I always call those dark clouds that seem so out of place in the morning.)
         
        I’m actually a cloud-loving geek. Stems from the free classes in meteorology that I took at Philadelphia’s Franklin Institute. Have you heard of the Cloud Appreciation Society?
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         

    • Dee says:

      this read like an episode of Criminal Minds!! One of those where I would l look down at my keyboard so I don’t have to watch the yucky parts – I was seriously on the edge of my seat…I take it from  other comments that this is not your usual subject matter. If I had not read the comments I never would have guessed. You aced it.  Just needs some hard-assed tough looking detective whose facade fools people into thinking he is dumb (which gives him the advantage with the sickos!)
      Great stuff!

      • Thanks, Dee! Wow! Criminal Minds, huh? Maybe some of the evil rubbed off on me over the years.
        Yes, this was something new for me. I do a lot of playful evil but not usually this dark. I like the characterization you suggest for a detective. A 21st century Columbo 🙂
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         

        • Dee says:

          @Mitch – I’m glad you are going to go for it with nanowrimo.  It is a great motivator.  Makes you sit down and do something you wanted to do anyway and in my experience, makes friends and family members concentrate their support for a set amount of time.  In other words – folks seem to have less problem leaving you alone when you tell them it is thirty days :)  You can do this!!!

          • Thanks for the support, Dee. If I can just find the right concept … 🙂
             
            Are you doing it this year? (The thingy in your sidebar is blank)
             
            Cheers,
             
            Mitch
             

    • THAT was most excellent (and quite disturbing). Well done, Mitch. Who knows – your next NaNoNovel could turn out to be a bestseller. Maybe you’ll one day rub elbows with Thomas Harris.

      • Frank Ruiz says:

        Mitch, I love how the first paragraph drew me into the mind of the artist, and then from the second onward, I realized what (who) he was using as his “canvas.”  What a shock!

        • I’m glad I was able to convey that sharp break, Frank. I thought that would be pretty cool to do.
          As I mentioned earlier, the morning sky was the inspiration and decapitation pointed to the destination.
           
          Cheers,
           
          Mitch
           

      • Thanks, Holly. I’m stressing out over the subject. My wife gave me an excellent suggestion. Maybe I should get her to give me ten words…
         
        That would be cool, to meet Thomas Harris. Even if I never wrote a novel.
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         

        • The subject for the book, or this little scene? Or the subject of NaNoWriMo? Stress is antithetical to NaNo, Mitch. You’re not allowed to stress. Think of it as a longer version of CCC. And we’re all cheering you on. 🙂

          • Holly, have I ever told you how sweet you are? Must be all that chocolate. 🙂
            I’m trying to decide on a NanNo project.
            The thing is, I kinda took Larry Brooks’ NaNo Tips Premise to heart. Maybe I should just ignore that “What have you really won if your writing isn’t [insert whatever]? 1667 words a day? that’s not a novel, that’s time management!”
             
            Wow, right? I love the guy, so it’s a bit of a “hmmmm….” moment.
             
            Thanks for the encouragement! It’s a wonderful counterspell 🙂
            Cheers,
             
            Mitch
             

          • Just a data point, Mitch, but Sara Gruen does NaNoWriMo – try telling her that her NYT Bestsellers, conceived and brought to life during NaNoWriMo (you know, Water for Elephants, Flying Changes…) were just “time management”?
             
            I say NaNoWriMo is creative boot camp. The whole point to it being somewhat grueling is to silence the inner editor (briefly) long enough to get ideas on paper. To stop self-censoring, procrastination, and a lot of other BS excuses we put out there for not getting it done.
             
            For perfection and rendering NaNocrap publishable, there’s NaNoEdMo. Some say that’s December. I can’t usually bear to look at or think about the crap I churned out until, oh – February? March? At that point, there’s no real rush.

          • Who the Hell is EdMo? Sounds like one of Shane’s characters! LOL
            It’s not I you have to convince – tell Larry. I’m a newbie, subject to the undertow cause by all you veterans “splashing about” in the big pool. (hint-hint)
             
            But, I do take your meaning. You know what? I’m gonna put the CCC stamp on my NaNoWriMo experience.
             
            Mo Better.
             
            Cheers,
             
            Mitch
             

          • Oh, God, have they backed the sherry tanker up to the pool again? (I really haven’t had time to read it yet, but I can imagine. Poor Tweety…)

          • As they say in Archie comics, “err…Duh?”
             
            That’s not what my hint was, because I have NO idea where that passage occurs in the UC – which, I’m guessing from the sherry reference – is the source of this particular pool.
             
            Actually, I’m a bit crimson that my hint was so “mistooken” LOL
             
            Cheers,
             
            Mitch
             

        • Dee says:

          @Mitch – no stress dude.  Stress is knowing you have to pass a test you have not studied for.  Stress is your boss wants a report on his desk tomorrow morning.  Stress involves living up to other people’s expectations.  This is something you are GIVING yourself.  Permission to go crazy and stretch and learn and go crazy!
          Here are my hints.  If you are using an outline – use it in your draft.  You can make it sections with space to write inbetween.  That way it is easy to move around. If you are stuck on a scene or just not feeling it – go to another section and come back to it later.  Don’t DELETE.  You can use strike out and easily see where you need to come back and edit but still keep your word count.  If you are working on the beginning and all of a sudden have a great aha for a scene near the end, jump forward and quickly make notes.  You can bold, italicize, whatever to set it apart to come back to later, again, keeping your word count.  If I think of anything else and you consider this helpful I will let you know 🙂

          • Dee, I almost missed this! It must have come tucked into the other threads. That’s Gmail, sigh.
             
