Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #274

Joe Bunting chose today’s words. Joe is the founder of The Write Practice, a community workbook for writers. His new ebook, Let’s Write a Short Story! , teaches people how to become great writers by writing and publishing short stories. Follow him on Twitter (@joebunting).

This is a writing prompt. Bet you can’t do it! Take the 10 random words below and crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story! And remember: after (if) you finish entering your submission into the comment field, 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. Pale
  2. Dust
  3. Wolves
  4. Lurid
  5. Grandfather
  6. Shallow
  7. Watch
  8. Glass
  9. Sleep
  10. Old

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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56 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #274”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    This freestyle form was such fun to write. Grandfather was the word that game me the idea.
    ““““““““““““““““““`

    I rise again to see my pale reflection through the dust on the ancient grandfather clock, my eyes lurid like hungry wolves stalking in shadows. My blood is shallow. The watch of time ticks and gives me the itch to fill my glass as they sleep, two puncture wounds to their necks, the old myth lives another night.

    ““““““““““““““““““

  2. Grandfather adjusted his backpack and checked his watch by the light of the pale moons. While it was too early to go to sleep, it was far too late for him to be traipsing through the aeolian dust of Meridiani Planum. The hour of wolves was fast approaching. He would have to seek shelter very soon; he was getting too old to brave the fierce, biting winds that came howling out of Endeavour Crater every night. If he didn’t find Sarah in the next fifteen minutes, he would halt until daylight. Her bones would keep.

    Sarah Livingston had defied protocol by heading an unauthorized excursion to Sunnyside. Despite the whimsical name given the area by the cynical scientists who worked the grids out there, Sunnyside was a cruel, unforgiving wasteland. Sarah had wanted to explore the phenomenon of virga – vaporized snowfall. In particular, she wanted to capture and preserve a Martian snowflake. Her climatology background, unfortunately, did not lend itself to that part of her brain where common sense should have resided. Instead of creating a full kit, which would have included heated tents and extra fuel for the hovercraft, she displaced that weight with a portable skyhook. She’d told the crew that the round trip would take only a dozen hours, including two hours to harvest the low-lying snow clouds that were expected.

    She hadn’t counted on the skyhook being frozen by the time they arrived on site. The delicate equipment had accumulated moisture while in storage on base. As soon as it was packed into the hovercraft, the moisture collected at the bottom of the base. This pool was just deep enough to create a solid block of  ice. It was as smooth as glass and hard as rock. The team had no suitable drilling equipment and the hand-held chisels were ineffective. Sarah made the fateful decision to use some of the hovercraft’s anti-freeze to loosen the skyhook.

    After an hour and fifteen minutes, more than half of her allotted exploration time, Sarah finally managed to free the skyhook. As she set it up for operation, Dale, the senior navigator of the original mission and the excursion’s driver, made some disturbing calculations. Based on the amount of anti-freeze expended, the hovercraft could only haul everyone halfway back to the base, even if all of the equipment was left behind.

    Sarah was a big woman. She felt the eyes of the crew on her, though they tried to be discreet. Yes, this was her fault, but they were just as excited to come out here as she had been. To placate them, was it necessary for her to sacrifice her seat? Apparently, they must have thought so, as no one complained when she ordered them to return without her. She watched them until the hovercraft became a speck in the pre-storm twilight.

    Grandfather mistook Sarah’s gesture for one of gallantry. He responded in kind. She might not be blood but, out here, everyone was family. The excursion crew guiltily – and halfheartedly – agreed to accompany him on a search and rescue mission. Dale was actually rather truculent about the whole affair. He was not looking forward to hiking about the plain, having just spent over two hours trudging back to base. Grandfather volunteered to lug the fuel cans to the abandoned hovercraft. They would make good time after they recovered the vehicle. Dale sighed. With an air of resignation, he ordered the remaining crew to carry one can each, in addition to their heated tents.

    Now, Grandfather was looking for a small crater in which to set up his tent for the night. The wind was beginning to pick up. He cursed himself for not bringing a surveyor’s map. He was not familiar with Sunnyside and he was not sure where Sarah might have tried to seek shelter. A sudden gust of wind propelled him forward and he tumbled into a shallow pit. A soft object broke his fall. He scrambled around in fright, disoriented from the drop. As he straightened up, he saw what had saved him; Sarah’s frozen, lurid grin greeted him.

