Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #307

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. Bend
  2. Age
  3. Fade
  4. Rip
  5. Drift
  6. Within
  7. Matter
  8. Avoid
  9. Slap
  10. Turn

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.)

59 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #307”

  1. Tanja Cilia says:

    It’s a matter of age. Within a couple of hundred years, your eyesight fades, your memories drift, and it’s a rip-tide of emotions, enough to send you round the bend. Avoid this turn of events by being slap-dash, and the time flies will not be able to infect you.

  2. KathleenK says:

    A day off… to come play… alphabetically arranged”

    What is the age that we avoid bend ing because we see we are drift ing, our core strengths fad ing? Silly question for many, matter s, yes it does, that the fabric of our lives rip s even if it is ever so slightly, slap ping many of us in the face as we turn another page of our life’s story, all within the confines of growing old gracefully.

  3. Anklebuster says:

    For Frank
    [the story begins with CCC #205 and continues at CCC #206.]


    Gertrude complimented her mother on the chili, threw her napkin in the bowl and prepared to take her dishes into the kitchen. The loud pop that accompanied Gertrude’s stiff motions were not due to age -she was only 23. Every bend and turn of her hips were due to the stretching and compressing of the silicone portion of her artificial gluteus maximus. The embarrassing noise was most distressing to her when she arose from the dinner table. She could never avoid blushing as if she had just ripped one. Her baby brother never failed to slap his knees – real knees – in mirth.

    Still, she was happy to have legs again. Six months into her bionic woman impersonation, her psychological “episode” caused her doctors to re-evaluate her fitness for the Circumnavigator 52X, a cyborg-like wheel chair to which she had been assimilated. During the eval, she had broken down and admitted that she had wanted the chair for the wrong reasons. As she was within the warranty period, Mercy General freely performed both the dissimilation – which hadn’t really taken, anyway – and the conventional transfemoral prosthetic surgeries. Slowly, she was acclimating to her relatively low-tech enhancements.

    As she absent-mindedly dropped her bowl into the sink, the forgotten napkin with it, her thoughts drifted to the prison that college had become. She had missed yet another semester to convalescence and her dream of becoming an organic chemist was beginning to fade. She was being drawn to sports medicine, particularly the emerging field of Cybernetic Gait and Motion Analysis. As she was practically a poster child for the horrors of assimilation, she felt an obligation to spare others from rushing headlong into operating room. The decision to turn oneself into a human Segway was not a matter to be considered lightly.

    With another loud pop, Gertrude reached under the sink for the dish detergent…


  4. […] is my submission for Creative Copy Challenge #307. Click on over and take the challenge yourself, or just read the comments to see what others have […]

  5. Jen says:

    I hope you guys still respect me in the morning…this is not my usual oevre. But I do like using that word.

    McNulty was the first. Margaux found that she could stomach the faded khakis that sloped below his concave stomach, and the drifting way he lectured. She might even have liked the way his thumbs looped into the waistband to pull them back up onto his skinny hips. Margaux might even have smiled when she caught him doing this in class. She did not turn away when he lay a flat palm against the curve of back. She matched his eyes with hers, and felt power that she could maintain the gaze longer. She knew, when his eyes flicked to the door behind her, that already he balanced his guilt with his desire. And this made her better. Better than him. Better than the other him who had ripped her open and replaced her will with a seed-small ember.
    McNulty’s face approached hers, and she recognized his age, not old, but with enough of a history to no longer be young. Or even youngish. Another thing that made Margaux better. Years later Margaux could enumerate all the ways she had bypassed this lecherous middle aged professor, in her sexual power and her publishing credentials. She knew it then, even then, in the dim coffee room in the basement of the English department. She knew that after his lips reached for hers, and after her neck bent to receive his kiss, the gaze they shared now would vanish. His would be replaced with the stone of shame and hers, oh hers would transcend.
    His soundless grunting and the groaning table beneath them filled her ears. For the shortest moment, Margaux was again in that fraternity, with that man, but she subdued that flash and forced herself present. She could force herself to do anything. She would coldly proceed. This small act, it didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything. He heaved and sagged against her, not unlike his worn, dun colored pants, which clung to his ankles in a kind of human mocking. Men are made of that? Margaux fought the laughter rising from within. He stood, and zipped and ran some cold water over his wrists while she pressed her skirt back in place, tossing a wad of gritty napkins into the bin in the corner. She avoided an another urge, to slap his ass and thank him for the fun.
    It would shock exactly no one when her belly began to swell.