            Thanks for these tips! I’ll turn this into fun.
             
            Cheers,
             
            Mitch
             

    • Hana Frank says:

      Hi Mitch
      Really enjoyed this. I liked the way things kept twisting – the way the opening felt dreamy and soft and then the mood changed and became dark. I also liked the way both the murderer and the detective take enormous care in their work.
      From the comments I’ve seen, sounds like you want to write a novel. I got lot of inspiration from the site below – anyway, thought you might be interested.
      Thanks for all your positive comments.
      http://timothyhallinan.com/writers.php

      • Thanks, Hana! I’m glad you enjoyed this submission. I appreciate the link, too. I’m so glad I have Evernote to help me keep track of all the cool writing sites that are being shared.
         
        I do want to write a novel. Lots of them 🙂 No time like the present, eh?
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @mitch-so many great lines The rotund floating pillows of water frolicked with the sun.
      He yearned to reach the heights of artistic expression – to waltz with the divine.
      Loving it! 🙂

      • Thanks, Cathy! Nothing like a gorgeous sunrise to get the creative juices flowing. Except a BOPO (body on page one.) Hee-hee. Gotta thank Chris Fries for teaching me that one!
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         
         

    • Good Hell man, that was intense in a short piece!  Good Job!

  6. Here is my entry for today, and glad to be back:
     

    With a slimy artistic thwunk
    fluorescent sprays of red gleam
    loquacious voracious crowd goes wild
    sedentary rotund body falls lifelessly
    delicious revenge some rad game
    as they call out to decapitate
    the next offender is brought forth

  7. Jeanette R. says:

    I stare at her pull the red tab and watch the water fall softly into her cup.  It’s a perfect science; eighty percent hot, twenty percent cold.  She says it hurts her teeth otherwise.  Outside it’s dark and gloomy. The fluorescent lights shine down on the kitchen table littered with leftover, slimy meatloaf.  

    I make a face and try to keep from gagging.  If I say one thing, anything, her loquacious manner will keep me on lockdown for at least fifteen minutes. I’m not in the mood for a rotund conversation so early on a Monday morning.  I keep my eyes low and wait for the water cooler.

    We make eye contact and that’s enough invitation for her. “Doesn’t that meatloaf look delicious?”  she whispers.  “I bet Susie brought it in.  Ever since she gave up her sedentary lifestyle, she brings in all the crap she cooks for her husband.  She should be embarrassed.”

    I’m tempted to agree.  Susie is bat-shit crazy.  I give a half-smile and fill up my cup. I’ve used the same one for over five years.  It has an artistic depiction of New York as it was in the 1920’s.  The stains from previous drinks of tea or coffee hang around the rim; I’m never able to get it clean enough.

    “So, how was your weekend?”   I almost make it through the threshold.  Her voracious need for interaction outweighs social norms.  Whenever a person turns away from me, that’s my cue to end the conversation.  Not her.  She decapitates movement with a barrage of senseless comments.

    “Totally rad.  Sorry, I was hanging out with my niece this weekend.  And yours?”  I prepare myself for the tsunami.   She starts her story with details of her Friday night and I quickly realize that I’m going to need something stronger than water to drink.

    • Jen says:

      Oh, I know this lady. Decapitates movement? Nice. I also like the image of the stained mug, never able to get it clean enough, indeed.

    • I’m with Jen. You just encapsulated 17 1/2 years of morning rituals at my job. This is fantastic.
      I know that bat-shit crazy lady, too. At least she didn’t talk my ear off, though!
       
      I miss my coffee cup the most. (Hint a bit o’ bleach, once a month. I used to bring the cup home just to get rid of that nasty gunk.)
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

      • Dee says:

        there is something delicious about the phrase bat-shit crazy and there must be one of those ladies in every work place.  The one who brings in the slimy meatloaf and the too sweet cakes with the runny icing, rambling on and on and on…oops.  I AM NOT CRAZY!  well, at least not bat-shit lol. I love this – you are so gifted at these little slices of every day life slipping the prompt words in so smoothly 🙂

        • Frank Ruiz says:

          This was another incredible piece from you, Jeanette, and as bad as I felt for the socially-awkward cuckoo, I have to admit I’d rather hang out with the cooler Protagonist!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Jeanette: Captured the office environment so perfectly. A great escape is, “Oh shoot, I forgot to lock my computer,” and run away.

    • We all know this woman.
       
      I pray never to BE this woman.
       
      Or the bat-shit crazy Susie. Remind me not to bring meatloaf to the office potluck. Ever. Assuming after the last fiasco, anyone’s ever allowed to have another.

      • Hana Frank says:

        Jeanette – I get the feeling the real bat-shit crazy one is based on some-one in your own life. Lovely mix of dark and light I thought. I laughed that this woman but felt sorry that she felt so needy. Loved the ending the most, especially use of ‘tsunami’ Hope to keep seeing more of your work on CCC.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Jeanette-what absolutely brilliant descriptions – She decapitates movement with a barrage of senseless comments.

      I prepare myself for the tsunami.

      Reminds me why I left Corporate America behind-LOL! 😀 Well done!

