Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #212

Jennifer Luitwieler chose today’s words. She is a writer in Tulsa, OK. Her first book, Run With Me: An Accidental Runner and the Power of Poo is available on Amazon and B&N. She writes about sports and crafts for various publications and is working on both a historial piece and a novel about the racial tension in Tulsa, her adopted home. Find her on twitter @jenluit or facebook.com/jenluitwieler. She blogs at jenniferluitwieler.com

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. Concierge – a person who has charge of the entrance of a building and is often the owner’s representative; doorkeeper.
  2. Detritus
  3. Energy
  4. Annoying
  5. Fester
  6. Apology 
  7. No 
  8. Emerge
  9. Stellar
  10. Tired 

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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91 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #212”

  1. “Now, what?” Lisbeth was tingling with new energy. As she picked up the two portfolios, she was careful to avoid the detritus of brain, bone and bloody gore. This time, nothing got on her. Still, she had yet to figure out how to emerge from this affair. The clues she’d left half an hour ago still had validity. The trail would simply end here, with two more bodies. The loose ends would fester in some poor investigator’s head. There was no connection to her, as long as she left the Towers, unseen …

    ***

    15 minutes earlier …

    Lisbeth’s stellar track record was in jeopardy. She suddenly felt tired. All this plotting was for naught! Not only had she jumped into her car without first removing her bloody shoes, she also had forgotten that she had told her henchmen to meet her at the Towers at four o’clock. The nasty turn of events at the mansion had thrown off everything.  She had nothing to give these men. Not even a juicy deception.

    Thomas and his mother were both dead. The cleaver had severed the last connection to the Bentworth fortune. Lisbeth had no intention of surrendering the half million that she’d stashed offshore with Thomas’ help.  The henchmen had been instrumental in diverting the trust fund principal; it was easy enough when you were the trustees. But, they were going to be highly upset when the global custody account came up with that imbalance. Effectively, the Ponzi scheme she had been running just came due. She parked the car across from the Towers and dashed across the busy street.

    The concierge anticipated her approach and timed the opening of the door perfectly. “Good afternoon, Ms. Watson.” He coughed discreetly, pretending not to notice the red spatters, stringy hair and harried expression of the annoying spoiled little brat.

    “Gentlemen, let’s conclude this business.” Lisbeth offered no apology for her tardiness and bedraggled appearance. She pulled two blue binders from her carryall. As she walked behind each man, she placed a prop on the conference table before him. She kept up a patter, in a tiny effort to keep them too occupied to open up the blank reports. She had one final idea based, not on cleverness, but desperation. Would she be quick enough?

    As luck would have it, the men were clustered together at the conference table. The portfolios held their collective gaze for a moment. Perhaps hypnotized by her soothing litany of financial skullduggery, they didn’t move for the six seconds it took for her to withdraw a silenced pistol from her carryall and pump a bullet into the back of each head.

  2. Jen says:

    Oh. My. Henchman, cleavers, and brain matter? This has it all, Mitch. I love it! The cleaver line is my fave.

  3. Jen says:

    No.” The concierge was agog but managed to sound resolute in his refusal. His hulking frame blocked the entrance to the elevators. Around him, a boisterous downtown energy carried the well-heeled from one important meeting to the next. The suits emerged from elevators, barking orders to their tired assistants, closing deals with stellar speed.
     
    The concierge would not be moved. The bottle blonde, roots of grey and a sort of muddy brown sprouting like angry weeds, angled before him, lisping an annoying litany of apologies. About her a detritus of shopping bags—certainly not from Madison Avenue—rustled with the pained agony of their cheap burden.
     
    “I must have misplaced the keys. I know he gave them to me?” She offered the statement, the question, as if HE was someone the concierge must know only by this short pronoun, as if he, the concierge, would admit her at this paltry password. Her words pushed around a festering set of teeth he refused to look at more than once; his lunch still settling in his gullet, and not wishing to see it again or waste the fifteen bucks he’d spent on it.
    No way was this…this…this person getting into his building.

  4. Hey, Jen, concierges see all, don’t they? This entry sounds intriguing. Detritus got a nice work-out, too!
     
    Cheers,
     
    Mitch
     

  5. Anne Wayman says:

    The concierge was obviously there because of nepotism, and was more the detritus of society than a person full of energy. His answers to my questions were, to say the least, annoying and often festered as I wondered totally lost. On returning there was no apology as I emerged from my misguided walk about town, which turned out to be a stellar experience in spite of him. Small wonder  I was tired.

