Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #290

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.) NOTE: Our bolding plugin is gone, so you’ll have to put <b> and </b> around each of your words if you want them to stand out, but NOT REQUIRED THOUGH.

  1. Thunder
  2. Sweet
  3. Overdrive
  4. Kick
  5. Grind
  6. Laugh
  7. Serve
  8. Steal
  9. Worst
  10. Extract

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.)


28 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #290”

  1. A Hole in the Sun
    “Do you want to know why nothing grows in Gamma Quadrant? We have created something that has a voracious appetite. Born from the spark of electricity, shaped by the peal of thunder and cleansed in the desert rain, our sweetest triumph of mind over matter is a humanoid monster.”

    Doctor Probe tried her best to maintain her calm demeanor and bedside manner. Unfortunately, enthusiasm went into overdrive – her monologue became animated. Sarah looked up from her pillows to see an exalted face of a mad scientist. She cringed as the doctor continued.

    “Psycho was right, all along; I could have kicked myself for not seeing it sooner. It really does take a village to raise a child. When the ten of us focused on the mound of clay, that lump received ten different ideas of manhood. As the storm raged around us, the clay began to grind and knead itself into shape. Arms, legs, head and massive torso, all conformed to our collective will.

    “At the height of the storm, a bolt of lightning hit the clay. The most amazing thing happened: it began to laugh! As it had no mouth, the gaping hole left by the lightning strike had to serve. We were so frightened that we forgot to complete the transfiguration. Each of us ran off in different directions.”

    Doctor Psycho took over the tale: “Actually, I was too scared to move. I tried to steal away behind the blast wall, but I needn’t have worried; the thing didn’t notice me. I thought to contain it by projecting a simulacrum into its head. That was the worst possible thing I could have done. Somehow, it managed to extract every bit of Gaia’s endemism from the construct and immediately began devouring Dragon saplings.”

    Sarah broke in, “Endy, what?”

    “The indigenous life forms on Gaia Prime exist nowhere else, so they are endemic to this planet. Golem – for that’s what we call him – took a masters degree in biology, geology and a few other things in the time it took for the rain to stop.”

    Doctor Probe concluded, “And now, he is eating his way across the planet! It is such an awesome display of raw power. All we need to do is cultivate it, harness it and make it do our bidding.”

  2. I never knew anything stronger than her. I never wondered, perhaps like other grown children, how my mother would meet her demise. Call it denial, naivete or simple stupidity. Thinking about the final grind to the casket is morose, and while she was no sweet little thing, who among us wants to dwell on the revealed and acknowledged ending?

    The Duchess was thunder. She was the kick that drove the cart, the horse, and all her bright eyed, jaded, arrogant and slow students. My mother was an academe’s overdrive. She published, again and again and again, because she did not know the meaning of to perish. Not in her skin or bones or brain, she didn’t. No such thing, she may have sniffed. She would never surrender to the page, or the administration, or to anything.

    She startled me when she woke from a fitful nap with a laugh like a bark, as if she might have been dreaming that very thing. As if, in her short still moments when pain ebbed like a promise that never arrives, hordes of robed, greying professors chased her, red pens and pages flying wildly, like weapons. That was the worst of it. This thing that had crawled inside her, worming its way through her organs without mercy distilled her on some days to her core. This thing that ate away at her bones, quite literally, that ate away the woman she was made her this perfectly distilled essence, an extract, of all the bitterness she had slung across her back and carried with her through her march toward the inevitable coffin. This thing wasn’t stealingher so much as stealing the veneer that made her more approachable, by which I mean barely tolerable.

    But that was only some days. And this was one of them.

  3. […] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #290 […]

  4. Continuation…

    The tears started to fall in small trickles down her cheeks. Jill wrapped her arms around herself, trying to process her father’s revelations to her. He wasn’t from the human realm and her mother was missing.