  8. Martha says:

    Mark decapitated the top of his egg with one neat yet savage flick of his knife. He examined the delicious yellow yolk carefully and then dipped his toast into it delicately. Thank God Lisa had not undercooked the egg this morning; there was nothing he hated more than a slimy egg white. His mother always said he had an artistic temperament but Mark couldn’t say with all honesty that his appetites weren’t voracious.  They needed satisfying in one particular way, but they weren’t unnatural. He patted his rotund tummy which was beginning to take on Winnie-the-Pooh-like proportions due to the sedentary nature of his work. Finally finished with breakfast, Mark burped quietly and then inspected his tie: was that a drop of egg yolk or just part of the tie’s hideous fluorescent pattern? Mother never understood why he took to those ties, and she always said Lisa indulged him too much. Of course, Mark had to tell her that Lisa wasn’t indulging his tastes, but enabling them. And furthermore, it wasn’t a hideous tie but a rad one. He sighed — Mother had been in a particularly bad mood the last time he wore that tie. She never understood when he was pulling her leg. The lecture seemed to last hours and Mark often wondered if there was a way to stop the loquaciousness of her tongue, once and for all. Legally of course. Mark was utterly respectful of the long arm of the law, but there were times when a little sleight of hand was all that you needed. He eyed the knife on table thoughtfully, and then thought better of it. Lisa had promised him a treat for tea.

    • Jen says:

      Oh. Mark isn’t all he’s cracked up to be, eh? He sounds slimy himself. When I hear men refer to Mother, I always get a subtext of creepiness.

    • Commenting after Jen is like appearing onstage after the Beatles, or something. She is too funny – got me thinking about Spencer on King of Queens.
       
      Anyway, Margaret, I enjoyed this story. I like how you separated decapitation from the knife by a whole conversation. 🙂 Is that postshadowing? LOL
      Returning to Jen’s remark, I have to say that the idea of a man being controlled by the promise of a treat is more chilling than it seems on the surface. His mother lives or dies a thousand times and she doesn’t even know it!
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Martha: That is a wonderfully twisted and layered character you created. More please.

    • I find myself wondering: Who is Lisa, exactly? Housekeeper? Wife? Sister? Someone who just wants to annoy “Mother” too?
      Anyway, good job with the character, here. I don’t think I’d like him, but I do want to know more about him. 😉

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Martha – how deliciously slimy on so many levels-loved your storytelling 🙂

  9. Jen says:

    I stood over the granite counter, the only part of the renovated kitchen I was allowed to choose. As I decapitated florets of broccoli, separating the delicious heads from the sinewy stalks in one easy chop of the sharpened chef’s knife, I let my mind wander. My eyes slid in and out of focus while I gazed at the granite, it’s luminous caffe au lait color buffed to a gleam and dotted with specks of gold and pink and honey, like a Rorschach but much more mesmerizing (I imagine, as I’ve never actually seen a Rorschach or stepped foot across the threshold of a shrink’s doorway). Fluorescent lights, which I did not want due to their hideous glare and ghastly effects on caucasian skin, hummed and popped above my work station.
     
    The polished brass faucet dripped into a bowl of stainless steel. She had chosen the faucet and the bowl, along with every other light fixture, switch plate, appliance, wall color, tile size and dash of decor in our painfully artistic new kitchen. Plop. Plop. Plop. The sound distracted me from the shapes I was imagining in the countertop. Each plop seemed to grow louder and louder. I gritted my teeth. “Could you please turn the faucet off completely?” I knew the words had an edge to them, but I also knew she wouldn’t notice. I knew this because I had not bothered to try to register what she was saying and it made little difference. She paused for a brief tenth of a second, her loquaciousness could only be stymied for so long, by chewing or sleeping.
     
    She continued talking but sat sedentary in her stool perched at the counter across from me. She flipped casually from page to glossy page in a fashion magazine, making the requisite oohs and ahhs of a rotund girl fishing for a compliment as she gaze with voracious envy at the bony flesh on the models. I sighed. I put down the knife and used my hand to slide the bright green bits into a pot of steaming water. I grabbed the brown bag of mushrooms from the farmer’s market and began the task of slicing and gagging over the slimy earth boogers. She knew that’s what I called mushrooms. She knew I hated mushrooms, knew how they made my gag reflex work overtime.
     
    I kept my head high, forming my eyes into tiny, downward cast slits to avoid removing a thumb as I chopped these things, coming to a hard resolve. I chopped and chopped. I glanced at the broccoli, gently steaming to a perfect, tender green. I heard her snap her gum, unnaturally pink. I heard her gasp over a photo and exclaim, “That is so rad!” I understood then something that had burned at the back of my mind since the kitchen project started and we moved our microwave and cereal bowls into the formal dining room. I hated this woman.

    • Martha says:

      Oh I loved this. I could feel the resentment in every chop of the knife.

    • My, my! The rage made my laptop temperature soar. I have to go hose it off. Sad to say, I’ve been there. It’s painful staying within the confines of socially acceptable behavior when continually under assault by someone whose every action evokes images of lost freedom. LOL
       
      I love mushrooms and try to handle them before they become “earth boogers”. I may never look at them the same way again. 🙂
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

      • Frank Ruiz says:

        Mushrooms will from now on ALWAYS be referred to as “Earth-boogers” from me!  Loved it!

      • I love “earth boogers,” but if I ever gush over a fashion mag, just shoot me.
        This is great – such wonderful description, you sucked me right in and held me to the last syllable. I FELT it. Every bit of it.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Jen: Fantastic stuff. Truly.

