Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #216

Today James Chartrand chose the words. Did you know she likes hockey and writes some Damn Fine Words?

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. Score
  2. Puck
  3. Goalie
  4. Winger 
  5. Referee
  6. Stick 
  7. Helmet
  8. Defense 
  9. Hooking
  10. Brawl

NOTE: Don’t copy and paste from MS Word. Use a program like notepad that removes formatting or just type in the comment field itself. Also, finish your submission, THEN bold the words. Thanks. (And don’t forget to tweet this and share it with your friends.)

Resources you should check out:
Thesis: Best Damn Theme on the Web
Collective Ink Well: Personalize Your Thesis Theme
Third Tribe Marketing: Marketing done the right way
Story Structure Demystified: Best damn writing book out there


39 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #216”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    “Hey Billy. I ain’t no referee or nothin’ but dis here new rental home dat Chris Brogan rented us gets a penalty for bein’ so homerly. We’s lived in outhouses better den dis. De-fense is hookin’ to da right in da fron’t yard. And it’s missin’ scores of sticks in da back yard like it done been in a beaver-brawl without a helmet. Looks like a goalie missin’ teeth on account he done missed catchin’ da puck from the other team’s wingers. And outhouse sludge looks better den dis here grass.”

    “Bobby, everythin’ you done said is true. But lookie here. It’s got a 12-inch television dat has knobs dat allows us to get the UHF and VHF. We’s livin’ like rockstars now!”

    • LOL! For real, that was hilarious. I had one of those televisions! I got it for my twelfth birthday or something. Of course, I hooked up Pong, but still, it WAS like being a rockstar. I never had to leave my room 🙂
      Your puns will get you everywhere, but your descriptions will pay for dinner when you arrive.

    • Ah the old TV’s that got static after hours when all stations went off the air, livin’ like Rockstars back in the early 80’s.

    • Chris Fries says:

      Ah yes — livin’ the dream!
      And the TV has one of dem high-falutin’ “infinitely adjustable deluxe analog volume control dials”, too!  ‘Ceptin’ you gotta use da needle-nose pliers, ’cause we done lost da knob…
      Wonderful, Shane!

  2. JEANETTE RUIZ says:

    “So I’ve set up two baskets, one for your hockey crap like pucks, helmets and whatever else.  And this basket if for all of your disgusting clothes.  They will stay in the garage so you won’t smell up the house.”

    Mark rolled his eyes and swayed from side to side with his hockey stick under his chin.  

    “Which basket holds my hopes and dreams?  Does Crate & Barrel sell small baskets for that?”  

    Stephanie smacked his shoulder.

    “Mark, you are being ridiculous.  The referee was an idiot and you guys were robbed of that last goal.  And as far as hopes and dreams, it’s supposed to be for fun. Remember? Something you do for exercise after work…”

    Mark grabbed his duffel bag and pulled out a notebook.  Roughly turning the pages, he came upon a blank one and scribbled the date and final score.  Slamming the book shut, he slipped out of his sneakers and took off his shirt.

    “You’re right.  What’s an office guy doing playing hockey?  Our goalie is like sixty years old and needs to wear bifocal goggles and one of our winger’s is legally deaf .  But in my defense, I kicked ass out there tonight.”

    Stephanie aligned the baskets and closed the garage door.  

    “Next week, I’ll act like I’m hooking up with one of your teammates to see if I can start a brawl.  Would that make you feel better?”

    Mark grabbed Stephanie by the waist and pulled her close to him. “Make sure he’s not cuter than me.”

  3. Chris Fries says:

    So this time I’m back to the 10×10 stories — 10 sentences of 10 words each, with the prompt words used in order, one per sentence, with the first prompt word the first word in the first sentence, the second prompt word the second word in the second sentence, and so forth…

    Plus, just for fun, I thought I’d experiment this time,
    and so, on this one, I decided to offer it in rhyme.

    Midnight Munchies

    Score me some fries,” Maggie said outside the Burger Store.

    Like Puck in ‘A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream‘, I flitted inside,

    eluding a goalie — a shaggy teen slowly mopping the floor.