  3. Liss Thomas says:

     
    I  watch silently from my dark place as the doctor leaves the room, unaware of my presence.  His prognosis is grim and spared of the lurid details but I know she’s dying.  She accepts it as if it’s natural.  It is not and I will not accept it.  The Grandfather clock chimes and I see her pale face reflected in the glass as she checks the time.  I call to her . . . ‘Come to me’.
     
    I see her reflected smile and hear the shallow breathing.  She agrees and I here the shift of the bed-frame.  My heart races as she slides her slim body to the floor, pausing to gasp for breath.  Dust swirls around me and I create a soft blue glow of shimmering light and reach my hand out to her.  Her small hand reaches for mine and our skins touch. 
     
    I’ve broken the first rule of being a monster.  Never touch your human.  I’m old enough to know why but I’ve pushed the consequences aside for her.  She will sleep soon for an eternity.  Transforming, I will take us someplace safe and peaceful, where the insatiable wolves of time cannot devour the short moments left.  But alas, I cannot escape my punishment.  When she sleeps, so will I. 
     

  4. Cathy Miller says:

    The pale emotion rose like dust on a well-trodden trail. Try as she might, Anna could not keep the tragic wolves of lurid memories from nipping at her soul.

    Could her grandfather really rest in this shallow grave of despair.

    Who would watch over her? Who would share the looking glass into her dreams or sing her child to sleep in the comfort of an old man’s arms?

    Who would understand her now? 

  5. Jennifer says:

    A wolf howled in the dark caverns of the forest. “Hush, and sleep,” the grandfather told his grandson as he backed away from the boy’s hiding spot. The old wolf leader watched the boy whimper softly in his shallow hole next to the tall oak tree as the grandfather backed away. As the moon climbed higher into the ink colored sky, like a glass orb atop a scepter being raised before the sacrifice, the wolf leader signaled the other wolves to attack. The race to the feast kicked up a cyclone of dust, leaving only the sounds of tearing flesh and screams of agony to fill the forest hollows. When the dust settled, a lurid scene of fur and blood met the boy. His face drained pale. His pulse quickened as the old wolf turned to him. The boy could feel the packs’ lusty breath in the breeze, yet they dare not act without the leader’s approval. The leader made is way slowly to the edge of the boy’s hollow, paced along the edge eying him, as if trying to decide if the boy was worth the effort. He came nose to nose with the boy and then sniffed the neck, such a succulent smell of athletic youth mixed with fear. The leader clamped down on the boy’s shoulder careful not to take out any chunks, but let the sweet poison of the moon flow through his veins. This boy would be a nice addition to the pack.

  6. K says:

    This was based off a dream I had last night. Beware of bizarre occurrences. 

    “Get the door!” my mom manages to shout the command over the bouts of laughter surrounding her. I huff, frustrated as I couldn’t finish telling my story, but nonetheless, I rise to my feet and head down the hall. Upon entering the living room, pale streaks of moonlight filter in from the window, casting an eerie illumination on the floor. Coated in a layer of dust, the grandfather clock situated in the corner strikes twice and alarms me. I flinch, and my gaze flickers to the glass hanging on the wall. A humanoid shadow reflecting from the outside world holds my attention. It doesn’t do justice to my paranoia and only augments it.
     
    Regardless of my apprehensions and knots clumping in the pit of my gut, I approach the door with sense of deja vu; I had a feeling I know of the person asking for entrance, or in this instance, desiring permission. I unlock the door and swing it open. Vigilant and seemingly lurid eyes greet me from underneath the hood of the person’s sweatshirt. Strong gusts of wind blow into the house, and goosebumps break out onto my skin as I fold my arms. As his gaze drifts to meet mine, I cringe and slam the door close. He sticks out the shovel in his hand to pry the door open as soon as I give any intimation of shutting it. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to prevent my voice from wavering.
     
    “Please go home,” I start of well. “It’s already two in the morning.”
     
    “I wouldn’t have to try this hard and come this late,” he lowers the tool, “if you would let me cut your grass.”
     