  6. Chris Fries says:

    Great words, Jen!  I managed to use them in order this time…
     
    “A Hotel Visit

    Brittney kept her head down and strode towards the elevators, thankful for the crowd of people milling around in the plush hotel lobby.  As she walked, her long coat swirling around her legs, she tried to blend into the herd of affluent tourists, prosperous executives, and haughty tenants.  The doorman and valets outside had been distracted by the arrival of a long black limousine, and hopefully the harried desk clerks and the snooty-looking concierge would be busy with all the people and not notice her either.

    Her original plan had been to come in through the back; to simply slip in quietly through the kitchen. But in the rear alley there had been a cluster of young men smoking by the door — the kitchen help and the busboys joking and laughing among the large bins filled with the detritus generated by the hotel’s indulgence of the rich and powerful.  There was no way to get past the men without being seen, so Brittney’s only choice was the main entrance.

    Fortunately, so far, luck was with her. 

    As Brittney neared the elevators, she fought the urge to break into a run.  The energy churning through her was almost overpowering, accented by a high-pitched, annoying ringing in her ears.  Years of planning and preparation had gone into this, driven by a deep hatred that she had allowed to simmer, fester, and boil over into an all-consuming need.

    When she saw the bastard this time, a sanctimonious halfhearted apology would not be enough. 

    No — not nearly enough.

    Brittney pushed the call button on the wall and was relieved when the far elevator opened immediately.  Even better, it was completely empty.  She stepped in, hit the button to close the doors, and smiled at the security camera, knowing that it was temporarily malfunctioning — none of the hotel’s cameras were recording anything at the moment.  Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a round, silver key.  It had cost dearly to acquire — much, much more than the bribe of an underpaid security system technician — but if the gods were with her, it would work as promised and give her access to the top floor.  There, the elevator would open and she would emerge directly into the foyer of the private penthouse.

    She slid in the key and sighed deeply when it fit and turned.  The elevator shuddered and hummed as it rose. Brittney tried not to fidget as the numbers on the panel winked on and off in an ascending series of dings.  She was so eager for this reunion with one of New York’s most stellar figures; a familiar icon of luxury and power, hailed for his meteoric rise from poverty, and much-admired for his well-publicized gifts to charity.

    But Brittney knew the truth. 

    She also knew that the regal Charles Willingham would not be so happy to see her — a nearly-forgotten figure from his ancient past, long-ago cast aside like a faithful but tired horse that had been cruelly ridden to exhaustion and collapse.

    A bell chimed as the elevator coasted to a stop.  The doors slid open and Brittney stepped out, grinning as she gripped the pistol in her coat pocket.

    It was time to revisit the past.
     

    • Yeah, man. that’s the ticket! Girl power, even if misguided, makes for a refreshing read!
      I sure would love to get the backstory on this entry!
       
      But, I know you’re pacing yourself – don’t want any more extended absences 🙂
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

      • Chris Fries says:

        Thank you, Sir!  I really appreciate the kind words, Mitch.

        • KathleenL says:

          Chris — You drew me into your story quickly. You crafted something that makes me want to read more… As you will see I love strong female creatures! And unlike Mitch… I don’t know that we/they are ALL miss guided LOL.
          I am looking forward to seeing the next installment… this is my first read of her of yours one, but hopefully, not my last.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Chris: So… you must know I’m fully investing in this story, thus cursing that I didn’t get my ending! 🙂

      • Chris Fries says:

        Thanks, Shane!  But no need to curse — the ending is however you want it to be.  That’s the benefit of leaving it open and up to the reader to decide.  😉
         

  7. Cathy Miller says:

    He was the concierge to evil. His acts so vile, they left a detritus trail of despair. Everything about him formed a black energy from which he fed. He found mankind annoying and his disdain would fester until he found his next victim.

    Without apology, no human existed that he could not take down. He would emerge victorious in  stellar exhibition until he tired of the game.
     