    “Was she like you? Not human?” Jill asked.
    “No, she’s human,” Tom said.
    “But you’re a big dog. Can’t you track her?” Her father’s face scrunched.
    “I’m a wolf, Jill. And I’ve tried to find her.”

    Jill feared the worst but couldn’t bring herself to ask the question.

    “She’s alive.” Tom answered. “I think what’s hunting you got to her first.”

    Tom did a quick check of the perimeter before setting all the alarms in place. He kicked his senses into overdrive while he told Jill the whole truth. He laughed when she asked if she was born a puppy. Sweet summer rains pelted the roof and thunder shook the air. Tom spoke of his world, his refusal to kill for the King’s hateful vengeance. He’d served his king well until that moment. That one defiant act caused him banishment, extracted from the pack, left to wonder a barren land and choose death by starvation, thirst, or deadly scorpion. He’d survived longer than most, existing on the scorpion whose venom he drained before eating. It caused only delusions instead of death, stealing sanity for a few hours. He wondered through the region and passed into another, desperate for water and food before he finally blanked out, exhausted and ready to die.

    “Who found you?” Jill asked, eager to hear more.
    Tom smiled. “Jackals. A mother and her cubs. I’d wondered into their territory before I collapsed. She took pity on me and nursed me back to health. Our kind usually don’t mix and her mate seemed less pleased with her decision but he allowed it. It was her brother who offered to bring me to the human realm, away from my king and his punishment but he must have found out I’m still alive. I don’t know how but he has an ax to grind about it. He won’t stop until I’m dead.

    “Will he kill Mother?” Jill asked.
    “Not before he’s captured us both.”
    “He’ll make you watch us die.” She said it as a statement.
    “We won’t let him. I’ll do anything you tell me to but we need to get her back,” Jill said wiping angry tears from her eyes with her fists.
    “That’s my girl,” Tom said.

  5. Shane Arthur says:

    She had thunder thighs but she was sweet and my drive was in overdrive, kickstarted by the grind of life and some rind at the bottom of the bottle. She laughed at every joke I served. Her huge tits stole my attention each time she chuckled. Her clothes were the worst, but that wouldn’t matter once I extracted her from them.

  6. Mistyfan says:

    Continuation from CCC281 onwards

    “Jackal’s head?” Abel was still laughing at the idea. He couldn’t get over Gabon comparing that Nazi pig to Anubis, the Egyptian god with the jackal head.

    Henri just smiled; let him laugh if he wanted to. He waved his glass to a nearby waitress. “Serve up another one – please!”

    She nodded. He sank back in his chair, his relaxed, contended demeanour giving no betrayal to what he was planning for Gestapo Headquarters. He looked down at his toolkit. Inside was the transmitter. All he had to do was press the button on it, and it would send a radio signal to ignite his little device. The trouble was, he dared not press the button while there were people around and he did not want to press it.

    He still found it hard to believe what luck he’d had: he had gotten under Gestapo Headquarters, right where he could get access to the gas pipes. Now he had planted his little device right where it would make a far bigger “boom” than he had anticipated. That would be such sweet revenge on the Boche who had stolen so much from him and his country – including his whole family and business. Gabon Electronics had once been one of the proudest businesses in town. That was where Henri had acquired the expertise that had come in so handy in building devices like the one he had just installed in Gestapo Headquarters. But that had all changed when France fell to the Boche. The Gabons were of Jewish extraction, and though they had not been practising Jews, their Jewish blood meant Henri and his family quickly lost everything. Father was forced out of his own business, which was taken over by a collaborator. Henri’s younger sister was banned from school, his older brother was sacked from his clerk’s job and banned from other businesses, and the whole family was forced into a mean, overcrowded flat where they were reduced to the oppression of the yellow star and the grind of taking in washing and sweeping streets. But it couldn’t be helped; there was little else they could do to make any money now. That and whatever electronics work that Henri could find with the few remaining and brave contacts he had left.

