Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #195

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. Fail 
  2. Trivia
  3. Master
  4. Dirt
  5. Swerve
  6. Memory
  7. Drive
  8. Bed
  9. Touch
  10. Right

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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118 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #195”

  1. Had fun with this one:
     

    Wrong Touch
     
    If memory serves me right
    You are a master of the fight
    You drive right into my bed
    Some filthy dirt trivia in your head
     
    I swerve to avoid your touch
    having never been revolted this much
    in a move that could only come from a male
    your actions are purely an epic fail

  2. Anne Wayman says:

    oh dear, this is a bit preachy, but…
     

    You have the right to fail. In fact it will be mastering failure and the ability to swerve that will give you the drive and golden touch that guarantees success. Like others, your memory of how you got there will be full of trivia. Like a bed of garden dirt you’re rich in growability.

  3. Shane Arthur says:

    “Hey Billy! My apology ain’t trivial. I heard your last livin’ grandma’s body failed and she done died in her master bedroom last night. Sorry, bud.”

    “Twas da right thing to happen to her, Bobby. Da sufferin’s gone. All dat’s left now is da good memories, like how she would be swervin’ from side to side as she drove, kickin’ up dirt and gravel as she took us to da store to get more SpaghettiZeros. And how she’d touch me right on the itchy spot on my back and stracth dat itch wit’ them long nails of hers until da itch weren’t itchin’ and I fell asleep. Or how she’s make dat ‘mmm…mmm…mmm’ noise when she’d kiss ya. Love you grandma. I’ll miss ya.”

  4. Dee says:

    We had been at it for hours. I was exhausted and more than a little pissed right now.  Aedan had my mother’s spell book in his lap. I had tried and tried to commit the words to memory, the actions as habit, and I just couldn’t seem to meld the two. I never had been able to do two things at one time. “You don’t have to drive it in so hard. I’m tired. I want to take a shower and go to bed.” I sounded petulant even to myself. That just managed to irritate me more.

    “This isn’t some kind of trivia game, Jae. If you don’t learn to control your power you will not be ready when Lucia comes back. You can master a few moves for defense, you have the touch. If you fail, you die. I will be with you all I can, but what if we get separated?” Aedan stood and placed the book on the chair. “Try it on me. Maybe that is the problem. You have no clear vision of where to aim the magic.”

    “What? No! What if I hurt you? I have little control.” Now he was just being stupid. I was mad at him but it wasn’t his fault. He was just trying to help. I didn’t want to hurt him.

    Aedan snorted. “You haven’t been able to cast enough to give me a pimple! You fade in and out as you shift and as a wolf, you try to swerve and run into a tree. It takes you forever just to shake it off and pick yourself up out of the dirt. From what I read in her book, your mother would be embarrassed. I am not worried. “

    “Oh you did not go there!” I felt cold anger take me over.  My mother would be embarrassed? My hands were a blur of motion in the air and words I didn’t know were in my head poured out of me. I saw nothing, not Aedan, not the cabin, just red like blood. I felt it all, pouring through me, out my fingers and then a bright flash and I crumpled. My heart was pounding and my head throbbed. The cold receded and something whispered in my head. Aedan was lying on the floor a few feet from where he had been standing. I tried to make my limbs work and managed to drag myself to him.

    “Aedan? Oh my god, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please wake up!” I knew this was a bad idea. Aedan moaned and turned over. Holy shit, Jae. You trying to kill me? His words sounded funny, as though he had a bad case of laryngitis.

    I started to cry. “You idiot! I thought you were dead! Why did you do that?”  I fell back on the floor next to him, shaking uncontrollably. Guess I am stronger than I thought.

    Aedan reached for my hand.  “Looks like we found the key to your magic. Remind me never to really piss you off.”
    I hate it when he’s right.
     

    • Frank Ruiz says:

      Awesome episode from your Lycan saga!  And now we know they’re Lycans who can cast spells too!  This keeps getting more and more exciting!  Looking forward to the novel!