    I considered “The Winger,” their barbecued chicken sandwich (deep fried),

    but didn’t need a referee to decide my final selection:

    “The Bessie,” coated with a stick of butter, then kissed

    with mountains of cheese; a golden helmet of dairy confection.

    Against this behemoth, my hunger had little defense to resist!

    I paid with my card, my signature a hooking scrawl,

    and forgot Maggie’s fries, which led to a tearful brawl.



  4. Here is my entry for today:

    Hotel Room Brawl
    Looking for another score
    hooking with no referee
    latex helmet your only defense
    just another puck with a stick
    reaching for that pretty goalie
    ever tired of being the winger
    time to finish this hotel room brawl

  5. “Take the concierge in for questioning. Something about his story just doesn’t add up.” Detective Waters closed his notebook, dissatisfied with his efforts to referee the investigation. He had just watched the forensic team come up empty for the second time in as many days. To top it off, the department probably had a new enemy – one who would not take long to settle the score.


    15 minutes earlier …

    Finally alone after siccing a few officers on the shop owners in the lobby of the Towers, Detective Waters returned to the conference room. The crime scene tape criss-crossed the doorway like an under-nourished goalie. Rather than paw through it, he stood just outside, peering intently at the table. Slowly, his eyes lost focus and his imagination took over.

    A brawl. The woman fights tooth-and-nail and shoots in self-defense. No, she was already bloodied and “tacky”.

    A chase. The woman pursues her assailants, corners them and shoots in anger. No, shots were close range. No struggle.

    A disagreement. Discussion becomes violent. Woman shoots. No! Think! This was premeditated. Forget the concierge. Focus on the scene.

    His cell phone disrupted his thoughts. It was Jacob, from Crime Scene. “Jacob, Waters. What’s up?”

    “Sammy, I think you had better come over to the Towers. We’re in the penthouse.”

    “What the hell for? Never mind, I’m downstairs. I’ll be right up.”

    Detective Waters was intrigued. The police officer who had questioned the concierge earlier apparently had no idea how to coddle the rich and powerful residents of the Towers. Instead of relaying the information to Waters, he had taken the initiative to charge into the penthouse suite like a winger chasing a loose puck. The results were disastrous and nearly irrevocable. Still, one must not rule out a lead simply because it was mishandled. Even though the premise seemed preposterous, this entire case, thus far, was unbelievable. Detective Waters consulted briefly with Jacob.

    There was no evidence that a bloody, soiled woman had ever entered the penthouse. The current occupant, the very wealthy owner of one of the largest energy conglomerates in the world, was livid at the intrusion, powders and line of questioning. He was indeed Cornelius Xavier Watson. Yes, he did have a daughter. Of course she wasn’t involved in criminal activity. He showed the officer his freckle-faced teenager, holding a trophy and smiling goofily beneath an equestrian helmet. City Hall would be hearing about this outrageous behavior engaged by its brutish civil servants.

    Ostentatiously hooking his forefinger at the zealous officer, Detective Waters gave the cop a dressing down before dismissing him. He spent a few moments soothing the irate CEO. All the platitudes and servile pabulum rolled off the investigator’s tongue automatically. Meanwhile, he subtly focused on the surroundings and on Watson’s body language. By the time Waters had completed his obsequious soliloquy, the CEO was mollified and the investigator was certain that this was a dead-end. He proffered his card and backed out of the suite.

    “Well, that’s the last one. Everyone is present or accounted for. I’m going to need you guys to expand the radius. Get a BOLO on the vehicle; without a decent photograph of the woman, we can’t expect much from eyewitnesses. Go!”

    He spotted the officer that he had embarrassed earlier. Without apology for sticking it to him earlier, he made amends with a final order.

    • Nice portrayal of the setting and details, I didn’t know what the term meant get a “Bolo” on the vehicle, just assuming it means tracking device or something (bolo something that is thrown and sticks/wraps).

      • Chris Fries says:

        “Be On the LookOut for…”  — sent out to all the cops on the street and shared during the shift briefings.

