Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #374

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. Scrabbled
  2. Technicolor
  3. Mob
  4. Keys
  5. Doorway
  6. Bleating
  7. Related
  8. Costume
  9. Fires
  10. Repertoire

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.)


41 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #374”

  1. annew says:

    What, am I first! Yippee!

    The goat scrabbled through my doorway, bleating raucous word of fires – apparently in this Technicolor dream, I spoke goat! A costumed mob appeared, with no related or unrelated repertoire at all! I awoke to the sound of falling piano keys, attempting a tune of sorts. Propping my eyes open, I realized the only solution possible was a triple espresso.

  2. annew says:

    ah, extra commas… guess we live with them

    • Anklebuster says:

      Commas, like clauses, clutter our comments until, with care and crossed fingers, one edits, redacts and repositions them.

      Still, in a technicolor dream, might the extra commas have given a certain hue to the goat’s cry? LOL.

      I enjoyed your weird dream, Anne.



  3. Anklebuster says:

    As soon as the commanding officer stormed past the doorway, Jürgens took a bleating breath of despair. How am I supposed to track down a bunch of spaceships from here?

    Jürgens’ repertoire didn’t extend much beyond undercover interrogation. Any fool could don a costume, put on a technicolor stage show for unsuspecting targets and extract information. But, even The Agency’s wunderkind needed a thread to pull—a shred of data—in order to weave the facts into a blanket of intelligence. He pulled out his black book.

    One of the keys to Jürgens’ success as an analyst was his ability to show how seemingly disparate facts related to a common denominator. Most people dismissed these connections as coincidences; Jürgens scrabbled all the bits together until happenstance became deterministic. Whenever he was well and truly dumb-founded—like now—he resorted to wisdom of the crowd.

    He selected a dozen names from his contacts. He would summon this group to HQ. Individually, each person was adept at putting out fires. Together, he hoped this mental mob would light a match to this desperate investigation.

  4. annew says:

    “until happenstance became deterministic” yes!

  5. Tanja Cilia says:

    I scrabbled in my pocket for the keys. Far away, the fires were raging in Glorious Technicolor. The mob was baying and bleating for my blood. I chose a costume, and simultaneously shrugged on the mannerisms of one of the characters in my repertoire. I sashayed to the doorway, affecting nonchalance. They let me pass. They never suspected a belly-dancer could in any way be related to the conflagration.

  6. bbanne says:

    My heart was pounding as I scrabbled through my bag hunting for the car keys.

    “Come on! Hurry up!”

    Why is it always this way? It doesn’t matter how early I get them out of bed, there’s always someone who makes us late.

    I have a repertoire of morning sounds:

    “Do you have your homework? Is it in your bag”?

    “Where’s your lunchbox? Have you left it at school again?”

    “Well you should have told me before now. Where am I supposed to find a costume for you at this late stage?”

    I can’t possibly be related to this disorganized mob!

    “I’m going out to the car. It’s time we were out of here.”

    Yelling over my shoulder as I head to the front door, I trip on the school shoes someone has left in the middle of the doorway. There’s another bruise for my poor elbow. It’s a technicolor playground for my blood this week.

    I make it to the car and turn on the engine. The good old girl fires up as she always does. Still there’s no sign of kids coming out the door. Leaning on the horn I can hear cars further down the street, bleating for their young in just the same way. Mother’s everywhere, stressed to the point of breakdown, are tackling the morning school run.

    No wonder I drink so much.

  7. Cathy Miller says:

    The blackened hand scrabbled desperately at the window’s edge. Her body was a technicolor roadmap of all she endured. Fingers scraped raw clung to the rough edge she did not feel as she prepared to let her body drop.

    With a silent scream, Marci launched herself toward the grassy slope below. The impact knocked the breath from her in a strangled whoosh. She took but precious seconds to assure she could move. And move she did.

    Running, slipping, stumbling, Marci bolted from a house full of horror with a mob host of pain. He taunted her with the keys to the doorway just outside her grasp. The silver sentries hanging in a rigid stance against escape through the eye of the keyhole’s heart. Oh, how she schemed to reach those keys. But her cell held little to plan her MacGyver breakout.

    Her mind shifted to the lone window, looking down in mocking disdain. Somehow she would make that her hatch to freedom. She could not linger on the memories of her attempts. All the failures as she hammered the broken bed slat against a pane that laughed and laughed.

    With a final bleating cry, Marci felt the exhilaration of shattered glass raining down its hope. When she got home, she would hug the track coach who relentlessly challenged her in perfecting her long jump. No medal could match the joy of her liberation.

    Bracing against a tree, Marci’s battered lungs gasped for relief. Eyes gone flat in determination scanned the landscape and all related means of salvation. Trees cloaked in a costume of embrace seemed comforting in the early dawn.

    The rising sun set fingered-fires gesturing through the limbs in invitation.

    “This way,” they seemed to whisper.

    Marci grabbed on tight and raced toward rescue, striking any thought of defeat. That was simply not in her repertoire.

  8. JK says:

    I scrabbled around in the drawers. Small beads of sweat formed on my forehead.
    Where are the keys? I ‘ve got to save Germaine.
    Germaine’s bleating was penetrating my ruffled nerves. If I didn’t open the barn, my only sheep would die. The fires roared along the prairie and it would only be minutes before they would reach the barn. I bit my lips and looked at the window. The sky had a strange glow, almost as if in technicolor, but this was not a movie. This was real.
    “There…The keys. Just as I grabbed them, I heard shouting outside.
    The neighbors? I ran through the doorway and froze.
    There on my front lawn was a angry mob of farmers, with pitchforks. They glared at me.
    “It’s the day of reckoning”, shouted their leader, a fat farmer with an evil grin.
    This couldn’t be real. I pointed to the fires.
    “This is no time nonsense. We’ve got to fight the fires. We must save Germaine.”
    I clenched my fists in desperation.
    “No,” said the fat farmer. “The day of reckoning is related to the fires. The end has come, and you’re the first to go down.”
    “Yeah,” added his friends, “You go down first.” They all started to chant an evil tune, taken from Richard Wagner’s reportoire.
    My God, this is a nightmare.
    Suddenly the mouth of the fat farmer fell open. He stared at something behind me and started to breath heavily. “My Gosh…” he said. “So the legend of the evil crocodile is true after all…”
    Then they screamed, turned and ran. Their pitchforks dropped in the mud.
    I slowly turned around. What woul I see?
    I was shocked.
    There was Germaine, dressed up in a crocodile costume, accompanied by my housekeeper Miss Marple.
    “I saved Germaine,”, she humbly acknowledged, “ but when I saw the mob, I thought this would scare them.”
    I mumbled a word of thanks and then we too ran, for the flames had started to nibble at the barn.

  9. Chris Fries says:

    Hi all! I’m sorry I’ve missed a few prompt, but here’s a quick 10×10 for this one:

    Scrabbled together offerings from six cans and three dry packages,

    A technicolor blend of kibble, meat and strange smelling mysteries.

    The writhing mob at my feet sings in joyous anticipation.

    I set the keys aside and start to fill bowls

    Another group enters the doorway, drawn by the clanking sound;

    The kitchen is filled with bleating, purring, and eager meowing.

    I ask myself – Are we really related to each other?

    The only cat I’ve liked was my costume in kindergarten,

    That Halloween my cat suit had eyes like fires inside.

    Now feeding my sister’s cats is part of my repertoire.

  10. JK says:

    Fun- Great reads

  11. […] Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #374 […]

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