      • Dee says:

        thanks Frank. Jae is the child of a witch mother and becoming a were just made her more powerful. She has a pretty big learning curve. lol I don’t know if this will turn into anything viable but it has been a barrel of fun to write. If I end up with a 99 cent ebook novella I will be happy.

    • You rockin’ it, Dee. I love the unique “parentage”. Makes for a fascinating character.
      I hope you do put out a novella. THIS novella.
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Dee: I’d love to see this on a DVD. Write on.

  5. Shane Arthur says:

    PROGRAMMING NOTE: I’m going off grid for the rest of today. You guys be good. Strike that. Go crazy. If you get caught in moderation, hold tight. I’ll check back tonight.

  6. Frank Ruiz says:

    Failure is usually the final dragon we have to defeat before mastering success.  This is no trivial adversary, as our culture is driven by the hope driver of success and the fear driver of failure.  As such, our desires to achieve place us on a paradoxical path: we want to run from failure and run toward success, but if the path toward success necessitates moving through failure, where can we go?

    We have to go to the place many of us fear most: being a failure.  The bad news is that we actualize our most-feared scenario, but the good news is that this is not the end of us.  Yes, the nightmare of failure can be awakened from, and we can still get out of bed and face the world afterward.  Once we realize we’re still alive and able to achieve, even in the midst of being a failure, we can transform our experience of failure from one of destruction to one where we can constructively learn from our mistakes, log those lessons into our memory banks, and course-correct toward our ultimate success.

    Through this re-contextualization of what failure means for us, we transform our dragon into a tough-loving teacher pushing us toward touching the ring of success.  Failure teaches us which of our attempts aren’t working, thus moving us toward what’s right through a process of elimination.  As long as we’re willing to pick ourselves up and brush the dirt off of us every time we fall, then we’ll overcome as many failures as we need to in order to reach the gates of success.

    This is far from the most efficient process we might imagine, but efficiency is never a part of the process of discovery and creation.  To drive ourselves to the new, we have to swerve past everything we already know and are familiar with.  We have to climb the mountain we already know to reach the peaks of where we’ve never been.  It’s not easy, but the promise of innovation is worth not only the Herculean effort, but worth facing our fears as well.  Otherwise, our lives will only be bland reruns of what we’ve done before.

    • We have to climb the mountain we already know to reach the peaks of where we’ve never been.
       
      Frank, that should go on a plaque, or something. I liked your message today.
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

    • Dee says:

      I really really really like this post today Frank 🙂
      My biggest fear is mediocrity.
       

      • Frank Ruiz says:

        Thanks, Dee!  I also fear mediocrity, but I’m trying to mitigate the fear by realizing what the external factors are regarding what I get done versus what I don’t each day.  I’m hoping this path of investigation will help me get a little further from mediocrity than I was before!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Frank: Well done indeed, Frank.
      I think success and failure are on a figure-eight, infinity path. As long as we know we’ll see both again eventually and enjoy the path, we’ll be okay.

      • Frank Ruiz says:

        This is a great way to look at our paths through failure and success, Shane!  Thanks for sharing it, and I’ll definitely keep it in mind from now on.

  7. […] copy Challenge 195: fail, trivia, master, dirt, swerve, memory, drive, bed, touch, […]

  8. Master your mind and harness the power of your right brain. Think of it as Self-Help Trivia Pursuit! If you do, you’ll touch many people with your insights, honesty and compassion. Don’t worry if you fail because you can try again and delete the harmful mind viruses from your memory as you would from your computer’s hard drive.
     
    Life can be a bed of roses if you swerve around all of the negativity in the world and your family — in your place of employment. Before you take that ‘dirt’ nap, you may want to clean up your life so your next one may be a little easier.
     