  6. Liss Thomas says:

    Although school came easy to Jill, it grew weary knowing that she couldn’t affect what mattered most right now.  Instead, she sat on a table top in the school’s courtyard nearest to the woods listening to a more mellow playlist on her iPod.  Her lunch sat forgotten in a small brown bag.   

    She let her eyes drift to the boy sitting near the edge of the lunchroom.  He’d been watching her all afternoon.  He’d introduced himself as Robbie in her homeroom class.  She’d given him a courtesy smile before ignoring him for the rest of the period.  Not that he wasn’t cute. He’d cut his curly brown hair almost to a buzz cut but she still saw the wavy pattern. His light brown eyes knew how to get her attention but she thought it best to avoid complications.  Jill turned her attention back to the woods when she felt a familiar sensation of eyes watching.  She sensed Vrag, rather than saw him and after giving the slightest of finger waves, his presence faded away again.

    She had little peace within the halls of the high school, with those who remembered her Goth days laughing at her new look, bullies teasing the ‘smart girl’ and all around jerks looking for someone to slap around. Lunchtime let her escape from the ugliness and regain her sanity. But not today.

    “Hey! This is our table,” a boy said as he and his two buddies approached. Jill ignored them and upped the volume on her music. Before she knew it, one ripped her iPod from her hands, another took her lunch, tossed it to the ground and stomped it flat. The other reached to grab her but never got the chance.

    Robbie appeared like smoke. He shoved the boys away, snatched the iPod back and stood in front of her, challenging them. His brown eyes darkened and his fists clenched causing his biceps to swell under his t-shirt. She watch the bullies rethink their claim on her table and retreat. Jill knew she should thank him but it wasn’t the first thing out her mouth.

    “Are you stalking me?” she asked.

    “Yes,” he said with a smile, handing back her iPod. He removed his backpack before bending down and retrieving her smashed lunch and discarding it. “Sorry about your lunch.”

    “It’s ok. Thanks anyway, Robbie.”

    “Score one for the stalker. She remembers my name,” he said. He pulled half a sandwich from his backpack and gave it to her. She laughed.

    “PB&J with the crust torn off? I’ve learned to eat the crust at my age.”

    “I gave the crust to a family of ducks on my way to school. The little ones, went wild for the jelly bits,” he said.

    “Score another point for the stalker,” Jill said as she took a bite. Robbie retrieved his backpack, winked and walked away. Jill watched him walk back inside as she finished the sandwich. She licked the sweet stickiness from her fingers before she scooped up her own backpack and headed back inside also. She hoped it wouldn’t be too long before Robbie stalked her again.


    Robbie took a short cut through the woods after leaving school. He’d sat near the front of the building and watched Jill as she walked home. He sat there long after she’d disappeared from view. Shaking his head, he blew out a heavy sigh and walked past the small creek where his family of ducks nestled down for the night. He dropped a few crumbs and continued on.

    The woods grew darker as he reached the center. He stopped and leaned against a large tree and checked his watch. A few minutes late but he didn’t care. A light flashed, blinding him for a few seconds before a hand clamped hard around his neck.

    “You’re late, boy. You better have good news for King Ulvarg for your mother’s sake.”

    “I haven’t found her yet,” Robbie lied as he gasped and struggled against the wolf but it only laughed and dragged him back to his room. It was a small bedroom with all he needed to pull off being a high school student in the human world. The wolf tossed Robbie inside and stood in the doorway, keys in hand.