      • Thanks, Justin – sorry to do that you but, I couldn’t break out of character. 🙂
        I first learned of the term while watching an NCIS marathon. About the fourth time Gibbs ordered a BOLO, I had to go look it up – they were never going to explain it, apparently. LOL

    • Chris Fries says:

      Whoa, that was KICK-AZZ!!
      Very smooth, excellently written, a great character in Detective Waters, and a gripping continuation of the story!  I’m really engrossed and can’t wait to see how this catches up with Lisbeth!

      • Thanks, Chris. I’m starting to like Mr. Waters. Got himself a first name and all, now.
        This ball is all in his court, now. I hope it doesn’t end up in the Cold Case files.

    • awesome story!  I love the 15 minute flashback and the detective reasoning with himself…great images and internal struggle!  Nice work

  6. Hockey?  Really?  Hard to work those words into a mystery story with beaches and dead dolphins….Here goes.

    The first rays of the sun glinted off of the small waves that were lapping at the corpses on the beach. Ryan stood on the dune above watching other officers from the Sheriffs department and the State Fish and Game department move around the dead dolphins. The morning had been cool but was beginning to warm, bringing the stench of death on the breeze from the ocean.

    Ryan walked down the dune toward the scene, wondering just what had happened and why these dolphins looked like they were involved in a brawl with no defense against the stick that had been used on them. He started to mull over details in his head, trying to keep score of the bodies and ultimately losing count. There were just too many.

    He reached the outer police tape and was about to duck under when a young officer stopped him like a goalie saving a puck. “You can’t come in here!” he shouted. Ryan smiled at the enthusiasm of the kid as he drew his ID from his pocket and exposed the Detective badge on his belt, never saying a word. The kid looked for a second from the ID to Ryan’s face and then to the badge before lifting the tape and saying, “Good luck man.”

    Ryan nodded and walked over to the group of cops that seemed to be in charge, cursing the soft sand as it entered his shoes and promised to stay until the second coming. “Who’s the referee here?” he asked with a smile. The cops stopped talking and looked at him. “Ryan!” one of the Sherriff’s deputies called. “They send you out on this?” “Yep.” He said. “How are you Winger?”

    “Good.” The deputy said hooking one thumb over his shoulder and saying, “Tom Richmond is in charge over there. Or at least he was until you got here. Fish and Game are in too.” “Thanks Jeff.” Ryan said and headed to the other group that was indicated.
    “Tom Richmond?” he asked when he arrived. A large man in a grey suit wore a hat that looked like an old leather football helmet and turned at the call. “I’m Tom” he said.

    Ryan approached and extended his hand. “Detective Ryan Jones.” He said as they shook. “I guess I get to figure out what in the name of Satan’s foreskin happened here.” Ryan grinned to himself as he completed Kaetlyn’s challenge early.

    Tom Richmond smiled. “Good luck. As far as we can tell all of these dolphins washed up on shore last night after about 11. Fish and Game says they have been dead for weeks but we have no clue as to why they washed up here, all together like this. And here is something weird that Fish and Game should have noticed, these dolphins were killed here.”

    “How do you figure?” Ryan asked. “Well, “ Tom began, “there is blood around all of them. A lot of blood. Like they were butchered right here. If they had been dead for a while and in the ocean there wouldn’t be any blood right?” “Right” Ryan agreed. “If they were killed here last night why are they so rotten?” “That is what you get to figure out.” Richmond said and walked away with a wave.

    “Great.” Thought Ryan and went over to one of the bodies. Richmond was right, the sand was soaked to a reddish brown color with blood underneath the dolphin. All of that blood and a carcass that looks 3 weeks dead. Flies buzzed around and maggots were beginning to squirm free of the larger holes in the dolphin. What had happened indeed…

    • Chris Fries says:

      Very nice, Justin.  Excellent job getting the hockey words in (and bonus points for weaving in the ‘foreskin’ from your reply to the last challenge!).
      A compelling and intriguing crime scene here.  Fresh blood and old decay sure don’t go together — great mystery established there.
      I’m hooked.  >thumbs-up<

    • Justin, you rose to the hockey challenge like a champ! I chuckled at the reference to CCC #215 – felt like an insider on a cool joke.
      I’m getting into this story, too! I can’t wait to see where you go with it.