  8. ” A respected D.I.G (Deputy Inspector General) killed his own wife into pieces. The involvement has been confirmed by the murderer himself, however investigations are going on regarding the true cause of death as well as the D.I.G’s motive behind the kill is yet to be known” reported the news reader. Struggling between the annoying sound of the snorts made by “Samarth”, Priya was taken aback by this late night news in her television set which was open during the entire process of foreplay, intimate love making between the newly wed couple, after play and until they were tiresomely engulfed by each others sweet embraces of laziness and sleep.
    It was only when that stupid dream of Priya where she saw herself crawling among the fester of almost as many as 100’s of snakes and fishes, stinking in the middle of a crossing by river side sandy beach area had she got afraid and woke up to listen to that awful news on television. The concierge inside her brain wanted to wake up Samarth and tell him about both the news as well as her dream, however her psyche unknowingly pushed her towards her own life’s detritus. The remains of her parental guidance’s flashed in front of her eyes like blurred visions.
    Her father was a drunkard and having come from a lower class family upbringing, beating one’s spouse after being drunk was a more of a matter of family pride than that of one evoking feelings of human rights abuse. A small child’s memory of her father shouting ” who were you fucking sleeping with bitch? what took you so long to open the damn door?” her pictures of her mom’s wet eyes with her hand still holding her little brother crying in her chest emerged a flood of tears in her own eyes’. She turned her back towards Samarth and trying not to wake him up with her sobs, she conserved all her energy to suppress her cry and took some deep breaths.
    And though all of them were unyielding, the cunning ability of a mind to leap from one thought to another kept accompanying her now almost worst nightmare ever. And as stupid as it may sound, she started comparing her hubby with her dad. The only similarity she found in them was their masculinity and the size of their chest which would easily fit little priya’s head inside them and keep her warm and fearless during all the times she needed them. No, he was in no other ways similar to her old man. His stellar charisma is what made the girl, as independent and self-made as her fall for the distant idea of marriage and living together a reality for both of them. She took 5 years to say yes to Samarth’s proposal for marriage which had indeed proved to be a boon since now they understood each others’ sentiments completely.
    The thoughts however took a steep turn once again when her tired eyes again hit the flat screen of the LED TV. they recently bought. It was now showing the pictures of the once happily married couple now among which the lady was dead due to a long term suppressed family conflict resulting in the incidence of a murder. Her eyes were gazing the face and eyes of the victimized woman while her mind was thinking in the name of god, what if? what if? what if?……. when suddenly a warm hand slipped by her curves and registered itself in her stomach. Her thoughts seized for a while, and now embracing the thick long fingers of her hubby, she turned 180 degrees to look at his innocent face, now sleeping in total contentment of the moment.
    Empty mind as always is a devils workshop they say, thought she. With the remote control in her hand swiftly pushing the power off button without even looking at it, she pushed herself closer towards her man and melting inside his warm hairy chest, kissed it with all the purity inside her heart. My apology darling, her heart muttered while she closed her eyes and hugged him tightly.

  9. KathleenL says:


    “Miss Stellar, I am really a bit tired of tellin’ you that festering moving collection of detritus, is a waist of my energy to emerge out of this building with. No, I don’t want to take him out for a walk today,” the Concierge said as kindly as he could into the receiver.

    “No ma’m, a C-note will not be an acceptable apology,” good Lord this woman is annoying.

    • Ha-ha! This must be the one about that actress, Stellar Stevens. 😉
      I wonder what Jen thinks of your description of a dog…
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       

      • KathleenL says:

        Mitch — LOL “Steller Stevens”  LOL… Hope I did not step on Jen’s dog loving toes. I love dogs too and cats and horses…  It was just a bit of fun with the list. You know!
         

    • Chris Fries says:

      LOL!  I loved this tight snippet — a lot of emotion brought out in the concierge’s description of Miss Stellar’s little feller.
       
       

      • KathleenL says:

        Chris — Thanks. Glad to bring a chuckle to your life… and hopefully others too.
        Guess I was just feelin’ sorry for the Concierges who have to work with ill-mannered, owner only loved creatures created in a breeder’s warehouse. Opps, was that a soapbox I was standing on there? let me get off of it. I am sure the Miss Stellers out there love their Little and big fellers.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @KathleenL – that brought a smile – thanks-we can always use more smiles 🙂

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Kathleen: I wonder how many C-notes he’s earned the hard way with her. 😉

  10. meek willed says:

    The concierge was annoying him and as the concierge told him no a stellar energy emerged an he was to tired to stem the fury that caused him to rip the concierge in to festering detritus…… an he would give apology for what he had done.

  11. A little late, but here we go:
     

    Ruined Date
    The energy of this annoying concierge
    no apology as we fester waiting for a table
    what stellar act of service will emerge tonight
    our romantic evening now a tired detritus
    this was unfortunately our ruined date

  12. KathleenL says:

    Guys — maybe our Concierge is, in fact, the same fella?!
    Justin — Great poem, saddened me as I begin the dating stages in life again LOL… oh how dates, romantic dates or not (I am hoping for romantic) can be mucked up sooooo easily by the actions, or lack there of, of others.