    “Then I suggest you try harder tomorrow, young jackal. King Ulvarg is tired of waiting. You better find her soon if you value your mother’s life.” He slammed the door and Robbie heard the lock slide shut. He didn’t bother getting up from the floor. Curling into a ball, he tried not to think about tomorrow and what he had to do to Jill.

  7. The rip in my heart will never heal and the memories in my mind will never fade away. No matter, I think to myself, I will probably only love from within as I drift away from social situations. Despite my young age I don’t go out and party or live this outrageously outgoing life. I am a social recluse and I will not bend to society’s idea of the ideal person. It’s okay to be introverted and and avoid the crowd.

    But no matter I ponder again, one day I may find someone or dive right into that crowd. I may have that special someone to turn to when times get rough.

    But for now, I might just curl up and finish reading this intriguing novel. Take that society as I provide a silent slap to your hypocritical face.

  8. […] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #307 […]

  9. Don Shell says:

    The red dot was panning across her body, and Adrié knew immediately. They’ve found me.
    She saw it just in time to spin sideways, her mind instinctively focusing thrust outward as a shield, hoping to deflect it. She couldn’t stop a bullet, not something that small and that fast, but she only needed to avoid something fatal.
    Glass shattered in front of her, the cheap panes of her seedy Marrakesh room exploding with the shot. She felt the shell spin sideways off her psychic shield, lodging into the floor beside her.
    She hit the deck, slapping hard on the berber rug covering the dusty floor of her otherwise squalid safe house. The bullets ripped through her windows, as shards of shattering glass fell all around her, the shots coming faster, closer.
    She rolled sideways toward the bed, away from the window. Adrenaline was kicking in good now, helping her focus, concentrate on the matter at hand. Get out. Get to the roof. She knew the street would make her an easy target. She needed higher ground, and a clear visual on her shooter.
    Diesch. It’s gotta be him, it’s gotta be that ugly fils de pute.
    He was scary good with a gun, supernatural, thanks to those senses, those reflexes, that crazy vision. He was like her — a product of genetic drift, chromosomal evolution, a freak. If he needed a laser sight, he must be 250 meters, at least. She knew that bought her time, if she could stay covered. That was a big if.
    He was too far away for her to have felt him coming. Durham learned that lesson after he sent Elam after her, a man who could kill with a touch. Diesch was death from afar, but a blunt object, a threat she could handle if she could get within range.
    Get to the roof.
    The shooting stopped, giving Adrié the window she needed to make a break for it. She flung open the door with her mind, giving her room for a running start and a clear shot at the hallway.
    She launched herself toward the door, diving into the hall, as bullets whistled above her, splintering the wall beyond.
    She made it. She raced down the hallway to the staircase, and flew up the flight to the roof access door. Locked. But not for long. Adrié focused hard, the metal hinges starting to shake, bend to her will. The door popped open, and she stepped into the daylight.
    Diesch was on the move, to be sure, working his way toward her. He’d be expecting her to make a break for it on the street below, or through the alley to the buildings behind. He’d underestimate her, a pretty, young girl her age. Her age. Merde. She was all of 22, but going on 45, her line of work taking its toll, the early signs of gray already infiltrating her head of honey-colored hair.
    She’s take it out on Diesch. And then, for that
    matter, his boss.
    Through the din below she picked up his heartbeat, meaning he was close now, coming closer, pushing past the locals on the congested cobblestone streets. It was rush hour in Marrakesh, people heading home, creating a mess of honking horns, bikes, and pedestrians. Diesch was agitated, she could tell the way his heart was racing. He was across the street now, scanning with that eagle eye, trying to find her in the crowd.
    He made his way across the uneven, cracked-stone street, heading for the alley between the low-rent apartments she’d holed up in. He was winded from running, wasn’t used to it. She wouldn’t give him a chance to catch his breath.
    It’s my turn, pute.
    She flung herself over the edge of the four-story apartment, focusing her force out to her hands and feet, braced against the alley walls between the buildings, slowing her fall just enough. She landed squarely on top of his neck, knocking him to the ground with a thrmmmp!
    He tried to turn over, reaching for the gun inside his coat, but it was too late for him. Adrié stood over him, flush with adrenaline, muscles tense, focusing hard. She brought her arm up, sitting Diesch up into position like a doll, then snapped her wrist hard, spinning his head on his neck like a top, the audible crrackk! echoing off the alley walls as Diesch crumpled.
    Sirens blared in the distance. Adrié faded into the alley.
    It was time to go home.

