Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #306

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. Quick
  2. Note
  3. Please
  4. Kick
  5. Drive
  6. More
  7. Soft
  8. Force
  9. Natural
  10. Average

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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67 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #306”

  1. Tanja Cilia says:

    Just a quick one; please note that on average, it’s logical and natural, with all men, that the more force you use to kick them in the pants, the more quickly you drive them away. They would prefer a soft approach.

  2. I did something unique today and combined the challenge words today with the Random Twitter poetry words to create a poem using 24 unique words: http://www.wandererthoughts.com/reach-divinity-random-twitter-poem-feb-7th/ what do you think of the result?

  3. […] is my submission for Creative Copy Challenge #306. Click on over and take the challenge yourself, or just read the comments to see what others have […]

  4. zennjennc says:

    This will post on my blog tomorrow so you might see the double post pingback. Don’t let this one give you an ideas @shanearthurccc —

    Kyle had already surpassed the average speed of traffic, which was above the noted speed limit, when Vanessa laid her hand softly on his thigh and whispered, “More please.” Skirt inching higher, she didn’t need to force him to kick his hot rod into overdrive. Kyle quickly became distracted by Vanessa’s wandering hand, naturally accelerating his hot rod. “Faster,” she moaned, mirroring her words with her errant hand. Kyle was about to max out his speedometer when he noticed the blue and red flashing lights in the rearview mirror. He was definitely busted.

  5. Anklebuster says:

    Neo-homo novus, the so-called transcendent man, was in reality nothing more than a class of people who had the capital, foresight and connections to be aboard one of the 17,000 SkyCruise Dirigible Hotels when the Apocalypse came calling. They were content to live out their lives in the soft, indefinable puffs of cumulus clouds.

    Each hotel was a self-contained village. Communications between airships dwindled in proportion to the decay of earth-bound infrastructures. Society and culture died – a natural consequence of the force that rises when humans lose their drive to climb the Maslow pyramid. Fitting irony, this literal transcendence being relegated to a quick, penciled note in the marginalia of the book of life. 17,000 living, floating mausoleums.

    Below, in the toxic cloud that had even killed off all of the roaches, a small band of truly evolved humans found each other. They were pleased to learn that, singularly, each of them was quite average and, more importantly, none was prone to kick and scratch at another. Instead, some avuncular instinct had awaken in them, had prompted them lend a helping hand to their dying neighbors and thence toward complete strangers wandering the forsaken lands.

    This same instinct drew them ever closer to San Antonio de Pichincha, near Quito, Ecuador. They had no way of knowing that SkyCruise had an experimental fabrication plant there. Nor could they know that Hotel 17,001 was tethered in a hangar, waiting for them to rewrite the human experience.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Anklebuster: Your muse must be banging his head waiting for so many books! 🙂 I am!

    • Don says:

      Awesome. I call dibs on buying the movie rights!

    • Liss Thomas says:

      Man, you are so cool! Your PC must smile everyday at what comes out of head…. If a PC could smile!

      • Anklebuster says:

        Aww, Liss. What a nice thing to say. Actually, my PC is all like, “Get this mess off me. Ain’t you heard of a typewriter?” I laughed at it and rebooted.

        Cheers,

        Mitch

    • Jen says:

      Every. Single. Time. Doesn’t your brain get tired of all this imagination?

      • Anklebuster says:

        Luckily, my noggin has plenty of fat stored up for energy. LOL
        Seriously, though. I enjoy this process too much. I’m really waiting for the third book to emerge. Some of these ideas seem like it would be tiring to flesh out.

        Cheers,

        Mitch

      • Jen says:

        LOL. Poor Mitch’s ideas are just too dadgum awesome! Let us daub the might word warrior’s brow with our pitiful pages! Heave ho. This could be a movie. I can see it.

      • Anklebuster says:

        @Shane. Funny comparison. But the prospector has a pickaxe and mule. I have a keyboard and ten fingers that failed typing lessons. LOL

        I am merely saying that some ideas really are just warm-ups, while others seem to be worthy of extension. The tiring part comes from deciding wrong. (I did this at NaNoWriMo and couldn’t breathe life back into the project.)