    “This is getting old.” I gather my courage to speak out. “I already told you no.”
     
    “Don’t think I’ll ever leave you alone for this.” I freeze when his eyes meet mine. I stifle a breath until he continues. “I’ll always keep trying.”
     
    “Just quit,” I say. “I’m never letting you mow the lawn in front of my house. Now if you excuse me, I need to get some sleep. Bye!” Before he could react quite like last time, I slam into the door with my fingers coiled around the door knob. Once the door clicked into place, I lock it. I step back it in case he had formulated a way to break into the house. I breathe out a sigh when no response came on his part. About to march into my brother’s bedroom with my family members, sonorous clangs emanated from the door. Bewildered, I turn on my heel. My eyes widen, and I wince with every blow on the door. It soon dies down. I assume he has given up but am sorely mistaken when I spot a flickering, bulky silhouette materialize outside the window. His eyes seem to glow as they study me. I part my lips, wanting to scream, yet a wave of panic froze my vocal cords. Seeing as he could do no more, he departs from my view, leaving me dazed. I shake my head, erasing every ounce of his prior existence from my memories.
     
    I walk back to my brother’s room to find the lights flicked off, and my brother and cousin knocked out on his bed and the floor respectively. With the absence of my parents, I assume they ambled into the master bedroom and fell fast asleep. I blow a puff of air to my bangs and shuffle down the unlit corridor until I enter my room. I run toward my bed, flop on it, and expeditiously pull the thin covers over my head. I poke my head out enough to receive air, but other than that, I fall into tentative slumber since three windows surround the perimeter of my room.
     
     
     
    “Ah, that’s ridiculous!” my brother interjects as I explain. His fingers thread through his hair. His head raises, and he narrows his eyes at me.Sunlight gives the living room an ethereal glow, shining in from the window. “A stalker? Wanting to cut the grass? Really, now? I expect you, of all people, to be more reasonable and be able to tell fantasy apart from reality.”
     
    “Just hear me out,” I persist. “I swear on my life I’m not lying. How could you not hear the banging on the door last night? It could’ve woken up the dead for crying out loud!” Still unconvinced, he shifts in his seat. My cousin, however, nods. Her face lights up with realization.
     
    “I know what you’re talking about! I think I did hear something last night.”
     
    “See? I told you! He’s after me.”
     
    “What’s he look like then if you know him so much?” My brother rolls his eyes, putting emphasis on the word so. 
     
    “Umm,” I think for a minute. “He’s a little older than me and of course, taller,” I describe. “He always wears a hoodie, though that’s normal in this weather. He has green eyes and black hair.”
     
    “Whoa,” he comments, “you must’ve met him a bunch of times to notice little things like that.”
     
    “Wouldn’t you notice someone who came to your doorstep for five days straight demanding he must cut your grass?” I ask.
     
    “True that. So this stalker,” he continues, “when do you think he’ll come again? I need proof of this.”
     
    “H-he-hey!” Flustered, my cousin repeatedly taps my shoulder. Her facial expression admits fear as her eyes reflect horror and terror. “Is that him?” She points beyond the looking glass. A grey blur disorients me as I am positioned right besides the window. I blink, and the next thing I know, I’m starting toward the door. I rush out with my cousin tailing behind me. I clench my fists in blithe anger when excess bills flutter to the ground from the hooded figure’s bag. Roaring indignation churns in my stomach, washing away the now foreign cowardice.
     
    “Yah!” I yell. Stopping in his tracks at the sound of my voice lingering in the once silent atmosphere, my stalker refuses to turn around and face me. I advance, acknowledging the imminent brawl to be brought forth with every step. “So, you chase me around like a pack of wolves just because I didn’t want you to cut the grass. Now, you steal my money and expect me to be okay with everything, huh? Look,” I force him to face me, “I don’t care how much you stalk me or how pretty your eyes are, but if you take my money, things just got real.” I crack my knuckles.
     