    *Everyone at the CCC … 2012 is around the corner, and I’ve already begun to make changes. I’d like to take my writing career/entrepreneurialism to the next level, which is why I decided to follow in the footsteps of other authors along with actors and actresses and change my name. I expect only good things to come of it. Here’s to the future!
     

  9. Jen says:

    Thanksgiving just isn’t Thanksgiving until we have played, or endured, the annual turkey day  Trivial Pursuit death match. If you can’t stomach the competition stay in the kitchen with the men doing dishes. My mother is a master of memory, recalling tedious, senseless facts about actors we’re too young to remember. Fess Parker anyone? On any other day, this woman, my mother would not strike you as a low down dirty dog of a gamer, but do not be fooled. She does not swerve in doubt, she has drive to win her children never knew she possessed. When you fail to beat her, and you will fail, the rightness of her answer shines in her eyes like beatification. She will touch your hand in sympathy and send you to bed to nurse the agony of defeat for another year.

    • Ha ha. In our family, we had a term for that. Insufferable. It’s what we called dear old dad until he got off his high horse.
       
      He still exhibits it with his daily Movie Trivia game.
       
      I like the part where your mom pats your hand sympathetically. LOL
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

    • Dee says:

      I once lost the game because my husband guessed the answer. In case it ever comes up – if you landed smack in the middle of Plock – you would be in Poland…
      Love this post!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Jen: Haha. I needed this laugh today. “in the kitchen with the men doing dishes”

  10. KathleenL says:

    Mind-full Conversation, Continued
     
    What an epic fail.  

    Oh Lovie, I just decided to e-mail the Victim’s Advocate. Just out of the bloody blue, yes.

    And the orange blob does not have any attorneys at this time. How quaint. And so “we have to wait to see what the judge decides ….”

    Yep… that is what she said.

    Does the orange blob really think that Our-New-Face-Of-Brave is going to forget what he did? Does he really think she or any of the officers will have trouble with their memory?
    What he has done is not trivial.

    No Lovie, I don’t think he has a touch on reality, not if he thinks these delay tactics will dull the memories of it all. No one who bed’s down his own sister, let alone produces a set of twins with her, has much mastery of reality. Not the moral reality we live by at least. But then again, maybe he does. Right, right. This is a great way to throw dirt in our eyes.

    But all the delays in the world will not change the facts. The dealys will not bring you home to me. We will drive it all home with the weeks of testimony Lovie.

    That’s right… these delays, planned delays, I know Love, will allow him to swerve around a bit. But it will not change the facts Lovie.

    Yes, I did finish that blue blanket today. Yes, Lovie, it is for your girl. You are welcome Lovie. I am more than happy to make it for her. This way she can be wrapped in our love even when we are states apart. Yes, Lovie. Christmas… I will give it to her just before Christmas when we stop in for a visit.  

  11. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cochrane. The brain damage is irreversible. Your son has suffered permanent memory loss.” The surgeon didn’t bother to touch the distraught mother. Instead, he spun sharply about and briskly left the family waiting room.

    “That’s one cold fish, ma’am. He’s the best they got here at Mercy General. So, if’n he says your boy is done, for, then he’s done for.”

    Mary looked up from the sleeper sofa, sweeping her tear-blurred vision from the interloper’s raggedy sneakers, to his baggy blue pants, up past a shocking purple satin muscle shirt, resting finally on the spot of dirt on the end of a pale white nose. She blinked him into focus:

    “Excuse me?”

    “I said, ‘That’s one cold fish, ma’am …’,” he didn’t get to finish.

    “I heard what you said! How dare you!” Mary sat up straighter, placing her palm on the arm-rest.

    Sensing violence, the odd man took a step back. “Ma’am, please. I’m here to help.” He stuck out a business card.