        On the other hand, being an intractable pantser, I ALWAYS write myself into corners. That’s not tiring, but it IS a pain, trying to wriggle out.

        @Jen, I would seriously treasure one of your pages – hell, that would be better than a Doritos Bishop Hat. 🙂

        Both of y’all, thanks for making my week.

        Cheers,

        Mitch

  6. Mistyfan says:

    It’s been a while since I did a challenge and it’s good to be back. Here is mine.

    Tim,

    Your dinner is in the oven. Give it half an hour to cook. Please clean up after you, and don’t spill any soft drink on the floor again. And please do not leave your jacket lying around again.

    Please take the dog for a walk.

    Please sweep the driveway.

    Expect me home about 8pm.

    Much love, Mum

    Tim, being your typical average teenage rebel, pouted, screwed up the note, and threw it on the floor. He wasn’t having any more of his mum leaving notes telling him what to do every evening. Clean up after himself? Take the stupid dog out for a walk? No sir! No self-respecting teenage rebel like him was going to do that! It wouldn’t even be natural for a teenager like him.

    He stormed his way to the front door. He knew what he was going to do. He often did it when he got really riled at his folks. And this time his foot was well and truly twitching with the force of what it was going to do.

    But then another quick note from Mum caught Tim’s eye. And this one was pinned to the front door:

    Tim,

    I know you are a teenage rebel, but please do NOT kick the door again.

    Much love, Mum

  7. Mistyfan says:

    It’s been a while since I did a challenge. Here is mine:

    “Tim,

    Your dinner is in the oven. Give it half an hour to cook. Please clean up after you, and don’t spill any soft drink on the floor again. And please do not leave your jacket lying around again.

    Please take the dog for a walk.

    Please sweep the driveway.

    Expect me home about 8pm.

    Much love, Mum”

    Tim, being your typical average teenage rebel, pouted, screwed up the note, and threw it on the floor. He wasn’t going to take any more of his mum leaving notes telling him what to do every evening. Clean up after himself? Take the stupid dog out for a walk? No sir! No self-respecting teenage rebel like him was going to do that! It wouldn’t even be natural for a teenager like him. He’d feel like a freak and all the gang would laugh at him.

    He stormed his way to the front door. He knew what he was going to do. He always did it when he got really riled with his folks. And this time his foot was well and truly twitching with the force of what it was going to do.

    But then another quick note caught Tim’s eye. And this one was pinned to the front door:

    “Tim,

    I know you are a teenage rebel, but please do NOT kick the door again.

    Much love, Mum”

  8. […] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #306 […]

  9. Liss Thomas says:

    Rebecca turned over and winced as a pain snaked though her limbs that she could not ignore. She tried to rise but a soft touch forced her to stay down. Her eyes flashed open, no longer alone in her dank cell.

    “Do not be afraid, I will not hurt you,” a voice assured. Soon a face came into view. Rebecca took note of the longer ears this female creature possessed.

    “You’re not a wolf,” Rebecca said.

    “No,” the female said, “I am a jackal, and a captive like you. My son and I were taken a few days ago. I woke here without him. Please, if you know where they are holding him, tell me, I beg you,” she cried.

    “I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “If I knew I would tell you. I know how it feels to ache for your child. It is unbearable not knowing if they’re ok. The wolves hunt for mine. They think their kicks and bites will drive me to reveal her whereabouts.” She laughed and smiled but it faded just as quick. “But I become stronger the more they hurt me. Well, at least my resolve is strong.”

    “Your body will heal, human. I will attend to you like I did for your Tomas.”

    “You are the one who helped him?” Rebecca asked.

    “And the reason why I’m here. But I cannot imagine why they would take my son,” she said on a sob.

    Rebecca touched the female’s arm. “They average two attacks in the span of ten days but I know a way to get their attention. I will inquire of your son’s whereabouts. It is only natural for them to brag about their deeds in the name of the King.”

    As if on queue, the outer door chains rattled and released. Guards appeared with daily rations. Rebecca forced herself to stand and face them.

    “Tell your King, I request an audience with him!” She spat.

    The guards laughed. “Better you stay here, little human. My brothers enjoy the taste of your blood on their tongues. King Ulvarg’s revenge is only tempered when you bleed. You may not survive the next circle.”

