Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #293
Posted: December 13, 2012 Filed under: Copy Challenges 27 CommentsThis 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.
- Funk
- Power
- Spirit
- Everything
- Natural
- Drug
- Crash
- Thick
- Knot
- Massive
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.)
Writing Prompts - Creative Copy Challenge 
A Hole in the Sun
On Gaia Prime, every body and Everything was recycled. Natural death, natural disasters, drug overdoses, and homicides fueled the ecological machine. The Funerary Services Guild was tied into that system very efficiently. The Tombstone clan may not have been the life of the party, but without their skills, post-mortem diseases would crash the colony in short order. Folks made their peace with the departed and feasted in relief that their own time had not yet run out.
Maddy clung to Jim as they stared at their friend in the cryotank. Jim’s father, Basil Tombstone, had done what he could to suppress the look, feel and funk of death. He had no power to lift the collective spirit of these youthful mourners, for whom the attribute of immortality was a given. Maddy touched the plexiglass in farewell before the two followed the moving line into the Canteen.
They joined a massive knot of milling students near the kitchen doors. One of Sarah’s professors had created an impromptu collage of her coursework. It was a corny gesture, but it struck just the right chord with this young crowd. They all shared stories of hilarious lab adventures, missed deadlines and silly pranks. Maddy sensed, rather than saw, the despair masked behind the thick voices and moist eyes. With all her pent-up anguish seeking release, Maddy keened.
***
Whoa, girl. Easy. I’m right here. Sarah felt Maddy’s pain as if it were her own. She had no idea that she was missing her own funeral; in fact, she still didn’t know exactly where here was. All she knew – besides an unholy hunger – was that her best friend missed her fiercely.
I hope I can get to Gaia Prime before my death. Maybe I will be recycled as Sarah.
Heh, maybe you should go back a few chapters…I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag, but where do you think she is, right now?
Thanks for having fun with my story!
Cheers,
Mitch
Yeah Sarah is somewhere! I almost got teary at the end. Very strong emotionally.
Wow. Cool. That’s what I was going for.
Thanks, Liss.
Cheers,
Mitch
@Mitch: **insert standard message to Mitch here**
Roger. Wilco.
Out.
🙂
Cheers,
Mitch
[…] is my submission for Creative Copy Challenge #293. Click on over and take the challenge yourself, or just read the comments to see what others have […]
That was too funny, Steve!
Cheers,
Mitch
Glad you liked it Mitch.
I was experimenting with dialog there.
It was a lively chat that turned deadly, eh?
Cheers,
Mitch
*smiles and takes her drugs*
Continuation…
Rebecca walked with natural grace even as cold restraints chafed her ankles. She carried a silver serving tray filled heavy with raw meats from strange animals toward the Wolf King, Ulvarg. She grimaced at the thick leather collar around her neck. The guard behind her jerked the chain attached to her collar and nearly pulled her off balance. She scowled back at the monster before she continued on.
She made her way up the polished stone steps toward the king’s throne just as another group of guards burst through the double doors to the official chambers.
“The first hyena was unsuccessful, My Lord,” the guard said as they neared the throne. They carried a large bundled object and dumped it near the steps. The first guard jerked the cloth from their load, revealing the body of a dead hyena at their king’s feet. The lifeless corpse still held the iron poker Jill had lodged in its gut.
Rebecca gasped and threw her hands to her mouth, dropping the tray. It crashed with a loud clatter to the floor, spilling its contents and coating the floor and everything around it with bloody juices.
“I see Tomas has not lost his touch. I had hoped the hyena would have at least been successful in drugging him with prey,” the King said.
“We found the drugged carcass of a rabbit. The hyena at least did that but we believe the girl killed him.”
“She has spirit. Maybe we should just kill the young one,” Ulvarg mused.
“No!” Rebecca said lunging for the king. The chain tightened and pulled her back with a jerk. She spun from the force back to the guard who struck her hard across the face sending her to the floor in a heap. The guard shifted in an instant, his massive paws heavy on her back with his muzzle near her ear. He growled, his lips quivering with rage.
“You dare attack our king, human? Let my king say the word and I will feast on your heart and entrails and quench my thirst with your blood hot in my throat!”
Rebecca felt her insides knot. The guard’s threat blew hot in her ear and the funk of the dead corpse assailed her nostrils. His powerful jaws snapped as he spoke and saliva dripped from his dangerous teeth. She clamped her eyes shut and waited for the declaration of her fate from the Wolf King while her lips uttered a silent plea,
Please don’t let them find her, Tom. Keep her safe for me.
Liss
I love the way the story just keeps flowing.
Thanks, Steve!
@Liss: When’s the movie?
Continuation from CCC281 onwards: Finale
Straum was well known in the Gestapo for his fearsome temper when nothing went his way. But he had never been in such a funk until this afternoon. It seemed that the whole day had been cursed from the beginning and there was still no end in sight.
