Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #327

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. Young
  2. Count
  3. Simple
  4. Enough
  5. Blaze
  6. Pavement
  7. Eat
  8. Effort
  9. Against
  10. Pick

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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21 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #327”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    The young man thought it would be simple enough to pick himself up off the pavement. Yet, because he also chose to shield his eyes from the sun’s blaze, he had only one arm with which to push against the rapidly warming bricks.
    “Help.” The effort to croak out even that one word made him realize that he had lost himself in the sea of humanity. When had the snow fallen? What happened? The old man counted his blessings, opened the greasy wrapper and began to eat.

  2. Jake Kampe says:

    Young Count Antonio Bernelli was simple enough to blaze mental pavement across the landscape of his mind, forced to eat reflections of yesterday, in an effort to shield himself against his Fatherโ€™s previous decision to pick his older brother for what lie ahead.

  3. Ashley says:

    Tessa sat by the edge of a man-made pond watching colorful fish swim around below the water’s surface. She forced herself to take deep breathes in an attempt to control the pain in her knees and palms, which felt like the blaze from a fire. The injuries on her knees and palms she had gotten from her simple fall on the pavement. In her haste to meet up with Dante, she had tripped on a raised portion of the pavement and had been sent sprawling. It had taken her quite a bit of effort to get back up and walk the couple feet to her spot beside the pond.

    She was supposed to meet up with Dante in her backyard after school to go to his world, where they would continue their search for the other half of the black pearl. Sometimes when she thought about their quest, she thought that she was too young and in way over her head. Lately she had found that she has been forced to swallow things that most people wouldn’t have been able to and the farther she went into his world the more she was beginning to lose count of all those things she had once considered normal.

    Pushing away her melancholy thoughts, she opened her messenger bag and pulled out a plastic bag. The plastic bag contained cookies, which were now a bit crushed from her fall. There were still enough whole cookies in the bag, but it was still a bit of a downer to see all of her hard work seemingly go to waste. Tessa wasn’t even sure that he would eat them anyways. A sigh escaped her lips as the thought of Dante refusing to even touch them passed through her mind.

    Tessa had just shoved the cookies back into her bag, when she heard Dante call out, “There you are, Tess. What are you doing?”

    “Oh, hey Dante,” Tessa said trying to be nonchalant.

    In the blink of an eye, he was right beside her peering at her bleeding knees and scrapped palms.

    “What did you do to yourself, you klutz,” he asked, checking out her one knee that was still lightly bleeding.

    “Oh, nothing much. I just tripped. Nothing to worry about,” Tessa replied, turning her gaze back towards the colorful fish.

    At the feel of his tongue against her wounded knee, Tessa whipped her gaze back towards Dante and she could feel her blood rushing to her face.

    “What are you doing?” Tessa stuttered, watching him lick her other knee.

    Taking hold of one of her hands, he glanced up at her with his golden eyes and answered, “My saliva has healing properties, so your wounds should be completely healed by the time we get to your house.”

    Wishing she could stop blushing, she watched as he finished licking both her hands before he swung her up in his arms and started walking towards her house.

    Dante sniffed the air and questioned, “Do you have cookies?”

    “They’re a bit crushed, but yeah I do,” Tessa mumble, still impressed that he had been able to pick her up so easily.

    “Who cares,” Dante cried happily. “Food is food as long as it tastes good.”

  4. My father. When I was young, he lived in my imagination and he was beautiful and kind. He could not stand the bland asexuality of The Duchess and so he had left. I knew this. I knew she had repelled him, because I had watched her make a game of the men who managed to get through one dinner without being offended by her arrogance. She repelled me. She repelled everyone. Her presence was a blaze, and it had burned him, my father, and sent him packing. Who could blame him? She ate his soul, I was sure of it.

    Other times, few other times, I picked him out of the features of my friends’s fathers. They were enough, these imaginings, because Aunt Janice always reminded me, The Duchess did the best she could, she made the small effort of motherhood that assuaged her.

    He was my first design. At basketball games in the school gym, while my friends ran up and down the wooden bleachers with thunking feet and bleating hormones, I leaned against the wall, counting them, dissecting them, piecing the disparate parts of the men, into the shining father I knew I had.

    I didn’t care if he was particularly handsome, or a smart dresser. I wanted the guys who walked behind their daughters, making sure they arrived on time, not talking to them in public. I wanted the dads who slid their eyes along the benches, apprising the boys who would be our dates. The dads who slunk silently and simple, like shadows, but who had enough shoulder breadth to demand respect. I stitched him up out of their parts. Eyes and shoulders and salted hair. Glasses, and a confident quiet gait of loafers on pavement, so no one could hear him approach.