      • Hana Frank says:

        Hi Jen
        My favourites – observation that fluorescent light ‘has ghastly effects on caucasian skin’, ‘painfully artistic new kitchen’ – and like the majority here, I love the description of mushrooms as ‘earth boogers’ Wasn’t sure, but is the girl her daughter-in-law ?
        PS – I checked out your running book and recommended it to some friends. LOVED the humour – hope it sells well for you.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Jen-wow, this is pure poetry of suppressed rage-your descriptions had me feeling sorry for the broccoli 🙂

  10. Dee says:

    Went a little long today…
    The Soucouyant
    Henry thought the party tiresome. Being stuck in a corner with a loquacious youth who seemed to think “rad” was an actual word, was not his idea of a good time.

    “These little crackers are rad!”

    “Isn’t the Dean’s home rad?”

    I should have wacked her with my cane.

    He only accepted the invitation because he had heard that the Dean of the university had quite an artistic flare and stories of the beautifully decorated home and delicious fare had been spoken of in awed tones at his gentleman’s club. Henry had lived a sedentary life and was a bit on the rotund side. He walked with mincing steps, skirting the slimy puddles.  The fluorescent street light shone on his balding pate.  He poked at a piece of paper with his cane and glanced around uneasily.

    The night was warm and humid and Henry was sweating as he turned away from the lights, down his quiet street. The house mother had left him was in need of a few repairs but it wasn’t his fault that his investments hadn’t paid off the way he had expected. Henry had an astute mind and a flair for finance.  How could he foresee the market going soft?

    He shivered slightly, even in the heat. It must have been the tale told by the Dean’s sister. A disturbing woman with wild hair and clothing that was far to bright. Her eyes glittered and made Henry’s heart pound in the most disconcerting way. She spoke with an accent and claimed to have traveled from the West Indies. Even her name was exotic…Valencia. Henry didn’t much care for exotic people or places. He preferred his own home, his daily newspaper, and his morning tea at he same time every day.  He pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his forehead.  He walked quickly now. The shadows were deeper and the usually comforting lane seemed menacing. He heard an echo of footsteps somewhere behind him. He thought again about the story of the soucouyant – an old woman who could turn to a fireball and slip through your keyhole and suck your blood, either turning you into her kind or killing you so she could wear your skin and pursue more victims. What a lot of rot. Henry chuckled at his nervousness.  Too much rich food made for crazy thoughts. 

    He could see his home just a few doors down and he nearly stumbled in his haste. He remembered the strange woman extending her hand to him as he made his goodbyes.  She smiled at Henry.

    “You are not superstitious?”

    Henry frowned and pulled his hand from her grasping fingers.

    “No I am not. Nothing but a bunch of silly tales made up by uneducated people trying to explain the world.”

    She smiled again and the glare from the lamps glinted off her teeth. Henry felt the room spin and drew back. Surely a trick of the lights…She licked her lips.

    “There are many things in the world – terrifying things with voracious appetites that cannot be explained.”  She patted his cheek. Henry had been backing up slowly and jumped when his back touched the door.

    “Ggggood evening madam!” Henry stammered and turned to escape into the night.

    Now as the conversation came back to him he kept seeing those shiny teeth.  He nearly stumbled as he hurried up the front steps and let himself in, throwing the deadbolt behind him. 
    He shook himself and sighed in relief.

    I am being ridiculous!  A glass of brandy and then bed!

    Henry took off his shoes and set them next to the door, putting on his slippers. He poured a glass of brandy and sat in his leather chair with the lamp spilling cheerful light around him.  A combination of nerves and the brandy (and a very full stomach) made him sleepy and he soon dozed off.  Henry was snoring when the front door lock began to glow.  A bright ball of fire flowed through the keyhole and Henry jerked awake in time to see the flames shimmer and fade until the form of Valencia stood before him.  His lamp dimmed and just before the room was plunged into darkness, Henry screamed at the sight of those bright white teeth.  Henry stopped screaming as the vampire jaws nearly decapitated him.

    The soucouyant would have to wear her own skin another day.

    • Frank Ruiz says:

      Awesome story, and the word “rad” also left me thinking of bygone times and the bygone people who still use the word.  It reminds me of Charlie Sheen when he was “winning,” as he was dropping eighties-era lingo throughout his interviews.

      • Dee says:

        ooh I think maybe Henry was channeling Charlie lol – or the reverse. Poor Charlie looks a little like a vampire had gotten a hold of him…

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @HOLY, HOLY BLEEPITY BLEEP! Dee, that was by far your best submission! Frame this.

      • Dee says:

        @Shane – thank you lol – I was afraid I made Henry too unlikeable – I myself was nearly rooting for the soucouyant near the end 🙂

    • Shudder.
       
      Rad. Reminds me of hanging out with surfers in the 1970s. I swore if I ever heard the phrase, “It really rips” ever again…
       
      Well, I’d sic the soucouyant on ’em. That’d be rad.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Dee-I second Holly’s shudder and her disdain of the word rad. Lord, I hated that. This was a goose-bumpy ride. 🙂

  11. […] for Creative Copy Challenge 185 Loquacious, Sedentary,  Artistic, Voracious, Fluorescent, Rad, Delicious, Rotund, Decapitate, […]

  12. TuxGirl says:

     
    I glanced suspiciously at the loquacious young man. He was babbling semi-coherently to Korell, telling her his life story, or something close to it. At the moment, he was telling her about his former captain, who apparently was a bit too sedentary to justify his voracious appetite. I raised an eyebrow at Korell as the young man blabbered on about the captain’s rotundity. Why in the world did Central Command send this fellow to us? He couldn’t keep his mouth closed if his life depended on it. Why would we want him in the resistance?