    Those pair of green watch with curiosity and a hint of humor. Half anticipating a derisive laugh to erupt from his mouth, infuriation takes control of me, and I throw my fist at his vulnerable stomach. He doubles over in pain but regains his composure quickly. To my consternation, he raises the shovel in his hand and strikes. I yelp but do nothing more than duck. The impact hits my head. Tears blur my vision as blood slithers down the side of my head. Indiscernible voices shout for me. I glance at the origin of the commotion, and an orangish flash tears through the scene. Distracted, my assailant seizes an opportunity and swipes his fingernails against my cheek. Shallow cuts rip through my skin. I take a step back, assessing my surroundings. An idea manifests in my head. 
     
    I sink to the ground, feigning surrender. As soon as his guard lowers, I aim my leg at his. Higher than intended, I kick another spot. He groans and clutches his groin, relinquishing the shovel. Attempting to keep possession of the money, he hobbles away from me. I grab the shovel from the ground and easily catch up to him. I whack the shovel on the back of his head. Though slowed down by my attack, he still moves along. Wracking my brain, I shove him towards the police car and bar his way with the shovel as a last resort. He writhes under his constraints. I struggle from keeping him contained.
     
    “Hey!” a gruff voice booms from the neighbor’s door. “Put your hands up in the air, punk!” The stalker heeds my neighbor and lifts his arms. The policeman, donned in a muscle shirt and boxers, relieves me and forcibly bends the boy over the trunk of his car. Once done with his ministrations, handcuffs bound the stalker’s hands. A hand pats my shoulder. Tightening my grip on the shovel’s handle, I turn around, ready to strike. My cousin lifts her hands to signal peace.
     
    “Are you okay?” she asks, touching my forehead. Blood stains her fingers. “You’re bleeding.”
     
    “We have bandages at home. It’s not like I’m going to die,” I reply.
     
    “Well, you better get that cleaned soon before an infection occurs,” the policeman warns. He unzips the black bag with piles of money of Chinese currency. I gawk at the massive amount. “Kid stole more than sixty grand from you,” he grumbles. 
     
    “Sixty thousand?!” we exclaim in unison. He nods.
     
    “When converted, it’s a little over sixty thousand dollars. Where’d you get that much money? Never mind. I shouldn’t ask. Here.” the man hands me the bag filled to the brim with cash. “Anyways, I’ll take this punk with me. Have a nice day.” He hauls the boy up on his shoulders, props open the trunk, and tosses the boy in like a rag doll. Then, he climbs into the car and zooms off, sirens blaring in the distance. As the car becomes a speck on the road, my brother approaches us from our driveway. 
     
    “Sis, you’re bleeding,” he quivers as globules descend to the ground, tarnishing the coloration.
     
    “Don’t be so scared. I’m not going to die. Not because of that creep.” I smile, assuaging his nerves. He relaxes his shoulders. “Didn’t know your wimpy sister could kick ass, did you?” The three of us share an unnerving laugh. We stare back at the house set in the background. 
     
    “How did Dad ever did get sixty thousand in the first place?” my brother voices his wonder. “When did he ever go to China?” The bag hanging from my left hand feels heavier in my possession at the remark.
     
    “We may never know…unless, we interrogate Dad immediately.” I grin.
     
    “Sounds like a plan.” He cracks a smile.
     
    “Ah, just look at the grass,” my cousin complains at the horrifying condition of the lawn. Instead of blades of green, yellow grass littered the field coupled with a multitude of weeds and bugs burrowing in the arid, clay colored soil. “Maybe we should have let him cut the grass.”

    • No more chocolate cake before bed for you! LOL
      This was a vivid jaunt. I hope the dream wasn’t as scary as your recollection of it!
       
      Cheers,
       
      Mitch
       
       

      • K says:

        Haha! Some parts of this was, of course, exaggerated, but it mostly went down like that. It was a lot funnier and weirder in my dream as this was a tiny section of it. My dreams are often very weird, and I remember them well.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @K: That’s one hell of a dream. Do you sleep with a notepad next to the bed to remember this stuff? Good ideas come from this.

  7. Anthony Smits says:

    Micah realised he was awake and struggled upright to stretch a suddenly cramped leg. He pulled aside the cloth folds wrapped across his face to allow his eyes a slit-size glimpse of their surroundings. Pale light struggled through the dust; it was dawn. All night a cold north wind’s howl had swirled around them, the warriors horribly exposed on the keep wall’s narrow walkway. Micah had been unwilling to allow them below out of the dust-storm’s flay; but as a watch it had been really less than a pretence. At least the wolves – no; jaguars, Micah reminded himself – hadn’t been sent again. And were they being used to atack them or defend them?  Micha couldn’t be sure, the fight had been lurid and over very quickly.