It certainly did not end with the latest order he had received from his superiors: FIRE EXTINGUISHED. GESTAPO HQ BEYOND SAVING. TEMPORARY GESTAPO HQ ESTABLISHED AT CERET MILITARY CAMP. GATHER ALL EVACUEES AT LA PUCELLE AND REPORT AT 2200 HOURS. SEARCH FOR GABON ABANDONED AT PRESENT.
Report at Ceret at 10pm and the clock on the wall said 9:30. Straum snarled. He had better hurry if he was to report on time.
He took one final look around at La Pucelle. He had practically torn the whole pub apart in search of Gabon and the reward promised for his capture. But he had nothing to show for his efforts but the shambles he and his men had made of the place and the stink from the filth on the floor because he had held the patrons at gunpoint for several hours without even allowing them to go to the toilet. And the innkeeper’s pantry had been pretty much stripped from all the food Straum had forced them to make for him during the long, torturous hours they had spent at La Pucelle, tearing the place apart, receiving progress reports on the destruction of their HQ and swelling their ranks with yet more refugees from the blaze.
Now Straum signalled to his men. “Right, we’ve got orders to report to Ceret Military Camp at 2200 hours. Fall in, about face, quick march!” He was the last to leave the pub; he was so reluctant to leave – Gabon was there, he could feel it. But there was little more he could do for now. Gabon would have to keep for another day.
His eye caught sight of a bottle of spirits on the counter. He remembered the innkeeper’s first offer of a drink when he first walked in here. His whole body told him it wished to take up the offer – not just the drink but the whole bottle – anything to drug, drink or stupefy itself out of the whole ghastly day and sink into a welcome rest of oblivion. But his mind wouldn’t have any of the namby-pamby excuses of his body. He had a duty to perform, and naturally he would never drink on duty. Besides, there was no way he was going to let Gabon get him down.
“You won’t beat me, Gabon,” he muttered to himself as he walked out the door, “I swear by God, by the Führer, o-on my father’s grave, on my honour, that I will do everythingin my power to bring you in!”
All of a sudden he stopped in the frame of the door, swung his fist in the air and screamed, “Yes, Gabon, “I’ll get you! And when I do, you-you-you’ll pay for what you did to our headquarters! We’ll have our revenge! Oh yes we will!” The door banged shut, cutting off Straum’s cursing.
The relief inside the pub was so thick you could taste it. People sighed, cheered, wept softly, fell into each other’s arms and made mad dashes for the toilets while one man came up to Charles and asked for a bucket and a mop. “I want to help clean up that mess,” he said, a guilty look on his face that soon flushed into deep shame and humiliation. Charles was too numb to react, but the waitress had presence of mind and understood the man’s request. She dashed to the cupboard and took out a mop and bucket, “Here you go, Monsieur.” She then grabbed another bucket and mop for herself.
Meanwhile, a heavy-set man dashed up the door to watch the Gestapo leave. “They’re really taking off down the road, monsieur. With any luck they might have a nasty crash on the way.” This was greeted with loud guffaws and cheers such as “if only they would!” and “I wish!”
Some people now made a rush for the door. “Let me out of here!” “Gotta get home!” “Gotta beat the curfew.” “Phew, what a stink….” Others were pitching in to help the first man and the waitress with the massive cleanup of the mess the hated Boche had left behind.
But all Charles could do was grip the edge of the counter and sag over it. Jitters were in every part of his body and he felt as if a knot the size of a football had dropped out of his stomach….
Somewhere he felt a gentle nudge on his arm. “Hey, Charlie, how about a drink?”
He lifted his head weakly. “A drink…? But then the innkeeper in him kicked in. “Oh, of course, a drink!” He beckoned to one of the waitresses. “Charlotte, go down to the cellar and grab a bottle of my finest sauvignon!”
“Oui, the special reserve in the cooler, Monsieur?” This was their code.
“Take it off the chill,” said Charles as he pressed Gabon’s lighter into Charlotte’s hand. After all, the Boche did tell him to give it back to Gabon.
And that was how Henri Gabon and his little device gave such a big boom at Gestapo Headquarters. But now the long vendetta between Henri Gabon and Commissioner Straum of the Gestapo had begun….
@Misty: A well-woven tale. Glad to see it’s ending is merely another beginning. Write on indeed! Take a bow.
Standing ovation! Well done. Enjoy your Holiday!
Cheers,
Mitch
Yeah, it’s a funk of limitless power.
It robs you of everything – body, spirit and natural self.
Drugs can cause it, but they can’t cure it.
CRASH! One day you’re in the thick of the fire. Your gut is knotted in a massive clump.
Your mother enters dementia in fear, scared like the little kid you remember being as she took care of you.
I love you, Mudda!
Power in so few words…. Very profound, Shane
Shane, simplicity and raw emotion burst from this entry.
