Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge # 390

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> before and </b> after each of your words if you want them to stand out, but NOT REQUIRED THOUGH.

  1. Woebegone
  2. Wherewithal
  3. Wafture – waving
  4. Umbrella
  5. Tintinnabulation – tinkling
  6. Ripple
  7. Propinquity
  8. Nemesis
  9. Mellifluous – sweet sounding
  10. Lithe – slender and flexible

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.)


18 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge # 390”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    Despite the woebegone expression of my over-the-board nemesis, I gleefully slammed the queen onto the F7 square. The erstwhile pawn skittered off, having utterly failed its liege.


    “No, it isn’t.”

    I goggled. “What?”

    “Your bishop is unprotected.”

    “Bishop? Are you blind? That’s my queen!” Yet, even as I stared in disbelief at the occupant of F7, I knew that I had made the most horrifying blunder of my career. I had just lost the 2027 Wormhole Chess Championship.


    I muddled through the post-mortem interviews, shielded from the ever-present Venusian rainfall by a leaky grav-umbrella. I couldn’t muster the wherewithal to wipe the mist from my face. The better to hide my bitter tears, I suppose. At one point, an intrepid reporter asked me how it felt to be dethroned by a Ghirl. I exploded.

    “Ghirl, buoy, fogbot—what possible difference does species matter? The lithe fingers of a piece-plucking fogbot are no more distracting than the mellifluous tintinnabulation of a positronic sonar buoy. I did my best olfactory wafture at move 14, but Ekta was not fooled by the ripple and countered with a devasting synesthetic shape-shift.”

    “So, you admit that the propinquity of Ghirly perfume played no part in foiling your plans?”

    “I admit that you’re a boring journalist who spends too much time asking specious questions!”

    The journalist gaped, “I am not a specie-ist! Some of my best friends are Ghirls.”

    “You moron. Don’t throw out big words if you can’t receive them in kind.”

    I felt much better after that.

  2. His face held the woebegone look of someone who lost his best friend. And indeed he had. Jonathan just wished he had the wherewithal to do something about it.

    Max was a shelter rescue dog. Jonathan connected with Max the moment their eyes met, the wafture of Max’s tail sending a cheery hello. They were inseparable, Max often resting his head within theumbrella embrace of Jonathan’s arms, dreaming of great adventures.

    Dreams were all Jonathan had left. He saw them racing across green pastures, the tintinnabulation of Max’s dog tags heralding their arrival. The ripple from a tossed pebble dancing along the river’s shore. Here there were no threats. Here was just a boy and his dog.

    Theirs was a powerful propinquity. Max protected Jonathan against his nemesis neighbor who loved to bully, except when Max was around. Who would guard him now?

    Who would run down to the river’s shore or comfort him in his time of need? Who would lounge with him under the large maple tree as the mellifluous sound of a winter wren lulled them both to sleep?

    Inside the lithe body of a boy with silent tears was a heart aching for all he lost.

  3. Ack, spacing issue on several bolded words. 😦

  4. meg says:

    You are my nemesis
    Long flowing words and line leave me woebegone
    Wherewithal I am crafting today I know
    That under the umbrella of poetry
    Where the rain of words dries up
    I will be left in the wake of haiku
    The shortness wafturing in mellifluous tones.
    I want a deep ocean and not the ripple effect I usually get.
    I want glass breaking poetic storm
    Not a tintinnabulation of sound.
    But for now I am still a gnat seeking to become
    If not a dragon a more lithe poet able
    To find my way out of the kingdom of insects
    In search of firewords.

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