    I threw him away eventually, a balled up sheaf of paper, a wasted idea, a bad design. Chucked it into the trash, with other childish things. I purged him, too. And I did not think of him. Ever.

    • Anklebuster says:

      Jen, the way you think, it is fascinating. In a way, this chapter feels like a behind-the-scenes look at how YOU design your captivating characters. Such attention to detail:

      “…a confident quiet gait of loafers on pavement, so no one could hear him approach.”

      Cheers,

      Mitch

  5. Paul says:

    The young count buffed his manicured nails, his bland grey eyes screwed up with the pain of earnest concentration. Mathers studied him with stainless steel eyes. He had been servant to the Seviche family for the past ten years, his guiding hand at the count’s back since he was six. Long ago he had surmised that the teenager was simple; he had redoubled his educational efforts. It was never enough.

    Hubert Seviche looked up from his well-tended and underused fingers, his distant gaze taking a long moment to return to the present. He saw Mathers watching and started to a semblance of slouched attention.

    ‘Mathers, are you picking on me? I’ve got a brother you know. Why don’t you bother him?’ The tone was demeaning and the count tried to make his eyes blaze with indignation. He achieved less than a damp squib. The gesture was wasted on Mathers; he had never bothered learning to be intimidated.

    He was aware of Marcus, but only being three he was not Mathers’ concern just yet. In time he would be, once he could eat without plastic implements.

    ‘Mathers, do you know what “pavement pizza” is?’ Without waiting for a response the excitable count answered his own question: ‘It’s sick. In the street. Someone being sick in the street. Can you imagine such a thing? Isn’t it amazing what you learn on TV? You never teach me such useful things. Pavement pizza!’

    Mathers sighed – silently, of course. He constantly strove to suppress the infantile dribblings of his underdeveloped student, but he would have been better chatting to the wind.

    He had discussed those shortcomings at length with Herbert’s father, Archcount Armand Seviche, a noble nobleman whose proud blood ran blue. A man whom Mathers deeply respected and would hear not a word against.

    The Archcount was aware of his son’s failings and deeply troubled by them. It concerned Mathers to see the festering wounds inflicted by the eldest son, particularly with the Archcount’s reputation for ruthless efficiency. His iron will and sleekit silver tongue had given him ultimate power over the prosperous principality of Calabaria and he strove to maintain that vice-like grip. Weakness would not be tolerated, emotion could not be indulged.

    Hubert was looking at Mathers expectantly, all slack-jawed, wide-eyed dopery. What a buffoon, Mathers thought, immediately cursing himself for indulging in such base emotion. Nevertheless, he knew it was time to alter the path of succession; the Archcount had already instructed him of the same.

    Mathers was no idealist. He knew that there were parts of the job he enjoyed and others he detested. Whither or whether, he accepted necessity.

    He permitted himself a tight grin. Herbert was going to get all the answer he wanted and more. The little shit.

    • Anklebuster says:

      Paul, I sense that there is some royal “cobblestone cobbler” in the count’s future.
      This would be a great novel opening chapter….is it? ๐Ÿ™‚

      Cheers,

      Mitch

  6. […] Creative Copy Challenge #327 […]

  7. K says:

    You.

    Dim sunlight filters in from the window, signaling the beginning of dawn. Your eyelids crack open, and you prop yourself up against the bed’s headboard. Exhausted from the previous night, it takes effort for you to come to your senses and pick out enough details. You plan to blaze through the room to head to the bathroom, but movement on the bed halts your steady actions. The sunlight provides an ethereal glow around the person as the figure shifts its head towards you. As soon as your eyes land on that face, guilt eats away at your insides and churns inside your thoughts. You bury your face in your hands as disgust tears at your stomach. Sucking in a breath, you remove your hands from your face, confronting the world that will destroy the pavement underneath your feet at will once this has been shed some light. You shift around on the bed to face the sleeping figure. Once, you remember telling yourself that the solution had been simple, but unlike some of the things you promise, you had told yourself a lie. You lean forward to touch her smooth, young face but retract your hand as soon as she stirs. Although she moves, she continues to sleep, grasping the blanket wrapped around her.

    How does it feel? Recall last night an how you had succumbed to the snake called pleasure and incited this girl to join you. Nothing seems wrong with the prior statement, but the difference can be counted with more than three fingers. Ask yourself one last question: was it worth it?


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