Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #343

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 and around each of your words if you want them to stand out, but NOT REQUIRED THOUGH.

  1. States
  2. Push
  3. Proposal
  4. Territory
  5. Appropriate
  6. Unclothed
  7. African
  8. Urged
  9. Defeat
  10. Promising

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.


74 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #343”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    Swoope Caliente woke up abruptly, shivering. Through the lightning bolts of pain, he recognized the damp night breeze cooling the not at all appropriate regions of his body. He urged his muscles to twist himself into an upright position. That’s when he noticed his erstwhile quarry studying him.

    Swan Vee warily eyed the injured warrior. His sculpted body may have been bronze, but strong, broad lips and wide nostrils suggested African ancestry. She contemplated his exotic physiology as she waited for his mind to go through the various states from confusion to lucidity.

    His demeanor contorted. That was not a promising signal. However, she ignored it and cleared her throat.

    “I have a proposal,” she began.

    Caliente spat. “Pox you, dirty sophist!”

    “Fine. Then you may remain unclothed in unfamiliar territory. Perhaps I wasted my time coming back for you.”

    Caliente glared, defiant even in defeat. “You got lucky.”

    “No! You got stupid! You fell for the illusion that brains are no match for brawn. Did you miss the class where they taught you to know your enemy?”

    Caliente grimaced ever so slightly, not even aware of his physical reaction to the embarrassing question. Instead of answering, he asked her, “Why did you come back?”

    Swan Vee walked toward him. The deep black pools beneath her angry furrowed brow had the power to rock him back on his heels. Her words delivered the push.

    “Unlike you warriors, we eat what we kill.”

  2. Kelly says:


    Here I am minding my own business
    suds up my arms in tons of dishes
    Waving my hips to an African beat

    The radio is promising me riches
    and even though it’s sounds and not three wishes
    I’ve been making my own fairy tales come true
    I didn’t know that I wished for you

    Long time, seems right
    Appropriate the night
    I’ll stay inside
    Couldn’t handle unclothed sunshine
    Wanted my life to be mine
    Used all my de
    to beat
    the dancing from my feet

    Knocked off balance by your purposeful stride
    Into my territory, out of my pride
    It isn’t your eyes, it’s your lopsided smile

    I’m going through the states of emotion
    Denial up to getting with the program
    I’m being urged by the whole city
    to face how good we could be

    Will you give me time
    to change the rhyme?

    Stay with this proposal
    I won’t push more than is normal, but
    don’t expect
    me to accept
    ‘Cause I
    think you and me
    could be sweet

    I think you and me could be

    • Anklebuster says:

      I seem to remember that you wrote songs on the Old CCC. This one is nice.
      Are you a torch songwriter, Kelly? Perhaps a nocturnal lady version of Duke Silver?



      • Kelly says:

        For sure! The torch never goes out at my house, Mitch. I’ve written more songs than there have been CCCs, over the years. Not all worthy of daylight, of course, but I’d like to think some are mighty fine.

        But darnit, Miranda Lambert never sings ’em, so I still gotta go do the J-O-B every day. 😉

    • Cathy Miller says:

      unclothed sunshine – Fabulous, Kelly! 🙂

    • Kelly,
      I can almost hear the music behind this.

      • Kelly says:

        I’m so glad, Steve. With this one and 342 this morning, I just couldn’t resist. Feeling tuneful, I guess!

    • Kelly says:

      Oh, lordy. I just took a look at this again…

      “Denail” should, rather obviously, be “denial.”

      Typing too fast this morning, it seems. Apologies, dear readers. ^_^

      • Anklebuster says:

        I saw that and the split de termination and forgot to go back in after replying to comments. Dnail is fixed, but I was’t sure about your plan with the second one.



    • bbanne says:

      I’d love to hear this set to music, Kelly. It has a rhythm to it.

    • Kelly says:

      Mitch, I guess we can only nest two comments? I can’t seem to reply to you directly to thank you for the edit. (And poetry’s weird, huh? ‘Cause the split in determination is intentional, but a misspelling? Horrors!!!)