  10. Tanja Cilia says:

    What? Where? Who? Why? When? More (and more!) please…

  11. K says:

    Here’s the conclusion!

    Continuation of #306:

    After turning a corner, Jack props Drake against the wall. He spots a thin sheet of fabric, rips it into strips, and binds them onto Drake’s arm to mitigate the blood flow. Drake fixes his eyes on the floor, muttering.

    “What was that?” Jack asks for clarification.

    “I said why don’t you save yourself?” Drake spits. “Only one of us can escape. This is your chance. Leave me here. I don’t have much time in this world anyway.”

    “Quit your whining. That cut in your arm isn’t going to get you killed.” Jack tightens the pieces of cloth around his shoulder. “If I can help it, we’re both going to make it out of here. I swear that on my life. Are you in or out?” Jack extends in hand toward Drake which he takes. Heaving Drake onto his feet, Jack guides them out of the room, tossing glances behind him and Drake. Orange flames flicker from the end of the dark corridor, devouring everything in their wake. As if sniffing out their scent, the fire advances toward them and catches up to them in a matter of seconds. Drake avoids the flames licking underneath his feet and breaks out into a sprint. On the other hand, Jack remains mortified by the speed of the fire until it travels to his feet. It coils onto his legs and bites into his pants, sating its voracious hunger. Feeling the fire scald his skin, Jack stamps his feet to no avail. He dashes off to find Drake, but the fire wreaks havoc on his clothes and skin. The smell of melting flesh causes his eyes to tear up, and the sting ripping through his skin permits him to scream.

    “I got it!” Drake’s voice emanates from beyond the light of the hallway. Running toward Jack with a bucket in his possession, Drake splashes a small amount of water on him once within the vicinity. The flames die down, screeching as the water douses the out. This gives time for Jack and Drake to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of corridors. Although the fire dims, it intensifies after a moment but fades from the duo’s vision. Jack drifts behind Drake, coughing. The scent of smoke emitted by the fire aggravates him.

    “Drake,” Jack wheezes. Falling back, Drake pays close attention to Jack. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

    “I could say the same.”

    “Listen. We won’t be able to get out of here without getting rid of the fire. Once you’re caught in it, you can’t get out by yourself.”

    “I get that. The fire almost burned you to ashes. But you’re saying we have to get rid of it? Do you know what that means?” Drake asks. Jack nods.

    “I know exactly what it means.” The two spare a glance at each other then scour the hallways littered with items. Jack salvages a variety of blades sharp or dull and stores them in his pockets and sleeves while Drake brandishes a rusty pipe. Nothing else that could be used as a weapon appears before them. Jack notes that the laughter had silenced after his encounter with the fire and grips the sharpest dagger he found tighter in his hand. Before Jack and Drake venture into the heart of the abandoned terminal, their surroundings distort, bending at will. Drake loses his balance as the floor underneath him shifts into a ledge rising twenty feet above ground level, leaving the pipe on the ledge. Trying to grapple onto the edge, his fingertips graze it, but he slips off. Jack, towering above him, kneels down then extends his arm to grab Drake. Pulling Drake onto the ledge, Jack urges him onto the next platform, feeling as the aging foundations of the ledge shake because of their weight. Drake picks up the pipe once again and witnesses as the previous ledge crumble and plunge towards the ground alongside Jack.