    Rebecca knocked their food trays aside, sending food all other the wolves. “I will see him now!”

    One guard shifted on the spot and lunged for her. The other guard knocked him aside. “Stop! The human will get her chance in front of the King and then you will have your fun.”

    ###

    Paloma sat alone in the damp cell, trembling. She rocked in place and kept her hands over her ears but it could not dampen the echoed screams of the human woman.

  10. Here is mine:

    Before Driving Advice

    The average person does not always follow best practices before they drive away from where ever they are.

    The Interesting Trip Experience story shows this.

    Please do more than you think you need to do before driving away, so things don’t force you into a similar situation.

    Some of the best practices include:

    Check gas levels
    Check tire pressure
    Check mirror alignment
    Check that you have a hands-free device for your phone
    Check anything else that might affect your trip.

    Moral:

    Jot a quick note to yourself, and put it where it will remind you, if kicking your tires to see if they are soft is not a natural act for you.

  11. Don says:

    I apologize, I didn’t have time to write a shorter entry. Write what you know, right?
    :

    Relax. Remember, you’re a natural.

    Sully did his best to calm me down, just like he always did, the way only he could. When you’ve known a guy since you were still messin’ your shorts, you kind of know what makes him tick, and what makes him twitch. I was doing all three right about then.

    Granted, I only had myself to blame. Pride can be a helluva thing, and cockiness can get you killed, or worse. Sully told me not to make that bet, not on this course, not with these guys. But we’d been drinking some good single-malt scotch since sundown, and whatever shred of sense I had had long since gone, swallowed up in a warm, fuzzy fog of bravado.

    I didn’t even know where they were from, being honest. Geography was never my best subject, after all, and after The Wall came down and the Cold War ended, it all kind of blurred into a sloppy mess of Chech-o-romanislavia in my mind. Didn’t matter, anyway. They were clearly Eastern European, certainly shady, and most definitely dangerous.

    And if I miss this putt, they’re going to kill me.

    Sully’d done good to get me here, after I’d fallen two down with three to go, two down to this knuckle-dragging mouth-breather, an average-at-best golfer with a handicap and IQ to match. I called him the mook. I should’ve been kicking his mook arse up and down the fairway, but, as he loved to note, this was his home course.

    Please. Like that should matter.

    I wanted the big lumber on the 18th, all tied up and riled up. “Are you kiddin’ me?” Sully said. “That’s a quick way to get yourself killed. Just hit your 4 and find the freakin’ fairway.”

    He was right, of course, especially since I was giving the mook a stroke on the final hole, meaning I had to beat him by one or I’m done. So I reached for my trusty-dusty low iron, my sure thing. I laced a perfect drive right into the heart of the short grass, bounding further with a heavy dose of topspin, coming to rest within easy striking distance. His turn.

    The mook pulled out his driver and sliced it right, getting quick on his swing and coming too far over the top, as his gallery of oversized goons groaned its disapproval. Typical. The pressure was getting to him, the thought of losing his boss’s money. He was left in the jungle 20 yards behind me, and things were looking up. I might get out of this alive just yet.

    Face twisted in contempt, the mook took a mighty axe-handle chop down at the ball, somehow making clean contact, and it sizzled through the air toward the peninsula green, which was nearly surrounded by water. Hitting a berm in front of the flag, the ball shot straight skyward, before plopping six feet from the hole with a soft thmmp.

    You just had to have one more scotch last night, didn’t you?

    Sully and I didn’t speak, he just stuck out my 9-iron and backed the bag away, nodding his head. Head down. Arm straight. Easy swing. Disco. Stuck it six feet from the flag, inside the mook.

    He lumbered over the ball, visibly shaking, nerves clenching him in knots. If he makes it he wins, and I’m left explaining how I may have overstated my financial footing. A little.

    His putt was firm, with force, and raced toward the hole. As it curled over the contours of the speedy green, the mook’s gallery audibly inhaled. But instead of finding the hole, it caught the outer edge, taking a 90-degree turn, before rolling downhill, picking up speed, careening off the green, bouncing off the rock wall, and plunging into the water.

    Ballgame.