      • Anklebuster says:

        No worries, Kelly. I knew you were going for style – thanks for reaffirming that I should always check with the author 🙂



        p.s. @Shane / @Anne re: Two Deep Limit – is that WordPress.com, Clean Home, Theme or site owner preference? For my two cents, 2 deep seems to restrict conversation, but it does make the layout look neater…

      • bbanne says:

        Not sure, Mitch. I will take a look.

    • I can hear the music now…nice work Kelly

  3. Cathy Miller says:

    “Hey, Lieutenant, have you seen the ME’s report?”

    “No, enlighten me,” David Evans, lieutenant of the Portland homicide department answered.

    “It states here that the Jane Doe was murdered,” Detective Woznicki shared with a wry smile.

    “The 20 or so stab wounds gave me a pretty big clue,” Evans smirked.

    “Yeah, I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks. We’re hoping forensics has something a bit more ‘enlightening’ for you.”

    “I’m on it,” the lieutenant replied with a push back on his chair.

    The proposal that this or any murder was routine was ludicrous to Lieutenant Evans. Twelve years on the force had not lessened the personal insult he felt with each murder.

    He grabbed the door handle to the wild, wild west territory known as the Forensic Services Division. The one impersonating science.

    Metallica’s Fuel assaulted his eardrums with pounding, percussive volume.

    “Jeez-us, Matthews, I guess science doesn’t need ears.”

    “What?” he grinned while clicking gimme fuel, give me fire into muted bliss.

    “So you here about our Jane Doe?”

    “Yeah, Woznicki has faith that you’ll enlighten us.”

    “That would be an appropriate assumption.”

    “What’d you find?”

    “Jane was a tigress. She may have unclothed our perp’s fashion sense.”

    “What the hell does that mean, Mathews?”

    “Elementary, my good man. Jane’s nail snagged a thread-Ha-Ha- of evidence. See this material the crime tech found under the body? It’s consistent with traditional African clothing, like a dashiki.”

    “Huh. That’s something, I guess.”

    “Oh, it’s more than something. She snagged a piece of the label. It urged me to hit the great Google god. Turns out, it’s an exclusive line. And expensive.”

    “Guess we can rule out anyone from the department. Good work, John.”

    “Thank Jane. She snatched us from total defeat by fighting hard.”

    Finally, something promising on a case the lieutenant feared would go the route of so many other unsolved murders.

    “I love when they speak to us. Let’s nail this bastard.”

    “I’m all over that.”

  4. Cathy Miller says:

    Oops-somehow it printed twice- oh editor, please fix. 🙂

  5. The push by the African tribal leader to add his tribal lands as a territory of the United States was a promising proposal.

    It ultimately ended in defeat when his representative showed up unclothed at the hearing. Even when urged to cover up, the 400 pound sub-chief refused citing cultural grounds.


    When trying to influence others, you should wear appropriate attire for the venue.

  6. […] This is my submission for Creative Copy Challenge #343. […]

  7. K says:

    Sorry it’s so long.

    For most of the boy’s day, he attends school and greets the vacant house- his territory– in the afternoons before working alongside his mother in the evening. The boy, living alone for most of his young life, prepares himself the one meal he remembers how to make: instant noodles. He had come to regard the noodles and the broth as nectar of the gods until they no longer nourished him. Numb to the taste, the boy confronts his mother and demands better noodles.

    At first, he states his desire, but after facing rejection, he raises his voice and risks throwing a tantrum. His mother, defeated, runs into the house before departing to a nearby restaurant with her son in tow. There, she orders pasta for her son and watches as a grin spreads on his face when the waiter sets the plate on the table. He wolfs down the dish, but before the two leave, he questions why his mother did not order one for herself. She merely remarks that she did not deem pasta appropriate for her palate and leaves. At that moment, the boy had wanted to apologize for being hasty and for forcing her to eat something she disliked, but looking back on it, he should have apologized for another reason.


    Besides the ball he lost some time ago, the boy did not own a toy nor something serving the same function. Yet one day after finishing up some of his mother’s workload, the boy, lying on his back, watches as his mother scrambles inside the house and emerges onto the porch with something in hand. She seats herself next to her son who sat up then presents a harmonica to him. Its surface glints in the sunlight, yet it, too, reflects the distorted, weary faces staring at it. Knowing her son would not accept such a gift, she puts it in his hand and curls his fingers around it. She then urges him to keep it for her sake, and to her dismay, he nods, promising not to lose it.