    But the worst was yet to come. The Gabons had heard stories about Jews being rounded up and taken away to…nobody knew just where, but Henri had always scoffed that Boche talk that they were going to send the Jews to a new homeland. Then he came home one day to find the flat smashed, belongings thrown into the street, and no sign of his family or the other families they had been forced to share with. He collapsed on the floor, crying. He knew what must have happened. And it was only a quirk of fate that had saved him – he had stayed too long at a friend’s house and had to stay there until morning – there were penalties for breaking curfew –

    Just then, the waitress leaned over him and hissed in his ear – “Monsieur, the Boche are at the door.”

    Very slowly, Henri he turned his head around….

    Then his heart went into overdrive: it was the Jackal. And the Jackal’s face was like thunder. Behind him, his hounds had their guns primed, ready to pounce. Henri could only thank his lucky stars that he and Abel had chosen a nice dark corner at the far back. It was not likely that the Jackal had spotted them yet. But they must move fast.

    The waitress whispered, “Monsieur Abel and I will try to stall them. You make a run for it.” Henri nodded gratefully, waved a beckoning hand at white-faced Abel, and then they quietly slipped away. They knew a special hiding place in the cellar from the olden days of La Pucelle and Charles had offered it to them to hide in more than once. They slipped past Charles, who nodded, and then bravely stepped forward to face up to the Gestapo.

    Just then Straum flung the door open, stormed in and kicked over a chair. It had barely finished clattering on the floor before Straum demanded: “Where are they?”

    A dreadful, cowed hush fell across the room.

    Only Charles Abel the pub owner dared to speak. “Where are who, Monsieur?”

    “You know who I mean!” Straum stomped forward. “Now where are they?”

    “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Monsieur. But would you like a drink?”
    Charles reached over for a wine bottle.

    Straum ripped the bottle out of Charles’ hand and sent it flying across the room. It smashed against the wall, sending glass shards and wine splatters dripping down the wall. He seized Charles by the collar and growled, “Where-are-they?”

    “Mo-monsieur, pl-please….”

    Straum roared to his men: “Search the place! Tear it apart! Don’t leave any stone unturned! And –“now he turned his attention to the terrified, whimpering patrons – “none of you dare move!”

    Charles fell back, slumping against the counter. He could only pray that the Boche would not find that secret hiding place in the cellar where Gabon and Abel were now hiding. It was a stone cavity, about six metres square, and hidden behind a carved stone likeness of the Virgin. Holes had been bored into her eyes so anyone hiding behind her could look out and see what was going on. The Virgin’s eyes, and a grille in the wall that posed as a ventilation grille on the other side, were the only sources of light and air and views to the outside world. Nobody knew quite why there was a hiding place behind the Virgin. The most common theory among the Abel family was that the hiding place had been built by a less-than scrupulous owner in times past who had used it for criminal activities. He had counted on people being far too reverential of the Virgin to search that spot properly. But would the Boche be just as respectful?

    Inside, Henri gave a sudden, horrible gasp.

    “Keep your voice down, Gabon! They might hear us!” Abel hissed.

    “But I-I’ve just remembered – I left my toolkit up there!” Henri clapped his face in horror. The toolkit with that all-important transmitter that he needed to activate the device he’d planted under Gestapo Headquarters. And he had left it behind, up there, in the pub, where the Boche would be sure to find it! How could he have been so stupid?

    “So? All it had were plumber’s tools.”

    “No! There was something else in it!”

    Now Abel went as white as Henri. “Oh, no….”

    And above, a Gestapo soldier made a loud cry of discovery. “Sir, look at this!” He held up the toolkit Henri had left behind.

    Straum cast his eyes on it and gave a loud bellow of triumph. “So! A plumber’s toolkit! Give it here!”

  7. Lisa says:

    Another Saturday Night

    Sharp streaks of lightning rip open pregnant skies. Thunder bellows down, reminding me how small I really am, how vulnerable and afraid. Peeking out from the safety of my blanket, I see the rain pelting against the windows. It sounds like it wants to come in and wash me away, to steal me somewhere even more frightening. God is out there, menacing and all-seeing, lying in wait to judge and condemn even a small child like me. I know he sees my worst thoughts and feelings. He knows just how bad I am.