    I got up and walked outside. I’ve never been able to concentrate when those stupid fluorescent lights are on. I usually blame it on my artistic “sensibilities”, claiming that the they mess up the colors of everything, but the truth of the matter is, I just can’t stand them.  The flickering makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.

    Honestly, I’m terrified that if we ever get captured, they’ll stick me in a room with fluorescent lights, and just leave me there. I’d probably cave faster against that torture than if they threatened decapitation!

    Walking around, I peeked through the windows and started. That slimy jerk, Rylen left confidential documentation sitting on his desk again. I could see it sitting there in plain view, below his poster announcing him as a member of the RAD.  I reached into my pocket, pulling out my camera. Central Command had never listened to me previously when I had listed the various ways Rylen had ignored security procedure, putting the entire resistance in danger. They just repeated that I had no proof that Rylen was intentionally putting us at risk, and we needed every person we could get.

    I snapped a picture, then put the camera back in my pocket.  Revenge would be delicious.
     

    • Dee says:

      Love this!  I hope there will be more – I would love to hear about the revenge and why he wants it so badly!

      • Frank Ruiz says:

        Great story, as I love any resistance-themed tale, especially these days!  I like how you made “rad” into “RAD” (perhaps an acronym for the resistance?) as well!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Tuxgirl: Outstanding. You could hash this out into a full length book. Please do so.

      • TuxGirl says:

        Sadly, I seem to utterly fail whenever I take a snippet like this and try to make it bigger.  But, I am saving all of these CCC practices and putting them in a plot book to pull from for writing practice.  I’m still a newbie at writing, so these challenges are definitely helping me out…
        I do want to eventually write a full-length book, so hopefully this or one of the other challenges will end up in one. 🙂

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @TuxGirl-love that last line – Revenge would be delicious.Great, great line-short but says so much.

  13. Frank Ruiz says:

    As loquacious as I am when speaking, it always surprises me how sedentary my actual writing output is.

    Artistic expression should be voracious; pouring from within me onto every expressive medium, verbal as well as written.  It’s not the case for me, however.

    I’m more comfortable sweating under florescent lights speaking in front of a crowd than I am relaxing in solitude in my den, inspired by my raddest comics from the eighties and my rotund “Death Star” replica surrounding me.

    I think the difference for me is the real-time feedback that an audience can give you in person as you’re creating.  I get this when speaking, but not when writing.  Although the continuous pining for audience validation makes me feel slimy in retrospect, trying to guess future audience reaction when writing alone seems like I decapitated myself, losing the use of my senses as a result.

    My ideal would be to have the writing equivalent of improvisational theater.  For me, that would be delicious!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Frank: Awesome look at the writing process for you. I’d bet you’d do well writing at a Starbucks or similar venue. You can strike up conversations with random strangers asking them to read a passage of yours; make some friends and get feedback. Win, win.

      • Frank Ruiz says:

        Thanks for the comment and the great idea, Shane.  It might just be what I need to get a better writing experience!

        I think my ideal writing experience would be like the “writers’ rooms” that folks on TV shows get to work in, so long as everyone is treated equally.  Having a mass, brainstorming session seems like it would be lots of fun!

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Frank-I think this writing was totally rad and delicious. 😉

  14. Dee says:

    I am completely opposite.  I do not even like reading my work out loud for others, though I have been making myself get out there.  I am envious of people who are comfortable speaking to a group! Maybe you should try your hand at slam poetry 🙂

    • Frank Ruiz says:

      Hey, Dee!  My thoughts on the matter are ironic, as I’m as gun-shy to present my pre-formulated creations to anyone.  I think I like the audience thing mainly for stuff I make up on the fly.  I think I fool myself into thinking that the less I prepare, the less of “me” goes into what I’m sharing (and therefore, the less of “me” folks are rejecting if they don’t like it).  Ah, my self-delusion loops even confuse me with their twisted logic!

      Thanks for the link!

    • I’m comfortable with online groups, but I don’t like sharing works in progress with anyone, and certain people – mostly immediate family – tie me up in knots as early readers, through no fault of their own. Glad you’re working on “getting yourself out there,” Dee!

  15. Yes, it’s true, we are a loquacious lot. Our soft and sedentary pursuits belie our sharp and active minds – minds better evidenced by the many posts published on our blog, TheNextGoal.com.
     
    Please, come meet the team! Brandon Freund is our webmaster extraordinaire (Andy Bailey, if you’re reading this, be extra nice to Brandon – he’s getting that special brand of Holly’s “yes, that’s nice, but WHAT IF…?” this past two weeks). Larry Lourcey, our professional photographer, is “the artistic one” although we are all voraciously creative types who love to chew on steely ideas and spit them out like finely crafted nails in Team 2’s coffin (speaking metaphorically, of course!!) Speaking of Larry, he might better be referred to as The Godfather, for making the most active commenters on TheNextGoal.com an offer they surely can’t refuse – come check out these delicious, signed, limited edition art prints he’s offered up as prizes in our comment contest! It’s not too late to enter – and a comment on each post gets you that many entries, right up to the Week 2 deadline! Ntathu Allen, of Yoga Inspires – “Life One Breath at a Time” – was supposed to be our mentor in the calming, de-stressing department, but has turned out to be a little bundle of energy with a mind that could outshine the brightest fluorescent tube! Neeraj Sachdeva – one look at his blog template and mine should show you how dangerous it could be to put us on the same team, in time zones half a world apart. A self-described “life geek,” the multitalented Neeraj volunteered to be Team 2’s fearless leader, to which the rest of us went, “Okay, sure – it’s your funeral…” (Just teasing!!) Neeraj has permission to borrow my Red Pen of Death™ when acting as managing editor; he also likes to occasionally hang a target on his back and draw fire when he perceives any member of his team is being unfairly picked on. In return, we quit picking on him for using his serial-killer passport photo as a profile pic, and he now WOWS the ladies with his charming good looks and that sexy, soft British accent. Of course there’s also me, Holly Jahangiri. You know me. I write. A lot.
     