    I stepped up, rolled in my putt, and smacked Sully’s outstretched hand. Moments later we were walking to the car, as I thumbed the fat roll of money in my pocket.

    “Time to celebrate,” Sully said. “Time for some scotch.”

  12. Jen says:

    Better late than never:

    It is the sound she hears when she blinks her eyes into the yellow light of the hospital room. She groans. Dammit, still here. Cold fingers clutch her own, the kick of her heartbeat thrums from the daughter to the mother, or is it the other way around.

    If she could just sit up, if she could just force a squeeze from these stupid fingers, worthless, she could get her attention, she could get her to stop that incessant blathering. It’s only death that comes, and that, the poets said, comes for us all. The memory fades, of Da’s natural grasp on her bony shoulders, weighted and dense and cracked like an urn.

    She is driven to glance, just quick, backward to see him retreating, to note his face, blank and frank. She groans again. Oh, God, that’s some horrible faux-etry, my students will laugh.

    Then she is fully here in the room, the machines continue the bleating, the calculation of her systems, of her existence. There are no more students. There is only Esme, and ridiculous Aunt Janice. There is no soft chalk dusting her dimpled fingers, no red pen squeezing callouses onto her too-soft hands. There are no longer any eager-to-please students, unaware of their staggering averageness. There is only Esme. And ridiculous Aunt Janice.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Jen: This piece had a powerful rhythm and flow to it, each line making me fear to read further. LOVED IT!

      • Jen says:

        Well, you know my first book was with Civitas, which uses CreateSpace, but this one I’m trying to place now is fiction, and I’m not ready to forgo the agent route yet. I figure 9 rejections isn’t really that many, comparatively. I also know that this publishing world is getting super wacky. So. I wonder, you probably know, what kind of stats there are for “success” with kindle on fiction v non fiction?

    • Anklebuster says:

      Like I said before, this is literature. This is serious writing. This is Jen.
      Woot! You, GO, Girl!

      I love how she thinks, “Dammit, still here.”

      Cheers,

      Mitch

    • Liss Thomas says:

      You do have a easy flow of words. If you publish… we will come…..

      • Jen says:

        Thanks, Liss. My first book, non fiction, was published in 2011. But what I’m trying to publish now is fiction. In fact, Mitch has read it. Mitch, what say you? Agent/self publish?

        • Anklebuster says:

          Jen, my opinion is that you are in a uniquely wonderful place: you already have a book on Amazon. My understanding is that this Kindle Self-publishing (KDP) is a popularity contest. If you can leverage your readership from the non-fiction book, that may help.

          At any rate, some new KDP gurus are crawling out of the woodwork. I’m not endorsing any of them, but the common thread indicates that “success” is a function of mastering the following:

          The systems
          The content
          The readers

          No particular order – I’m just trying to cover all bases.

          Naturally, the more you understand HOW things work with the KDP, the more you will be able to use (exploit?) them. Content doesn’t even require discussion – on the fiction side. Non-fiction will be subject to the same trends that fuel blog-posting frenzies (disasters, breaking news, celebrity voyeurism, etc.)

          That leaves “readers”. Self-publishing seems, to me, a balancing act between creating and marketing. With an agent, ideally, you just create. We all have read that this just ain’t so in publishing. So, in the end, if an agent is going to take your money and do nothing, you may as well, self-publish and use the savings to buy Ramen noodles until you hit the big time.

          As for your manuscript. Yes, it was awesome. If you need me to write a review, let me know 🙂

          In self-publishing, it’s all about the love affair between the author and her readers. I think this is why Sean Platt and David Wright are blowing up big time on Amazon. they even have an exclusive deal with one of Amazon’s publishing departments.

          Cheers,

          Mitch

      • Jen says:

        I also meant to say thank you!

  13. K says:

    Jack’s heavy breaths become visible in the frosty conditions that stab like a knife after enduring the first wave. A kick drives Jack toward the chasm, and he topples into it. Landing on his back, his shirt rides up, and the impact tears through his skin. He winces, yet the incoming silhouette forces him onto his feet. His arms block his opponent’s punches as naturally as breathing but being on the defensive pushes him back. Losing his balance over a pipe, his opponent strikes him in the jaw. The force behind the punch tosses Jack to the ground. Jack mops the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and staggers to his feet. Too sluggish in his actions, his enemy grabs him by his jacket and butts heads with him.