    The door slams thunderously. The air becomes static with tension. Grammy sits next to me in silence, the fear sweating off her in waves. I want to burrow myself into safety. If only the darkness of the blanket could extract me from here and transport me to somewhere far away, I would grab her hand and we could escape to somewhere light. I would kick that time-machine into overdrive, grinding every gear far past this time and place.

    The door slams closed. Grampy is home. He is all-knowing, all-seeing and all-powerful. He condemns, judges, criticizes and punishes. He can never be pleased or satisfied, no matter how hard you try to serve. Like God almighty, he is fierce.

    He comes into the living-room and looks at her in disgust. Ripping the drink from her hand, he roars. The glass smashes into a million pieces against the coffee table, each shard a shattered dream waiting to be swept away. Rum soaks into the carpet and its sweet smell cloys in my nose. Pushing as far back against the arm of the couch as possible, I pull a sparkly piece of glass from my arm. Blood quickly wells up replacing the foreign object and I suck at it comfortingly. My eyes hurt from holding back the flood of tears. If I cry now, I may never stop.

    Ripping her from her seat, he forces her to the floor. Her bad leg twists unnaturally. I bury my head under the blanket and cover my ears with my hands but I can’t shut out the sounds. My world fills with darkness.

    I “unbelieved” in God. I wanted to “unbelieve” in the world I lived in.

    Over thirty years have passed, mostly filled with shades of grey and black. He’s dead and gone but dark memories don’t fade. They wash in and out of consciousness with varying degrees of force, sometimes a gentle rain washing against the window panes of my mind, other times thundering storms threaten to overtake everything. And where was God?

    God has been coming back into my life like sunshine through a dirty window-pane. Unbelief is a slow process to overcome. Sometimes it seems like the pane is clear and the sun shines through and other times my perspective shifts to the remaining filth left over. But God stays constant, whether I walk away from the task or choose to embrace the comforting warmth of his light. The storm is over and God is willing to walk with me to help clear the wreckage.

    God is not who I believed he was at all. He holds me when I cry and shares in my joy when I laugh.

  8. Kirsten Beach says:

    It had been my ultimate pleasure to own to own a roaster and to get down to the business roasting and selling the finest of the beans we could grow in our pristine environment. Years of preparation by my father and grandfather and now finally, the equipment had been installed, the experts had arrived and taught us their secrets and we were gathered together to take our maiden voyage.

    The sweet arabica beans had been loaded and the grinder had needed a kick to get it into overdrive and produce the optimal heat. As the thunder of the daily tropical storm shook our island, we thought this may be our worst or best risk. To get the best grind and extract the sweetest, most intoxicating kind of nectar we would need to laugh at our nerves and press on.

    We stood close and strained to hear that critical fist pop sound of the beans through the ongoing noise of torrential rain hitting palm leaves and tin rooves. The second pop was what we were really waiting for however, and as if the goddess had heard us, the rain stoppped and left a vacuum of silence in the steamy air. I could have sworn we were all holding our breaths as that second pop occured and I am still sure to this day that none of us actually exhaled until we could see the shine of the sugars gleaming on the scoop of beans that came out.

    As if carrying liquid gold, we moved slowly to the grinder and ground that first scoop. There were tangible beads of sweat on our brows when each one finally had the serve of coffee in the cup before them. No one dared raise a cup to their lips or even move first to raise their cup. I walked over to the wide french doors facing the Indian ocean and opened them wide. A soothing cool breeze flooded in and we nodded silently and all took our first sip. Eyes closed, deep inhales of fresh air through the nostrils and then the ultimate sign in the blissful smiles as each exhaled and opened their eyes again to look at each other. This brew would steal many hearts as this island had stolen many of ours.

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