Cheers,
Mitch
[…] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #293 […]
Splottown Stalker Cont:
The stalker charged Abby in the formal living-room The two crashed over furniture as she tried everything to get him off of her. As they tumbled over the antique couch, he overpowered Abby and she hit her head on the coffee table. A thick, massive knot formed at the back of Abby’s head. She tried to sit up, shake off the funk, and act natural; she couldn’t let on that she was injured, but it was too late.
“That will take some of the spirit out of you,” the stalker said as he injected some drug into her arm.
Whoa! That’s scary.
Cheers,
Mitch
The First Drink
I was 14 and confused about everything in life. I felt like I was drowning in a slow, swirling, thick, melting pot of negative emotions.
At home, the tension was unbearable. My mother’s spirit seemed to be slipping away into the depths of depression, that deep funk of darkness where no one could retrieve her. My father and I were like two freight trains, always prepared to crash into each other, moving full-speed on the same track but in opposing directions. He would come home stressed and frustrated from a job he didn’t enjoy, if he came home at all, full from the bar on the way home or anxiously looking forward to that beverage that could unravel the knots from the day. Seeing me always seemed to light that spark, the one that released a torrent of verbal criticism and sarcastic barbs and the battle would begin. I was filled with anger and resentment, which only fueled my natural stubborn tendencies. I refused to allow him the power to destroy my soul, as I believed he had done to my mother. Every day was a massive war zone, the ferocity depending on how inebriated he would be, varying from snippy remarks bantered in passing, to explosive violent interactions. I would do anything I could to avoid being in that house. And being at my grandparent’s was even worse.
—
It’s a Sunday afternoon, we are on our way to youth darts. I am still ripping angry, despite the fact that we have been walking hard for 30 minutes now.
I left home quickly, shoving the stolen mason jar of moonshine into my backpack and running out the door. Dad had been taking verbal shots at me all day, actually since he came home drunk late last night. I can never seem to win with him. If I am happy, he finds a way to cut me down and make me feel worthless. If I screw up, he tells me I am just like my mom’s family. If I am angry, he just gets angrier and if he’s drinking, he gets violent. If I am depressed or even just trying to stay out of his way, he tells me I’m nothing but a pessimist and asks just what do I have to be miserable about. Yesterday he left self-help books in my room and told me, “perhaps I should read them, maybe I could learn something.” Most of the time, he makes me wish I had never been born. On my birthday last year, he asked me if I figured it out yet. When I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, he informed me that I could do the math to discover I was a mistake. They were married in July and I was born that November. Lately though, it just seems like the sight of me makes him angry. And vice versa. I know I shouldn’t antagonize him, but sometimes it feels like my emotions take over my brain.
My best friend was waiting at the end of the driveway for me before we started the hour-long walk to darts from home. Carey has been one of the few people I trust and despite the fact that he is 12 and two years younger than me, he is kind of my only real friend. Last year, his stepfather went to jail. Every time I met his step-dad he made me nervous, like something bad was going to happen, but you never knew what or when. He would constantly roll the waxed ends of his long moustache through his fingers, his eyes running the entire length of my body and back again while he asked me uncomfortable questions. I tried to spend as little time as I could around him because my stomach would flutter nervously and I was afraid of throwing up. Other times, he would sit at their kitchen table, cleaning his military issue rifle, lifting it to stare down the barrel at me. My legs would near turn to jelly as I tried not to run or leave a puddle at my feet. I’m glad he’s in jail but their family is really struggling now, and I don’t know how I can help.
We get to the trail in the field where the view from the road is obscured by trees. Twisting open the mason jar, the fumes hit me with full force and instinctively I snap my head back and away from the offending odor. I watched dad’s stepfather test the moonshine’s purity with a match when he was running it from the still in his basement. The blue flame was mesmerizing. Rumor was, if it didn’t burn blue, the stuff could make you go blind.
“Are you gonna do it?” Carey asks in excitement.
I think about how much I hate how booze makes people in my family act and I have a moment of self-doubt. Then I think of how I feel right now; angry at the world, full of shame and I think about how it will probably never be any better. Any drug has to take these feelings away.
Throwing the metal lid into the woods, I close my eyes and hold my breath. Placing my lips on the glass container, I take a large gulp.
The clear liquid burns all the way down, leaving a flaming pit in my stomach. I fight the urge that my body has to expel the contents of my stomach when I realize that the warmth is radiating outward into my whole body, dissolving the massive cluster of emotions that I do not know how to deal with. I feel like I have rolled off the problems of the world that have been resting on my shoulders and thrown them into the far-flung outreaches of the heavens.
What I don’t know is that I will chase that initial feeling unsuccessfully for many, many years to come. And the world is not going anywhere.
Lisa, this is a powerful narrative. I gathered from your previous reply in CCC #291 that it is autobiographical.
I sincerely hope that the catharsis of writing these entries washes away your fears of completing this moving life story.
Cheers,
Mitch