    You also know a couple of our worthy opponents on Team 2, Mitchell Allen and Anthony Smits. I’m sure, if Mitchell weren’t so busy over there, helping Pedro decapitate hapless (if fictional) women in the slimy mire of his devious and creative mind, in preparation for NaNoWriMo, he’d have issued you all a personal invitation to their contest entry and begged for comments like crumbs from your table (as I am doing, now, for TheNextGoal.com and Team 2). Of course, now, he can’t do it – unless he wants to admit how much he really loves Team 2, since imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Come to think of it, we know they love us. Deep, deep down – somewhere in the dank cellar under the rotunda of his imagination, Mitchell loves us… After all, no one can resist our mascot, the oh-so-rad Froggy! But remember who invited you first.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Holly: Now THIS is how one spams. Sprinkle some CCC on it and spam tastes like steak.

      • I like to season my spam with a personal touch. 😉
        Please, everyone – come play. Team 2 invites you to be part of our “extended team” and blog family.
        Yeah, you too, Mitch and Ant – you too. 😉 You’re always welcome at The Next Goal.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Holly-so many links-so little time 😀

      • Let me simplify, then: http://thenextgoal.com – please, visit our blog http://thenextgoal.com/blog/ and comment like mad! You will find the contest among those posts, and be rewarded with the chance to win your choice of one of two gorgeous, signed art prints (worth $125) by photographer Larry Lourcey, if you follow the instructions.
        The rest of the links are gravy – fun to peruse at your leisure. The ones above? A bit more urgent – contest ends tomorrow night.

    • Mitch: Yo Pedro. You see this?
      Pedro: Yeth. Wonder thenth of humor, that Holly.
      Mitch: This isn’t steak, it’s sausage! Lookit all those links!
      Pedro: hee-hee! You’re tho thilly. I would thlice her for you, but I’m in hiding.
      Mitch: Oh, about that. Sorry I had to sick Det. Waters on you. Moral obligation, you know.
      Pedro: No worryth. I have thumthing for hith ahth!
      Mitch: Well, can I borrow your scalpel? I need to dissect a toad…

      • The “toad,” meanwhile, has hopped into Mitchell’s boot and left him stinky “presents.” The unsuspecting Mitchell, donning the boot and stepping onto his soapbox, opens his mouth to speak – just as the smelly “squish” registers on his toes. He hopes against hope that it was a frog, and not merely…
        Crap. It was not the frog.

  16. Troy Worman says:

    She was quite loquacious. Not a characteristic I admired. And sedentary. A trait I despised. But artistic. And quite voracious in the sack. This is what kept me coming back. I found her fluorescent linens and early radiant smile, even if somewhat impish, quite a delicious combination after a long day at the mill. (Despite her rotund shape.) So much so, even the presence of a decapitated body could not keep me from between her slimy sheets.

  17. Jason Boyett says:

    Loquacious,” the man said.
    Just a single word to describe himself. Nothing else. The interviewer liked that. It was as if the word just dropped onto the desk and lay there, sedentary. He shuffled the stack of resumes and waited.
    Nothing. “Well, can you describe yourself further?”
    The man licked his lips. “Artistic,” he said. That seems about right, thought the interviewer. The man’s short sleeves revealed a sleeve of tattoos crawling up his forearm, the ink voracious in its search for unmarked skin.
    “Interesting,” said the interviewer. “Do you paint? Draw? What media do you use?”
    “Markers,” he said. “Flourescent markers.”
    “You mean highlighters? That kind of thing?”
    “Yes. I find them…” He paused, arching an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “I find them to be…rad.”
    The man stared at the interviewer, then nodded at the buck’s head stuffed and mounted on the wall. “White-tailed deer, if I am not mistaken,” the man said. “A worthy target. Delicious. You have had your share of wild meats, have you not, my rotund friend?”
    The interviewer cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “My brother-in-law makes venison sausage. I took that buck back in—”
    “Kill it. Decapitate it. Eat it. Put it on your wall. That is your method, is it?”
    “Y-Yes,” the interviewer said. “If you put it that way, I—”
    The man stood up. “I will start tomorrow.”
    “I beg your pardon? I haven’t decided to hire you,” the interviewer said. “We’ve still got a stack of resumes to work through, and—”
    The man stopped at the doorway. “I will arrive tomorrow at 8 am. I will slash the waste from this company like you gutted that deer, your fat hands slimy with blood lust. Stay out of my way or it will be your head on my wall. And I will have this office, I think.”
    The man left. The interviewer picked up his phone, desperately trying to remember the extension for the security desk.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Jason: FANTASTIC first submission. I know a word slinger when I read one. Great story here. The CCC gang is gonna love you for sure. Sure hope you stop by each Monday and Thursday for more.
      I’ll add your name and URL to our CCC Community Links page now. Everyone welcome Jason to the addiction.
      P.S. What did you think of the challenge?

      • Jason Boyett says:

        Thanks, Shane. Fun challenge. Thanks for having me!

      • Cathy Miller says:

        @Jason -Welcome to CCC!

        If our welcome is a bit loquacious, that’s just how we rock. We take the challenge words from their sedentary world and give them an artistic touch. We’re voracious in our quest to deliver our fluorescent best as the words become the rad symbol of enlightenment.