    Ignoring the gesture, Mary sprang up and glared down onto the spot of dirt. “Help? Just how do you intend to do that? Who are you?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

    Impatiently, the man dramatically whip-sawed his arm in toward his chest and flung it back in her face, so that she could see the business card:

    Phil E. Buster
    CRANIUM CORRECTIVE CONSULTANT

    “Is this some kind of sick joke?” Mary was almost beside herself with fury. She snatched the card and shook it in the man’s face. “Filibuster? What is this!”

    The man, plainly frightened, tried to swerve under her waving arm. “I fix brain damage! I can help your boy!”

    “What???!!!” Mary stopped as suddenly as if flash-frozen. Her stricken look threatened to crumble into a piteous cry of maternal misery.

    The man spoke quickly, hoping to stave off the keening wail building up. “I have a revolutionary technique that reaches into brains and repairs them like new. Thirty days of rehab, your boy will be playing piano better than ever.”

    Mary could only sputter as the man continued.

    “We just have to do a series of mental exercises to jump-start the damaged neurons. Most of the real damage came when the surgeon was splashing around in your son’s head with his crude implements. But, I can fix that, too. I only need ten thousand dollars and for you to sign a release.”

    Finally, Mary found her voice. It was choked with the phlegm of anguish, but sprinkled with cinnamony hope. “You can do what?”

    Exhaling, the man nodded. “Fix your boy.”

    ***

    Jessie had the giggles. There was nothing funny about the man with the ugly purple shirt and funky armpits, both of which were dripping sweat onto Jessie’s forehead as the man struggled to adjust  The Machine. The giggles were part of the exercises he’d been ordered to master. After four weeks of being strapped to his bed, having nothing but water-stained ceiling to amuse him, Jessie was able to drive maniacal giggles around almost without thinking about them. The perspiration only served to focus his concentration, making him giggle harder.

    “Okay, stop, Jess.” The man was pushing himself off of The Machine, apparently satisfied with his ministrations. He stared into Jessie’s eyes and nodded. Oh, yeah. He was more than ready for the next phase. He sat down on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid squishing the boy’s catheter. His mother would be in soon to change that.

    “Listen, Jess. Let’s warm up with giggle grunt gag grunt. On three. One. Two. Three!” He snapped his fingers.

    Jessie began an animalistic opera of goofy noises that sounded like a constipated man reading restroom graffiti. Sweat began pouring off his forehead and he started hyperventilating. He wanted to grab his chest but the straps wouldn’t let him. After what seemed like minutes, he gasped and stopped.

    “Good, good! 15 seconds. Impressive. We’re going to play a new game, now.” The man took out some cards.

    Jessie stared at the cards. They were purple. He couldn’t make out the words, but they seemed to be typed in bright blue letters. He was hearing the man’s voice and everything else, amplified through The Machine. He felt a headache coming on.

    “Where is Waldo?” The man read from a card, speaking very loudly.

    Startled, Jessie, blurted, “Under the bed! I swear!”

    The man took another card. “Who is John Galt?”

    “Batman?”

    “Why is the Fourth of July?”

    Jessie was silent.

    The man set that card aside.

    “What’s the name of this funk?”

    Jessie giggled. “Spiderman!” His ears pricked up as footfalls intruded from the background. Mom was coming down the hall.

    The man took the next card, leaned in very close to Jessie’s ear and whispered, “April, hell, sesame, firecrackers. If you fail this quiz, I’m going to rip your mother’s heart right out of her chest and shove it down your skinny little throat. Here she comes now. Look sharp!”

    Mary eased into the room. She hated to interrupt these sessions, but it was time to clean up the bed and change the bag. She noticed that Jessie was drenched in sweat. She raised a questioning eyebrow.

    “Ah, ma’am. You’re just in time to witness the beginnings of a remarkable recovery. In fact, why don’t you read these trivia cards?” He held out the purple deck.

    Mary took the cards and pulled up the chair from her son’s desk. Sitting down gingerly, she flipped over the top card and softly read the question. “What month is tax season in the United States?”