    He yawns, and before he knows it, he passes out on the porch. The woman lifts her son’s head from the floor and places it on her lap. Her fingers ruffle his hair then trail down his face, stroking his cheek. Her eyes follow, taking in the torrential sweat pouring down his face and his overall peaceful expression unmarred by an eternal frown. His chest rises and falls in tune with his soft breaths. The woman’s gaze stops at his hand which remains balled around the harmonica. Piercing the small smile gracing her, tears stream down her face. If only she put in more effort, perhaps, she could have provided him a proper toy.

    The boy experiences a surge of emotions his teenage years sweep in and pays the price while waiting in the principal’s office. He bears a bloody lip as opposed to the black eye and broken nose of his adversary. The injuries had stemmed from a taunt:

    “What is that? I swear you really grab food from the nearest dumpster,” his enemy had said, tipping his lunch off of the desk. The food had spilled out, its container clanging against the floor. “You call that clothes? You’d be better off unclothed, but I guess your mom didn’t get the message. It would suit you, you know. Naked like your savage African kin. You poor people have no shame, appearing like that in society.”

    One push had escalated into a punch then it evolved into a brawl. A door slam snaps the boy out of his stupor, and he confronts his mother. In front of the other party’s parents, his mother kneels, bowing her head all the while begging for forgiveness.

    “I’m so sorry for my son’s behavior. It will never happen again.” The mantra streams out of her mouth. Not satisfied, the opposing parents glance toward the boy. He raises his head, believing he had done nothing wrong, yet seeing his mother hunched over while apologizing profusely breaks him. He bows his head. The parents take it as his resignation and accept the apologies. However, the boy does not go unpunished, but it had been nothing compared to the sight of his mother groveling at the feet of the other boy’s parents.

    It seems life gives at least one reprieve for its fatigued followers, and at this time, it had granted them one. After counting the stacks of money hidden underneath his bed, the boy, a grin plastered on his face, approaches his mother with a proposal: the opening of a restaurant. His mother calls out the impossibility of owning one, citing insufficient funds as the major reason. The boy insists on building their own business, and arguing with his mother, he stops, drags her to his room, and digs out his money earned by intense labor. His mother merely stares, stunned by the sheer amount. When the boy addresses the topic again, she nods, covering the smile creeping on her face. Tears prickle the corner of her eyes and spill over.

    Years and years had passed before the providence called their restaurant appeared before them.

    On the opening day, almost all of the people residing in their community pay a visit to their humble restaurant. They compliment the quality of the food and service and congratulate the boy and his mother. They stay until night falls, dispersing at midnight. Even as exhausted as his mother had been, she flashes the brightest smile the boy has ever seen.

    His mother, though blissful and smiling, suppresses her deep seated exhaustion in his presence. Over the next few days, her health debilitates, though she does not arouse suspicion from her son. Soon, she falls into a spell, a slumber in which she could never awaken.

    Now, here he stands on a canoe in the middle of a lake. He holds a cylindrical container. In it contains her ashes. Even if this had not been a beach, he pours some of her ashes into his hand and sprinkles them into the lake. He repeats this until none is left. The boy, without any more strength in his legs, plops down then pulls out a harmonica from his back pocket. Rust encases the surface of the instrument after years of wear. He plays a short, mournful tune before lying down in the canoe. With the clear sky reflected in his eyes, he wonders if his mother watches over him wherever she rests in a world without him.

    If she did, the boy hopes she knew that he loved her. What a hateful son he had been, he thinks; he did not bother to say it once to her face.

  8. bbanne says:

    Kathleen, that is intense and beautiful. Such a powerful tale. Thank you so much for bringing it to us.

  9. Liss Thomas says:

    I pushed the proposal aside as I looked out the window. A sturdy metal fence marked our property lines, a territory where our brindle colored Great Dane galloped around the yard like an African elephant with an unclothed Barbie doll dangling from his mouth while our daughter chased after him. Our plea for more time looked promising on paper but defeat hung like a heavy cloud in the back of my mind.