    His grit-covered tongue grated against his teeth. He knew the others would feel equally raw; he could see their huddled shapes beside him.  The wind was quieter now, its screeching wail dying as the morning breathed into life. The other men stirred too.

    Micah looked down at the scene inside the wall; no-one had been able to do anything about the bodies before the dust-storm struck. The old one they’d teased and named Grandfather was a dust-covered mound; he’d killed one of the he-feii before being hacked by several others. Micah shuddered. When this wind dropped he would have them man the walls again, if sufficient remained uninjured. A shallow defence then. And maybe the dream would last a few more hours.

    He wanted a glass of ale. A barrel of ale. He couldn’t even laugh about it; his throat hurt. And sleep, he wanted sleep. Perhaps it didn’t matter; he wasn’t going to grow old. Micah supposed he wouldn’t have to worry about being tired much longer.  He jumped to the ground, landing heavily. Time for the living to count the dead.

  8. Here is my poem entry for this one:

    Weathered
     

    Watch
    my
    grandfather
     

     
    pale as
    arctic wolves
     

     
    old as
    desert dust
     

     
    face like
    weathered glass
     

     
    lurid sleep
    shallow dreaming
     
     
    Time itself
    standing still
     
     

  9. Briony Coote says:

    Tears dribbled down Amadei’s cold, pale cheeks as he stared down at his gold watch for the very last time. Grandfather Vladek had given it to him for his 21st birthday. When grandpa handed it to Amadei, he had felt the responsibility that came with that watch pressing into his hands; the watch was one of the most precious heirlooms in his family; it had spanned over four generations and had been made so well that it had hardly ever needed repair and even still had its original glass. Next day, that feeling of responsibility took a cruel and lurid turn – grandpa died quietly in his sleep. Amadei remembered how much his heart screamed in heartbreak that day. 

    And what he was going to do now was breaking his heart all over again. But Hitler’s wolves were coming for him; they were coming for everyone who still remained in the ghetto, and there was nowhere to go but into those box cars. Well, the wolves might get him, but he was not going to let them get the watch as well; that weight of responsibility still pressed hard in his hands as much as it had on his birthday. And that watch was all he had left – he had parted with everything else so he might live another day, might survive another raid, might win over another friendly helper. But he had never, ever, parted with the watch. 

    But if he had to part with it now, he would be damned before he would part with it to Hitler.

    So he now stopped staring at the watch and placed it in an old toffee tin. He snapped the lid shut and looked at the spot he had chosen outside the decrepit warehouse. The warehouse was crumbling from disuse and neglect, was laden with dirt and dust and had been torn apart by people desperate for lumber. Amadei could see the footprints, tracks in the ground, and the rips and gauges in the framework where those people had been. He turned away; it would not be safe enough there.

    He turned to the wall opposite, and then at the earth in front of it. He knelt down and felt the ground; it was gluggy from the heavy rain that day and water squished through his fingers as he squeezed it. He couldn’t do it with bare hands; frantically, he looked around and saw a small piece of timber with a jagged edge. He picked it up and scraped and scraped at the earth. But the ground was too heavy for digging and all he could manage was a small, shallow hole. It would have to do. Another tear splashed down his cheek as he placed the tin, and inside it, the precious watch that grandpa had given him, in the hole. He shoved the mud he’d scraped off over on the top. 

    Amadei stood up and looked down at the hole as if he was standing over a grave, saying goodbye to his grandpa all over again. Then he forced himself to turn around and he walked away. His pace was heavy with heartbreak. And with dread, too; in the distance he could hear the cries, the screams, the beatings and the shots as the wolves hunted down the last of their prey. 