    Jessie, wide-eyed, started to blurt out something but caught himself. “April?”

    Mary’s own eyes widened in disbelief. She grabbed the next card. “God is to heaven as devil is to?”

    “Under the bed! I swear! No, I mean ‘hell’!” Sweat was pouring freely down Jessie’s face.

    Mary was shaking with excitement. She grabbed a towel to wipe his face. As she did, the cards spilled from her lap. She didn’t even stop to pick them up. She gently hugged her boy, wiped his brow and then, with a growing look of pure gratitude, she turned to the man. She hugged him as hard as she could, not minding the aroma at all.

    “Oh my god! He remembers things! How can I ever repay you?”

    The man smiled. “Well, that check would be a start. Don’t get too excited. It will be a few days before his recollection is completely restored. Once his spinal injury has healed, he’ll be good as new!”

    Mary jumped up from her embrace.  “Oh, my! Yes! I have it in my room.” She dashed out.

    The man smiled more broadly, winking at Jessie. “Well done, mate. Just give me a two-hour head start before you start acting bat-shit crazy, okay?”

    “Sesame!”

    • Frank Ruiz says:

      Ah, Phil E. Buster, the master of manipulation.  Awesome story and ending, and a great nod to the manipulations of the failed Super-committee!

      • LOL, thanks, Frank. Seeing political monsters under the bed, are we? I didn’t even know who the Super committee were, until you mentioned it. Phil E. Buster was just my usual corny punning around.
         
        Cheers,
         
        Mitch
         

        • Frank Ruiz says:

          Haha, I sure am seeing monsters under the bed!  I’m projecting again!  Seeing my own reflection everywhere I look, heheh!

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Mitch: Another fantastic tale. You were meant to write this stuff.

  12. margaret says:

    My memory fails to master trivia games as I drive on a dirt road,  swerve, and turn right to avoid an unexpected bed of roses with a touch of perfume.

  13. Tiffany Hudson says:

    I knew something was wrong when I jumped out of my bed and fell straight over dirt filling my mouth and the memory of the night before not all there. I looked around and saw I was in the middle of a wood. I tried to remeber what happened and it came to me the accident. Me and my two best friends Carla and Pete were at a massive party and we made Pete drive us back, Pete was always the one to swerve out of the way of animals and we crashed. I looked down at my right leg, it was busted up. I pulled the courage to touch it together and soon was on my feet half dragging my leg out of the woods. Time was taken to get out, once I was. I wish I hadn’t tried.
    I wish nothing had ever happened.
    I wish I could take it all back.
    But too see what I saw… Pete. Dead as can be with Carla next to him, she was alive. Crying her eyes out. Carla was the master of surviving. The luckiest person I know but now… I bet she was thinking what I was. I just wish it was me…      