  13. Mary G says:

    The concierge stared at the detritous of partygoers emerging through the revolving door after a night of partying.  Their initial high energy had long ago dissipated , leaving an annoying sense of fatigue.  Emotions festered as the concierge, tied to the bone,  dealt with demand after demand, no apology for increasing g the fatigue that he was feeling. What a stellar night. Finally a triumphant thought emerged from his weary brain. High shift was complete

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Mary G: Lovely first submission. What did you think of the challenge? Let us know. We’re a curious bunch. Hope to see you back here each Monday and Thursday too. Everyone welcome Mary to the fun. Sorry for the moderation delay btw.

      • Cathy Miller says:

        @Mary G – Welcome to CCC!

        Here each word is the concierge to a greater story. Together they bring life to the detritus of dreams gone by to instill energy once more. There is none of the annoying restrictions that crush creativity to fester in mediocrity, begging for an apology. No story is too bold or off limits as words emerge as a stellar representation of all we have to share. How could anyone grow tired of that?

        Welcome!

      • Mary G says:

        Thanks for the welcome!  I wrote when I was younger and am just starting to enjoy it again

    • Chris Fries says:

      Nice submission, Mary.  I enjoyed it!  And your concierge is actually a good guy — frazzled, but good.  Most of the submissions turned him into the villain, or at least someone to avoid. 😉
       
      Well done!
       
      Welcome to the CCC!
       

  14. Shane Arthur says:

    “Hey Billy! Please ‘cept my apology for yellin’ at ya. I’m tired, annoyed and I’s got a stellar, festerin’ headache emergin’.”

    “Bobby, what happened? No luck on da job interview?”

    “Dat Con-Surge feller wouldn’t even let me in da building. Said he thought my six-piece deer–skin suit looked like a detritus duffel bag, whatever duffel bag means. But as luck would have it, a nice feller dat runs some business where they work in their kitchen tables and use they energies creatin’ they own businesses walked by, saw how much they wronged me and offered me an interview. He gave me dis list of 10 words. Said I was to read each word and write down da first thing dat popped into my mind. Say it was some type of personality test and I’s supposed to turn it in to him on Monday. Said his name was Broken or Brogan or somethin’ like dat. Nice feller.”

    “What was da name of dat company you applied to?”

    “It was some Mexican food company called PETA.”

    • Chris Fries says:

      Oh-oh…  Bobby working for PETA?  This can’t lead to anything but trouble, LOL!!!
       
      Funny as always, Shane!
       
      But what’s a “dear”-skin suit?  With these two, I’m almost afraid to ask!  Maybe it’s made from the skin of their ‘dear’ ex-girlfriends, or ‘dear’ old Auntie Betty-Sue!?!?  LOL!
       

  15. Rebecca says:

    The Williamson’s family concierge was a dapper gentleman named Walton. He’s been with the family for over 25 years. No one really knows how old he is. Sareh, the youngest of the seven Williamson children, thinks he’s 100. She swears that one day while she was playing in the garden, she saw Walton emerge from smoke.

    “It was stellar,” said Sareh.

    “You don’t even know what that means. You must be tired” said Tracey, Sareh’s second oldest sister.  She pushed Sareh into the mounting detritus of leaves.

    Walton finds the 21st century annoying. “In my day, children were seen and not heard. They knew their place,” Walton would mumble. His energy was feisty and matter-of-fact. He never let his anger fester. Walton always spoke his mind without thinking twice. However, he did it in a way that made Mr. Williamson always agree with him. Walton never offered an apology when he scolded one of the children.

  16. Rebecca says:

    @ Shane … Thanks! I want to continue with this story too. It’s kind of like “Mary Poppins” but with a ‘darker’ twist.

  17. sh13151223 says:

    The concierge of her heart has turned into to the detritus of wounded love. She has no energy left to look towards him. She was tired of hatred that was probably fabricated to protect herself from submission. He had his apologies many times, but it was annoying for her to see her man as a sinner. She hoped him to emerge as a responsible man and take her as his wife before the church. May not the hatred fester, she prayed and waited for a stellar change. It’s been a long time and he is still chasing his dreams on rented livelihood.

  18. Kelly says:

    FORTRAN
    They said no stellar ideas jumped out from the brainstorming session that went all day and lasted late into that August night; just a lot of wasted energy, tired engineers, petty spats requiring apology the next day (if they were not to fester), and the annoying sensation that their time could have been more pleasurably spent at home watching Ed Sullivan. Seven men in wrinkled shirtsleeves and loosened ties filed out past Watson Lab’s red-eyed concierge around 3am, placed their hats upon their seven heads, and hoped their seven commutes would get them home with enough time to shower and collapse before doing it all again the next day.
    When they looked back into the detritus of that night’s chaotic scribbles, though, a new model began to emerge.


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