        The stories are delicious as the rotund circle of love transforms to decapitate the slimy out of life.

        Welcome!

  18. Hana Frank says:

    Only one hour left until the next moon cycle sucks us back in. We should be closer to the package by now. But everyone’s still freaked out from the horror of the last shift. Seeing Valerie almost get decapitated was a screaming reminder about OH&S rules.

    So the whole crew has stayed slow and steady. We’ve gone through each door-way on the watch out for danger: whirring fan blades, cats, motion detector alarms, air-conditioner vents, pesticide spray, clouds of dust bunnies.

    Right now we’re in the kitchen while a very rotund woman grabs stuff from the fridge. In the weird fluorescent light, her dressing gown is like a purple balloon below us. When she finally closes the fridge door and sits, Libby zooms down for another safety check.

    “No sign of any pet bowls yet. I’ll just check the laundry.” Libby’s voice is quiet, subdued through the com link. Normally, ‘loquacious’ would be too weak a word to describe Libby Gorshank. Guess like the rest of us she’s been wondering how the emergency surgery went for Valerie this morning.

    But then her voice changes. “Hey – the crayon work on the fridge door. Looks about the artistic level of a … 6 year old?” There’s a buzz of excitement. The market is voracious for lower incisors; a good quality LCI can collect around $5,000 these days.

    Next to me Millie switches on the tracker. Her eyes widen when she sees the read-out. “The signal’s going through the roof. I think we might have ourselves a collector here.” She gives us the thumbs up, her smile radiant enough to light up a city. And now a delicious thrill runs through the whole crew.

    Libby rushes back up to us and nods her head at the woman below. “Reckon she’ll be chowing here for another hour. No need for some-one to stay and watch. Let’s all grab that package eh?” Everyone looks at the plates of food below us. And then we’re pouring out into the hallway. We’re flowing up the stairs, racing towards the master bedroom.

    The door is ajar, making the check fast and easy. Inside, a male adult lies sedentary under a doona, his snoring drowning out the urgent clicks coming from the tracker. The digital clock next to him glows 11.45 in green numbers. And then we feel the tug of the new moon tide. The first warning pull from the portal.

    We jostle frantically and pile out, hurtle towards the last door. It’s closed, but the crayon picture on the front is a good clue we’re at the right place. We squeeze under the bottom of the door, and find ourselves in the messiest largest bedroom in the world. I can barely take it all in. There are mountains of clothes, plastic toys, piles of shells, beads, books, crumbling or slimy mounds of food.

    Millie levitates almost up to the ceiling and turns around. When she points at the bedside table, we rush at it, almost out of our skins with excitement. Which is really stupid, especially when you know damm well that small kids can still see us. The kiddie probably saw us come in and just sat and watched. Until he realised a gang of tooth fairies was about to make off with his entire collection. He’s almost hysterical. Poor bugger’s probably had to swap a lot of sweets or toys in exchange for all those milk teeth.

    We can feel the final surge of the portal, and as we’re pulled back home, the sack bursting with our booty, I hear the frantic foot steps and voices of his parents thundering in the distance.

  19. The young, loquacious student sat in the chair, reading his studies aloud. His teacher told him to practice on a daily basis, at least for an hour a day. Although he would rather read outside, the student stayed in the library under the advice of the teacher this day.
     
    Meanwhile, the sedentary, old man labored through the hallway to his solar. The book under his robes. He had to keep it elsewhere for now. Out of the reach of his student for now. “Do you think what you’re doing is artistic?” Arne heard the voice of his own instructor from years long now past. “You must me a voracious learner. The weight of the world will one day rest on your shoulders.” When he arrived at his room, he twisted the knob and swung the door open. After removing the book from its hiding place under his robes, he stared at it for a moment. It all began with this stupid tome, and it would all end with it as well.
     
    Back in the library, the student pulled a fluorescent marble from his satchel. He held it at an arm’s length in front of his face and began to study it. “It’s so bright. Perhaps the most rad…” A sudden flash from the tiny sphere interrupted his thought. “…ient thing I have ever seen on the earth.” He returned it to his satchel and hoped his teacher would know what it was.
     
    Finding the perfect hiding spot had proved a challenge to the old man. But he found one under a tile under his bed. He stood up and prepared himself to go meet his student. Upon opening the door, though, he could smell food being prepared in the kitchen far down the hallway. “Supper is going to be delicious tonight,” he thought, licking his lips and rubbing his rotund belly. In a few short hours he would be able to decapitate the beast called hunger. Until then he would have to continue down the slimy passageway towards the library and vaults.