    “I’m sorry,” Drake apologizes in a softer tone than Jack could have ever imagined. “Please believe me when I say say this: I need to leave this place more than you ever do.” Jack’s mind blanks out for a moment as he squints at the bright lights now illuminating the grungy underground passageway. Drake notices the change in atmosphere and liberates Jack from his grasp. His eyes widen as he and Jack note a lanky figure donned in a hat and dark clothes as if shadows wrapped around him. They stumble backward, dodging the swipe of a dagger by a narrow margin. The unknown man aims the knife for Drake and flings it. Drake grunts and tries evading it, but the knife slices the bridge of his nose and part of cheek then lodges into the wall behind him. Providing as a distraction, the figure materializes in front of Drake, lifts his leg, and kicks him in the stomach. Drake flies across the room, hits the wall, and slumps against it. Clutching his stomach, he has no time to react as the man advances toward him.

    Jack views this as an opportunity to run to the exit, yet something constrains him to this room. Having second thoughts, Jack peers down one corridor then focuses back on Drake. The man wrenches the dagger from its place on the wall then raises it above Drake. Jack’s gut react in stead of his mind, and he lurches toward Drake. He tackles the man but appears too late. Jack diverts the dagger from piercing Drake’s chest, but it strikes Drake’s shoulder. The figure shifts to the left, leaving an opportune moment for Jack to pull Drake to his feet. Drake pulls out the knife from his shoulder, using his hand to staunch the blood. Jack slings Drake’s arm around his shoulder and drags him into the corridor. Tossing a glance across his shoulder, the man doesn’t pursue them but merely stands in the previous room. Instead, he snaps his fingers.

    Flames engulf the room, yet they curl and embrace the unknown man. He waves his hand toward Jack and Drake, and the coils of fire slither towards them. Upon seeing signs of imminent danger, Jack quickens his pace, but it seems slower than he thinks as he lugs Drake’s body with him. As he enters another labyrinth of hallways, maniacal laughter percolates through the walls. Jack, paranoid beyond his wits, looks around but spots nothing.

    “Do you hear that?” he gathers enough courage to ask Drake.

    “How could I not? It’s getting louder,” Drake responds. Jack pales as he notices the growing volume. He steals a quick glance at a clock lying on the ground. It reads ten til six thirty. His head begins planting doubt and concern in his every thought. An average dawn now becomes a gateway in which only one may be granted access. And in Jack’s mind, it isn’t him.

  14. “Don’t force me to do this, please.”

    She was on her knees, begging, crying, and eventually pleading as she held onto his pant leg. The tears failed to flow like an average person’s would, yet she never had the natural gift of excessive crying.

    He said nothing as he raised his hand. No, he didn’t hit her; he just pointed to the door and whispered Go.

    As her head lifted up to reveal her teary blue eyes, she was quick to wipe away the tears. Slowly, she gathered herself and stood up. Her soft voice was barely audible above the silence in the room.

    “I can’t believe, after all we’ve been through, you’re about to kick me out like this. I always tried to give you what you wanted, and I can give you more. Just give me another chance.”

    Not muttering a word, he began to give her a gentle push to force her towards the exit. He didn’t make any eye contact as he moved her belongings to the door.

    “Where will I go? I have no car to drive.”

    He reached into his pocket and handed her a few crumpled dollar bills. “For a cab,” he replied.

    She sighed as she realized it was pointless to try and change his mind. He wasn’t in the negotiating or listening mood. She grabbed the money and scooped up her belongings. She didn’t even glance back as she left the doorway; she knew it wouldn’t be wise to.

    
As the door closed behind her, he retreated to the kitchen, where he picked up flowers and a handwritten note.

    Their new home would be the trash.

  15. I wanted to see how many words I could combine with this one. I was able to do three sets of two. Cool.

    A quick note about averages.
    Please kick yourself into overdrive, as you’re well below the natural mean.
    Force more hard work, and less soft excuses.

  16. […] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #306 […]

  17. […] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #306 (creativecopychallenge.wordpress.com) […]


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