Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #489

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 before and after each of your challenge words if you want them to stand out, but NOT REQUIRED THOUGH! Or, as cleverly done by a CCC-er you can CAPITALIZE the challenge words in your piece.

I am beginning to invite others to be the author of a week’s list of words, that means you too! All you have to do is email me at TheHandMaiden_Kathleen@hotmail.com

 

  1. Meta
  2. Mete
  3. Mate
  4. Mote
  5. Sylph
  6. Salinity
  7. Canon
  8. Cannon
  9. Fractals
  10. Crane

I want to thank Tanja for being our Guest list maker this week. This looks to be a fun and a rightfully challenging list.

 

 

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11 Comments on “Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #489”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    After having been shot out of a cannon most of her adult life, Sarah settled herself into the sedentary existence of a math teacher. She meted out the canon of countably infinite complex numbers to computer scientists–that class of human being for whom the sensual secretions of the six-foot sylph held no sway.

    Her neck would crane ever so gracefully as she scribbled formulas for Fast Fourier Transforms next to Mandelbrot sets of repetitive fractals. Her eyes gleamed with pleasure when her charges correctly connected the metadata from a superset of soil salinity studies to the rise in observed osteoarthritis due to obesity in pets.

    Sarah never met a mate, fractured as she was by the very mathematical probabilities that dictated her likelihood of procreating as being lower than her chance at removing the Mote in God’s Eye.

  2. tanjamaltija says:

    This is brilliant!

  3. /chet says:

    The priest stood knee-deep in the shallow water of the bay, watching his town burn. The cannon had started at dawn. They still blazed on though the siege had long since stopped being war. There was no longer any purpose to it. The small village was surrendered, abandoned, there were no more targets left to flatten, not that he could see. The battle had long before transformed into a kind of meta-violence, a lunatic’s rage with no purpose but to mete out punishment onto the rubble until the sun went down.

    A way-ward ball flew out of the smoke, over his head, and splashed into the sea behind him. He tasted bitter salinity in the back of his throat.

    Mote after mote drifted by, whether ash or water droplets he could not say. In his imagination, each was a sylph come to witness human madness.

    Nature had fled at the first volley; the foxes and rabbits and deer from the woods, the birds from the marsh, the fish from the shore. The town folk soon followed, crowding onto fishing boats or wandering away down the narrow beach. Even the sea seemed to have pulled back so that the usually noisy harbor was now flat, tepid and oily around his legs. His only mate was a lone, white crane, stepping carefully through the mire, searching for minnows, apparently unperturbed by the noise, the smoke and the flashes of light.

    ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me’ he thought to himself, again and again, but he could not remember how the prayer went. It had been a part of the canon that he loved. He had preached it so often to his congregation. Why could he not recall it now?

    The sylph would tell him if he could listen. That this too was part of the canon of man, axiomatic and universally binding. Rage and fury and fear were fractals, patterns that repeated no matter how close or how far back you stood, and that once indulged, would spread like frost crystals on a window pane.

    But he couldn’t hear. He tried to grasp the meaning of what was happening but it eluded him. So he clung to what he knew, that he had been a witness to all that had unfolded in the town before and he would stay and witness now, even if it meant that he died here, shot by some soldier for target practice.

    • Anklebuster says:

      Chet, this is deep. Your depiction of both the wantonness of war and the incomprehensibility of it is so starkly real.

      One image stands out: Even the sea seemed to have pulled back so that the usually noisy harbor was now flat, tepid and oily around his legs. His only mate was a lone, white crane, stepping carefully through the mire, searching for minnows…

      Well done!

      Cheers,

      Mitch


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