    “It must’ve been that guy with the hat,” says Drake. Jack grits his teeth after hearing the news. What kind of monster are they up against? Despite the change in surroundings, the path seems straightforward. The guys scale a spiraling staircase and reach the pinnacle: a room comprising of nothing but dust and columns circling to form an arena. As expected, the man tilts his hat to them and gestures for them with a mocking finger. Drake charges toward him, swinging the pipe. The phantom disappears, materializing a few feet away. Being nearer to him than Drake, Jack sneaks behind and stabs him. The phantom performs the trick again, floating toward the center of the arena. His laughter begins again, rumbling the foundations of the room. Jack’s vision yields to darkness, causing him to grope around. A slap rouses him from his disorientation, and the arena surfaces back into his sight. Jack’s head spins, and the figure staring back him didn’t alleviate his headache to any degree.

    In fact, it worsens it. Jack falters, stepping back. With a grin plastered on his face, Drake disarms Jack, waving the dagger around.

    “Stop it, Drake. I thought we were in this together,” Jack reasons with him.

    “We are,” Drake approaches him, licking the blade. “You’re the reason I’m getting out. Thanks for offering your life, Jack.” Concentrating only on Drake, his figure blurs, intermittently showing the phantom in Drake’s position. Convinced that the phantom had conjured this Drake, Jack evades the phantom’s cumbersome steps and actions, retaliating with his own punches and kicks. Aiming one in his stomach, Jack seizes the opportunity and wrests the dagger from him. The phantom stumbles backward but kicks him. Sidestepping it, Jack advances toward the phantom, raising the dagger above his head. Before stabbing the phantom as he should, an idea plants itself in his mind. Why had this been simple? Easy, it isn’t.

    Jack substitutes the dagger in his hand for a slightly duller one up his sleeve and pins the supposed phantom to the wall. Although it struggles, the knife constrains him in place. With that out of Jack’s mind, he searches for the actual phantom and heads toward the distorted area where the man stands. He rushes to him and swipes, but the phantom anticipates his move and rams Jack’s arm into his stomach. Jack coughs up blood as the illusion melts away. Drake’s shimmering form stays intact, and the phantom’s figure solidifies. The knife impaled in his stomach forces Jack onto his knees. Panting, Jack looks forward, finding the corridor beyond glowing with faint light. The phantom bursts with laughter. Grabbing Jack by the throat, the phantom strangles Jack. He claws at the hands constricting his throat and splutters in an effort to speak. Being the underdog of the fight, bruised and beaten Drake growls, tackling the phantom. Jack topples along with the phantom into the puddle of blood shed by him. Right on time, the flames catch Jack’s scent, familiar with it. Jack liberates himself from the phantom’s grasp, guiding Drake forward.

    “But that guy-” Drake interjects.

    “Leave him here,” Jack responds. “Fire always needs something to feed on even if it has to be its creator.” They enter the corridor without glancing back on the onslaught. As Jack had stated, the flames engulf the phantom, reeking of Jack’s blood. From devouring the powerful being, the fire combusts. The explosion propels them forward, earning them fresh cuts. They rise to their feet and bolt toward the feeble amount of light. Instead of meeting an exit as expected, a grate obstructs the way out, filtering in exorbitant rays of sunlight from the outside world. Drake slams his hands on the bars, damaging them further. Tears pour from Jack’s eyes, and their salinity stings him like the truth of his situation. Glimpsing back into the hallway, he hears a chuckle from the rubble, signaling victory and another passing dawn.

  12. Alistair Kruger says:

    My ex girlfriend had such a beautiful face. Age had not got the better of her. The rip in her jeans made me fade away into a world of longing. My ex girl, avoid her. Slip into the shadows if you must; turn if you can, don’t drift into her spell, slap yourself… hard. Find it within yourself to resist. Do not bend down and worship her, she doesn’t matter that much, in fact, she doesn’t matter at all.

  13. “Don’t bend it, woman! I’ve aged and it has too.”
    “And your hair’s faded and all your cartilage is ripped .”
    “And my mind drifts within medications. But it don’t matter . I know how to avoid all this aging.”
    “How’s that?”
    Turn over and I’ll slap you how?”

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