  7. KathleenL says:

    Untitled Shannon – Continued
    “So … when yah gonna get off the stick and score with ‘er Jake?” Puck asked as Jake mounted his bar stool.
    “That girl’s got ‘er defenses up,” he replied bringing his Crown and Coke to his lips. “She’s been throwing wingers all week.” He sounded half defeated.
    “Yah, you almost needed a helmet Tuesday night, ‘stead of that ball cap you wore,” Billy piped in.
    “Awe shut up and jus’ eat your dern fries,” Jake half barked back.
    “She can sure wing ’er own one liners right back at yah …huh Jake?” Billy said before shoving a steak fry with ketchup and Tabasco dripping off of it into his mouth.
    Billy was right – Shannon could give as good as any of the gals he’d met. Maybe better, Jake thought.
    “Hey Jake … why don’t you go ahead and try again, this ‘ere’s somethin’ I would like ta see. And I could referee too,” Puck said. Jake shook his head as he gulped down a helping of the dark brown liquid.
    Jake was grateful the band started backup before his drink was gone. It was a welcomed distraction. Two songs into the set Jake dismount the stool and sauntered over toward the windows. Shannon turned her head toward him as she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye.
    “Looks like he’s goin’ back fer more,” Puck joshed to Billy.
    “Can I push yah ‘round the floor again?”
    “Well … okay.”
    Hooking her arm in his they heading into the crowd. The crowd was tight so Jake unwrapped their arms and began to guide her forward in the crowd.
    It was then that the young blonde fella with overfriendly hands spoke up, “Hhhhheeeeeyyyyyy there darlin’,” he said blocking her path.
    “Boy, you’ll want to let her by,” Jake said without hesitation.
    The younger man looked up, stiffening in the back. Jake readied himself for a brawl, but as the blonde looked past Shannon he noticed the cow boss towering over him.
    “Wise choice bboooyyyy,” Jake said as they passed the younger and made it to the dance floor. “Guess he missed his goal-‘e,” Jake added as they both began moving their feet to the two-steppin’ beat.

  8. Kelly says:


    “It’s a challenge, isn’t it? And that’s why it’s a challenge. Because it’s hard to do.”

    I slammed the puck into John’s goalie and growled with frustration as it ricocheted back across the table. We’d been playing air hockey so long my arms were beginning to hurt. We were a good match, the 29-year-old with the table in his spare bedroom and the next-door-neighbor who’d played all her childhood; the score was probably 103 to 107 by now, but my roommate, our unofficial referee and scorekeeper, had trudged off to bed long ago, while we played on for the vaguest of bragging rights.

    “I think my winger’s broken,” I said, stopping play briefly to shake the stick on which the (undoubtedly exhausted) player lolled, permanently hooking the air.

    “Don’t change the subject,” John said with a wink. He slammed his hand down on the protective plexiglas and my little man seemed to straighten his helmet and prepare for his next brawl.

    “Maurice Richard is ready,” I said, returning the wink… but not returning to the subject at hand.

    The game stretched on, perhaps for another hour, in wordless concentration, until at last I knew I had him. John’s defense was not so crisp, his eyes glazing over, as dawn cast a sliver of highlight on center ice and we faced off one more time. When I scored on the drop, he acknowledged that I must be ahead by a comfortable thirty or forty points, and headed for his favorite spot on the sofa.

    An experienced ginger cat made a run for it as John flopped into the corner, knowing at this hour he’d have little regard for the comfort of furry beasts. John scratched at his goatee for a minute, contemplating defeat and lost trains of thought. I reached for a diet Coke which had gone warm hours ago, and took up residence in a mustard-wool-covered armchair that must have been a hand-me-down from a grandmother.

    “You were saying…” I volunteered, hoping he’d have no idea and we’d both have a laugh and some breakfast. Instead he gave me the last fiery glance of a very long evening.

    “Yeah. I was. Saying.” John yawned unconvincingly, buying an extra second to assess how much energy I had left to argue. “I was saying you’ve got to keep going, lady. Don’t make me get all mystical, now. I’m too tired. I was saying there’s a reason you keep crossing paths.”

    He gave a nudge to the ginger cat, now trying to take up residence under John’s elbow, and sunk lower on the sofa. “You’ve got to find out what he knows.”

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