  20. Avenged in Blood Part 56
    It has been a while since I did a chapter of Avenged in Blood. You can read the whole thing at the community page here at CCC.
    For a quick recap, our Hero was searching for his partner and Brother in Law. Through questionable techniques, our hero discovers his partner is being held by the mob boss Raymond Cabrese. Through tenacity, sheer dumb luck and an insatiable desire for revenge, our hero executes every single member of the Cabrese Gang.
    Later, dismissed from the police force, he refuses to join another mob boss and foils an assassination attempt on his own life. Ultimately he decides that the second mob boss, Johnny Mueller has to die for his crimes and sets out with would be assassin Lola to destroy Mueller like Cabrese had been destroyed.
    During the raid Lola had been hit, but our hero continued on to a basement hunting for Mueller. Suddenly the floor fell away and now our hero is lying in the dark in some sort of dog den, trying to keep conscious and figure a way out.
    And now, Part 56
    I must have dozed off again. Sleep kept coming and I had lost track of time. I hadn’t moved for quite a while, I was very stiff but I still couldn’t see anything beyond a tiny point of hazy light. I wondered why I wasn’t dead. I wondered why no one had noticed where I was. I wondered why I was still here. I drifted off again.
    Still later I awoke again. I felt somewhat better in the head even though my movements were limited, like a sedentary man during football season. The smell of dog and the urine of the beasts was pungent in the near total darkness. I sat up and my head swirled with vertigo for a moment. I realized that I was voraciously hungry. Food could wait, escape could not.
    I remained sitting in the filth and dirt on the floor, not trusting my legs to hold me. Scooting a few inches at a time, I finally touched a slimy wall. I was suddenly entirely exhausted. I couldn’t be sure why my body was giving up like it was. I slept again after only a short time conscious.
    I awoke again slumped over against the wall. I sat up again and fluorescent colors danced before my eyes in an artistic display that would have made an impressionist painter proud. I breathed deeply and tried not to give into the despair that was welling up in the back of my brain.
    I tried to ignore the loquacious voice in my head that kept telling me it was over, time to give up. Maybe Mueller needed to live this day. Maybe he finally had gotten the best of me. I could think of no way out of this room, no way to continue on. No way to escape that didn’t involve my pistol directing its lethal rage at me.
    I wondered again what it would feel like, the muzzle against my temple or my chin, the loud click of the safety releasing, the double click of the hammer locking into firing position. Would I actually be able to go through with it at that time? Would my breath quicken until I couldn’t make my finger obey? Would my eyes be merely closed or squeezed tightly shut in anticipation of the noise?
    These thoughts that were running through my head were not good, yet I was at a point that I almost yearned for the delicious release of death. I went deeper and tried to imagine just how long it would take for the trigger to break and release the hammer. Would I be able to hear the firing pin hit the primer before the bullet went off? Would my brain register any pain before the bullet carved his deadly furrow in my grey matter?
    Who would even give a crap after it was all over. I didn’t know if I would even be found down here. I was confused and lost in myself. I was not really ready to shuffle off of this mortal coil just yet. I had to fight. Fight the fatigue, and the ache in my body. Fight the doubt that was assailing me with its loquacious banter, drawing me into its brother despair.
    Sit. Think. Maybe Mueller would survive this day, but I would decapitate him soon enough. Think! I needed light. The dim grey light that was a pinprick above me was not even enough to illuminate my watch that still ticked off the passing of time in a loud and judgmental voice.
    I started with my pockets again, trying to find something useful to this situation. Not for the first time I wished I smoked. But alas, no matches, no lighters, no cigarettes. But I had bullets. I searched again and came up with a handful of shells.
    Some .45, some .357. I had lost the .357 somewhere. They were ones I had loaded as well; maybe I could pry out the bullet and use the powder for light. I had to try something. Besides, how rad would it be if it worked?
    I took out my knife and used it to work at the soft lead of the bullet. I pushed and I pried. I finally got the bullet out of the shell and somehow managed to not spill the powder inside. Now what. Placing my thumb over the open end of the cartridge, I searched my pockets again and came up with a crumpled receipt from the convenience store Lola and I stopped at the day before.
    I smoothed out the receipt and placed in on the ground before me. I then dumped the powder from the shell onto the paper. From there the only issue was how to ignite the powder. The only thing that I could use was the primer from the shell itself. How to ignite…. Maybe, just maybe I could push hard enough with my knife to ignite the primer and light the powder.
    I held the shell in my left hand and my knife in my right. I knew it was going to burn my fingers but I had no choice. The darkness was starting to get to me. I pushed the tip of my blade against the primer. Nothing happened. I pushed harder. Still nothing.
    Thinking some more, I turned to the wall. An idea struck. I moved the paper over closer to the wall. I lined up my knife with the primer again and stuck the butt of my knife against the wall. The primer ignited. The small blaze intense to my light starved eyes. Then the powder took. I looked away, around the room as it ignited.
    The powder burned for only a second but I was able to see a light switch, not 20 feet away from me on one of the curving walls of the rotund room. I laughed and began crawling toward the switch, willing myself to get up and walk. “Be a man Damnit!” I yelled at myself. I bumped into the wall. I sat up. I rose to my knees. I reached and felt the wall. Where was the switch?
    Finally I found it, flipped it, and sank back to the floor bathed in dim fluorescent light. I breathed relief and fell back into a short sleep, right there on the floor.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Justin M: Glad to see you back, and super happy to read this story again. Well done. When I get time I’ll catch up with updating this in your page.

  21. Kelly says:

    NOW WE CAN MAKE PIES AGAIN

    A loquacious, voracious, devourer of Delicious
    and Macs, and Empires, and any ol’ thing
    Artistically leaving a trail most seditiousin any rotund fruit that comes past this wing
    Yes, under these fluorescent lights lives a creature
    so slimy, determined, and clever
    His rad appetite his most prominent feature
    I’ve not seen an untainted snack in forever!

    One mad night last week
    (I don’t like to mention)
    I read up, like a geek
    with evil intentions
    I’d remain sedentary
    but still cook his goose
    I’d buy the best fruit
    and then turn him loose

    A Honeycrisp temptress splayed on the counter
    all night, to make sure he’d become her deep lover
    In the morning, a knife was acquired and made sharper
    with minced-apple-mess, we decapitated the invader

    I did try to warn him
    but no one will mourn ‘im
    we’ll rest with our apples in peace–RIP


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