  14. John F. Moynihan says:

    Nelson Watson sat on the edge of the bed doing his best to slow his heart rate and relax. Tonight’s job had been one of the most difficult in recent memory. He really hated it, the uncertainty before, the violence during and the bloody clean up after. Still, it had to be done, and with experience he had become more efficient. Now, what took hours of planning and pursuit to begin with, was done in a matter of minutes.
    His mind wandered to the first intruder. He’d been sitting quietly, his laptop open, focused on his on-line trivia game. He heard a noise from the attic. Nelson wasn’t sure what it was at first, just that the scratching was more than the tree limbs scrapping the roof. Something, or someone, was trying to pull away the screen on his attic window. The house, on a rise amongst mature maple trees, looked abandon to many. Nelson, who was now in his seventies, didn’t get out much and didn’t have the energy to maintain the place the way he had in his youth. It would have been easy for some desperate homeless being, not aware the house was occupied, to climb the tree, get through the screen and make a nice warm home for the night. Grabbing his big, metal flashlight, Nelson climbed the attic stairs quietly. He didn’t turn on the flashlight immediately. The house had been his home all his life and he knew it blindfolded. When he reached the top of the steps, he snapped on the light. A startled face was so close Nelson could reach out and touch it. In a second the face, and everything attached, was out the window. Nelson, equally surprised by how close they were, was slow to react and by the time he reached the window, the perp was long gone.
    It was the second time, though, that put Nelson on his current course. That time the outsider had chosen the basement as an entry point. Nelson made his way to the basement and a confrontation occurred. This time his opponent was more aggressive, lunging at Nelson. Nelson had the presence of mind to step to the right to avoid the attack. Then he was able to swerve around, raise his trusty flashlight and bring it down squarely on the attackers head. It made a sickening crunch and the interloper collapsed, dead in an instant. Nelson sat there for a long time not sure what to do. Then he grabbed a shovel, dug a deep hole in the basements dirt floor and rolled the dead body in it. He got some lime from the shed and sprinkled it in the hole before replacing the dirt. Surely no one would miss such a scoundrel. As he was cleaning the dried blood off of his flashlight he knew he needed something that would keep him from getting so close the next time. The following morning, he bought a gun.
    So it continued. The foolish vagrants would target his home. Nelson became a master at doing them in. He built elaborate barriers to delay and entrap them. Then from a distance, he would take aim and fire his weapon. At first, not being a skilled shooter, it would take more than a single bullet. With experience though, he became quite the marksman and could put down the offender with a single shot. Nelson liked to tell himself that he was doing the humane thing, quickly putting them out of their misery. If they had accessed the basement the cleanup would be easier. He’d just dig a hole, dump the carcass, spread some lime and the deed was done. The attic, though, required much more work. He’d have to collect the body, wash away the blood and then carry the remains downstairs.
    Once the police had knocked on his door. A neighbor, they said, had reported a gunshot coming from the house. Nelson managed to convince them that the shot hadn’t come from there. Surely it had been an echo, after all, his house was hundreds of yards from any other, and this wasn’t the most peaceful neighborhood in town. The next morning, though, he collected as many remains as he could, bagged them up and made the drive to the dump. He made the trip regularly after that.
    Tonight, as Nelson finally kicked off his slippers and laid his head down on the pillow, his deeds weighed heavily upon him. Despite his best efforts, they just kept coming. He had grown tired of the chase. There was no longer a feeling of exuberance after the kill. He hated the man he had become. A soul obsessed with a mission that was ultimately destined to fail. As his eyes grew heavy he muttered the same words he muttered after every incident. The words he knew he would someday say with his final breath, cursing his nemesis, “Damn, squirrels.”
     
     

    • John, that was brilliant. Only in retrospect can we see the light-hearted tone with which you treated this subject. That “dead in an instant” now seems comical – not ominous. I’m mean the dude is 70! How much arm strength could he have, right? LOL
       
      Well done!
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

  15. Aslam Yaqoob says:

    Sensitive people do not shrug-off even a trivia from their memory. Just make a mockery of them and drive them infuriated; most of them from inside. They may not be vindictive but it is absolute certain that when they go to bed they do not fall asleep easily. They swerve their bodies as bad memories haunt their minds. Are these people slaves of their masters who exploit them? Is not possible for them to break the shackle of usurpers?
    There seems to be no right moment to square-up accounts with dirty people who spread hate. Just touch them and you will burn yourself. The only choice left is, fail your self purposely, to remain alive.  After all we are just minions; waiting for our redeemer.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Aslam: That was deep. I can relate to the “swerve their bodies” stuff. Sometimes I think of things I’ve done in the past and I have to shake the thought off as it they were physical objects, like a spiderwebs on my head.

      • Aslam Yaqoob says:

        Thanks for your comments Shane. Please do point out whenever my story swerves unnecessarily. I do have flair for writing/telling stories but I want friends like you to point out mistakes that I should avoid next time.