  10. Briony Coote says:

    Tears dribbled down Amadei’s cold, pale cheeks as he stared down at his gold watch for the very last time. Grandfather Vladek had given it to him for his 21st birthday. When grandpa handed it to Amadei, he felt the responsibility that came with that watch pressing into his hands; the watch was one of the most precious heirlooms in his family; it had spanned over four generations and had been made so well that it had hardly ever needed repair and even still had its original glass. Next day, that feeling of responsibility took a cruel and lurid turn – grandpa died quietly in his sleep. Amadei remembered how much his heart screamed in heartbreak that day. 

    And what Amadei was going to do now was breaking his heart all over again. But Hitler’s wolves were coming for him; they were coming for everyone who still remained in the ghetto, and there was nowhere to go but into those box cars. Well, the wolves might get him, but he was not going to let them get the watch as well; that weight of responsibility still pressed hard in his hands as much as it had on his birthday. And that watch was all he had left – he had parted with everything else so he might live another day, might survive another raid, might win over another friendly helper. But he had never, ever, parted with the watch. 

    But if he had to part with it now, he would be damned before he would part with it to Hitler.

    So Amadei now stopped staring at the watch and placed it in an old toffee tin. He snapped the lid shut and looked at the spot he had chosen outside the decrepit warehouse. The warehouse was crumbling from disuse and neglect, was laden with dirt and dust and had been torn apart by people desperate for lumber. Amadei could see the footprints, tracks in the ground, and the rips and gauges in the framework where those people had been. He turned away; it would not be safe enough there.

    He turned to the wall opposite and the earth in front of it. He knelt down and felt the ground; it was gluggy mud from the heavy rain that day and water squished through his fingers as he squeezed it. He couldn’t do it with bare hands; frantically, he looked around and saw a small piece of timber with a jagged edge. He picked it up and scraped and scraped at the earth. But the ground was too heavy for digging and all he could manage was a small, shallow hole. It would have to do. Another tear splashed down his cheek as he placed the tin, and inside it, the precious watch that grandpa had given him, in the hole. He shoved the mud he’d scraped off over on the top and pressed his foot on it. He did it as gently as he could, yet the mud still squished and water oozed from under his foot.

    Amadei stood up and looked down at the hole as if he was standing over a grave, saying goodbye to his grandpa all over again. Then he forced himself to turn around and he walked away. His pace was heavy with heartbreak. And with dread, too; in the distance he could hear the cries, the screams, the beatings and the shots as the wolves hunted down the last of their prey. 

  11. Rebecca says:

    Grandfather star peered into his looking glass to watch the gray wolves sleep in their undisturbed sanctuary – the old forest. The pale moon stood proud in the sky with an effervescent yellow glow as if it was sprinkled with fairy dust. Grandfather star had no doubt that tonight, above all other nights, would be a challenge for those restless souls on earth who haven’t risen above the shallowness of their lives. For lurid dreams will arise from the depths of their souls to rock them back and forth, bringing fears to the surface they’ve stuffed down. Grandfather star shed a tear and it shot across the night sky giving light to the darkness, and giving hope to those restless souls whose dreams have awakened them tonight.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Rebecca: Loved this new style that you went with here. None of these words would have made me think of this angle; that’s why I love this place.

  12. Rebecca says:

    @ Shane… Thanks! I can’t believe I wrote it. Maybe I was influenced by all of the Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman episodes I’ve been watching. Of course, it could have been Pride and Prejudice. I watched the movie twice over the weekend. Or, it could be all of the metaphysical and spiritual books and blogs I’ve been reading. 🙂

  13. The old grandfather clock chimes its midnight announcement, its metal gears sliding against each other sleepily as the hands settle heavily into position.

    Tick.

    Tick.

    Tick.

    Time never ends when fear is on watch.

    A thin film of dust lies on the glass face, distorting the reflection of the night fire flickering in the hearth behind me. The soulful cry of wolves can be heard in the distant forest, packs of pale, red-eyed predators that lurk in the night, beasts of constant hunger. I peer intently into the darkness beyond the window pane, John’s shallow tracks are quickly disappearing into swirling gusts of snow.

    Why did I ever let him leave? Will the morning dawn bring about lurid details of his demise?

    Finally I can stand it no longer. The fear of being alone far outweighs the fear of facing the terrors of the night. Shrugging on a coat that barely covers my 9 month swollen belly, I open the door and step out. 

  14. […] Creative Copy Challenge 274 […]


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