    “The eviction notice clearly states the conditions, if not met by Saturday will result in a court order to vacate the premises. I suggest you move before that time comes,” my court appointed advisor urged. “Unless you can appropriate the necessary funds, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

    His words played over and over in my mind but I would not believe it true. We’d always found a way and managed to hold off the bank just a little while longer. I pulled a crumpled business card from my pocket and gazed at the name. Shucky Melard never did things on the up and up and once you were indebted to him, you rarely got out. He always knew who needed his help the most and preyed upon the weak and needy. I didn’t want his help but I saw no other alternative.

    “Just this once,” I reasoned with myself before I dialed the number.

  10. bbanne says:

    Liss, that’s a great story and I want to know more. How on earth did you come up with that name? Shucky Melard.

  11. Holy cow, another wild week at my house. Oh well, here is some more story.

    “Move yer skinny carcass!” the African screamed as he snapped his whip at Chandroc. The whip urged him on even more than the screaming of the trainers. This cannot go on. thought Chandroc. A plan for escape began to form in his mind. Daily beatings, fighting the other boys, that was not Chandroc, that is not what he was, not what he wanted to become. Escape was the only thing on his mind, the only thing promising him solace was to get out of this life, to be free again. One day, the chance came. He was standing outside of the next arena in Logath territory, just waiting for an appropriate time to leave. The masters were sure of his defeat this time, and so they left him unclothed behind the entrance gate, alone, and unshackled. As soon as the last master looked into the arena, Chandroc mustered his courage and the last vision of his mother telling him to run, and ran for all he was worth.

    He ran into the inner city, somehow swiping a dirty towel from an alleyway and managing to wrap it around himself. He had heard shouts of the masters looking for him for a while, but those had faded in the last hour or so. He had managed to hide, to blend in with the locals, he had escaped. His biggest problem, was where he actually was. He knew that Logath Territory was what they had said, but he had never looked at a map before, never been outside his village more than a mile or so. How was he to get home? What was he to do when he got there?

    He spent the next hours until dark laying low, looking for the masters and their whips. He stole some fruit and a small loaf of bread from a stand and made his way to the river front to eat it. He had never had such a welcome meal, until he was uncerimoniously pushed from the curb he was sitting on. “Watch where ye be going boy!” Shouted a huge man in an black oilcloth coat and hat. He had a short white beard and his hands were huge and calloused as he raised one of them to strike Chandroc. Chandroc just looked up at him, the masters whips had taken the fear of getting hit from him.

    The man did not srike, he just stared at Chandroc for a long moment before he lowered his hand and raised a dark colored bottle to his lips. The man began to laugh and swayed on his feet, clearly drunk. “Well boy ye have courage.” he said. “And ye be in one of most sorry states I be seein’ in a long time. I’ve a proposal for ye if ye care to hear it.” Chandroc stared for a minute and then slowly nodded. The man smiled again after another long swallow from his bottle. “Well, I be cap’n of a fishing boat out there in the river. If ye can work hard and not fall overboard, ye can be me apprentice. We have food and we will be getting ye some better clothes than that rag. How ’bout it?” Now it was Chandroc’s turn to smile. He nodded at the man. “Fine!” the man said. “What be yer name lad?” Chandroc replied, “Chandroc, sir. Chandroc the fisherman.” They both laughed as the man put his arm around Chandroc’s skinny shoulders and they began to walk toward the harbor.

  12. kathleenMK says:

    Isabelle sat on the African tapestry claiming the territory on the floor of the secluded cabin as her own. She silently pushed the envelope with him.
    Her proposal Come hither and join me… was taken up by him without much hesitation, unless you count grabbing the Champaign bottle and the bowl of chocolate dipped strawberries….

    As he knelt beside her, her state of appropriate attire – a black satin robe he purchased for her in China Town, the lace stockings and panties and the garter belt, Oh yes… the garter belt he thought as he drank in the sight of her, this is going to be a promising afternoon.

    Dillon settled beside her and poured the sparkling golden liquid into the flutes and then moved the mouth of the bottle to her chest moving the satin back. He allowed the contents of the bottle to dribble out onto her skin.

    She arched her back and a pleasured moan escaped her lips. This urged him, physically and mentally.

    He set the green bottle down, bringing his unclothed body to her’s. Hours later the resistance to move to the pool to continue the stimulating caressing was not defeated and even though it clearly states on the tag “do not wash with bleach” Isabelle decides to take a dip in her lace with Dillion close at hand.

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