        • Shane Arthur says:

          @Aslam: No story can swerve unnecessarily. If you write ANYTHING you have accomplished what this site is for – crushing writer’s block. Unnecessary swerves is where you’ll find the gold!

  16. Shane Arthur says:

    PROGRAMMING NOTE: No CCC tomorrow. You guys enjoy your real families and get ready for the CCC family on Monday.

  17. Aslam Yaqoob says:

    Sensitive people do not shrug-off even a trivia from their memory. Just make a mockery of them and drive
    them infuriated; most of them from inside. They may not be vindictive but it is absolute certain that when they
    go to bed they do not fall asleep easily. They swerve their bodies as bad memories haunt their minds.
    Are these people slaves of their masters who exploit them? Is not it possible for them to break the shackle
    of usurpers?
    There seems to be no right moment to square-up accounts with dirty people who spread hate. Just touch them
    and you will burn yourself. The only choice left with them is, fail themselves purposely, to remain alive.  After all
    they are just minions; waiting for their redeemer. Alas! I am one of them.

  18. @ Shane … Thanks! I just voted for the Creative Copy Challenge. Good luck … 🙂

  19. sh13151223 says:

    A right touch from the master would swerve the driving force to fly past all the trivia and failures that filled dirt in the memory lane and shine in the glory of victory before he goes to bed ultimately.

  20. Kelly says:

     
    NO
     
    I’m going to try not to be in love with him anymore.
     
    I fell for him from the first photo I saw of him. I think it was his smile… he wasn’t really all that handsome, but he had acres of perfect white teeth that lit up a room when he was happy—and when I finally met him, he seemed to be happy most of the time. That’s hard not to fall for in a man, especially if you’ve just come through some rough times yourself. The way he took everything and found the good in it, just so he could keep on smiling those nutty broad smiles… it was intoxicating.
     
    I’m going to try, but I’ll probably fail.
     
    He was a master of all that’s trivial to other folks but really critical to *me.* Now if that doesn’t make a woman’s head swim, then what does? Some men can fake it for a while if they want to get you into bed, but how many men really know all about Cary Grant films and Braque’s technique in his later life and that Shubert is way better than Bach any day? He didn’t have to bend his interests to coincide with mine. He *was* interested in things that I was interested in. In fact, he kept saying how lucky *he* was—how hard it is to find a woman who shared his interests.
     
    Hm. Never thought about it that way before, but I’m not supposed to be thinking about him anymore, anyway.
     
    We were friends first. For a long time, actually. I was right on the verge of asking him if he was gay (seemed like a dirty way to try to find out why he didn’t make any moves on me, so I resisted, but I really wondered…) when he first asked me if I was dating anyone. We were on our way to the Art Museum at the time. I remember I swerved going up the Ben Franklin Parkway, turning my head to look at him instead of at the road. (Lucky we were both on bikes.) “If I were dating anyone, I guess they’d be awfully jealous of all the time I spend with you,” I said by way of response. He touched my hand when we were locking the bikes up, and asked me if I’d like to do something, after the museum. Maybe go somewhere besides coffee-as-usual. What a gentleman! I had goosebumps everywhere.
     
    Cutest. ask. ever. Silly memory, but I used to treasure it, before I started trying to get him out of my head.
     
    If I said he knew how to drive me wild from night #1, I’d be lying, but we eased into each other and pretty soon everything he did was… mmmm. Right. Pokiest relationship I’ve ever built. Things have gone along at a snail’s crawl and I guess that’s about as much evolution as I’ve wished for. I’d just come through some rough times, y’know. I don’t think I’ve ever even told him I love him out loud. He seems to know that I do—I do love him through to my bones—but as much as I crave his slow hands, I need his patience even more. So, yeah.
     
    Now I have to try not to be in love with him anymore.
     
    Because he smiled that nutty broad smile, and he said that he wants me to marry him, in that gentlemanly way he has, and now I can’t give him what he needs. I just…
     
    I just can’t say Yes.
     


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