Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #497


Let this photo guide your story today.

Yep, write what this picture inspires you to write.

I so look forward to seeing what you come up with!


9 Comments on “Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #497”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    New day.

    If anyone had been around to mark its arrival, the dawn would be A.D. 2019: two thousand nineteenth day After Detonation. The purplish bruise of the ionized fog was much lighter than those of one hundred dawns ago.

    Grass survived above-ground, unlike the disrobed trees that guarded the ash-covered walkways. A glowing sun barely penetrated the haze. It entirely missed the battle-scarred beetles that skittered across the bench.

    New day.

    Perhaps this time, the inheritors would be better stewards.

  2. Victoria says:

    It was a misty morning the sun was just rising but the mist was so think one would think it was evening. As I walked towards my favorite sitting place with my ice chi tea from Starbucks and my tablet in hand I felt an unusual chill. “Maybe today isn’t the best time to sit here, alone.” I thought out loud. But stubborn me I didn’t heed my own warning. I was about a foot away from my bench I practically claimed as my own. When out of no where I was grabbed from a material of sorts covered my nose and mouth, the smell was awful, than suddenly I could no longer see it was like a dream, you know the type when your falling but you dont see anything.
    When I woke I was on a mattress one that looks fit for land fill I swear some of those stains was blood. My ankle was chained to a massive brass ring cemented to the floor a single window about ten to twelve feet high was in the room not to mention the single light balb on the high ceiling. I could tell there was no use in screaming let alone trying to get free all I could do is sit and wait.
    It was a week before my capture came. The room now smelt awful I’ll spare you the obvious reason why. “My pet! I apologize for leaving you so long, my other pets needed my attention.” The man calmly said. You know the scariest thing if I saw the guy on the street I would have looked at him with dreamy eyes day dream about our life together. One would never assume he was sadistic.
    “Now my princess shall we get settled in a more comfortable room.” He unlocked my chain and pulled code to him he picked me up with for we like I was a rag doll. I was to shocked to react. The hall was poorly lit with florescent lights blinking like stone lights. I could hear sobs beyond the doors lining the hall I could see into the window of each one we passed. Here I assumed it was only girls like me but I saw boys too even some looked like children. He was not your typical kidnapper…. I need to get out of here and save all those poor souls….

    Sorry idk how much u wanted but I am gonna keep going on Penna with this so keep watch

    • Anklebuster says:

      Welcome, Victoria! You sure had fun with this! What is Penna?



    • KathleenMK says:

      Victoria ~ Oh My Goodness! … oh wait… I have to continue reading past the “a mattress one that looks fit for land fill….

      Victoria … I wanted all of this and anything more you wanted to write. This is great! It is what we are here for. I thought I was pushing the CCC envelope by just putting up an image…. but it seemed to work! Bravo and welcome to the addiction. :]

      I do look forward to seeing more from you!

      And I echo Mitch… What is Penna? Please.

      Write On,

  3. /chet says:

    She used to sing an old gospel song softly to herself whenever she was thinking hard about something. Balancing the checkbook. Knitting some complicated stitch. Checking on the baby. The only part I ever caught went something like “the train I’m riding has no tracks / cause the engine’s Heaven-bound.” When I asked her why that song, she smiled at me and said “I don’t know.” She said it with that smile I loved that seemed directed to the whole world.

    She came from a strict religious family. One of the sects where they don’t believe in celebrations or science and they don’t give gifts on Christmas. I always wondered how she turned out so normal. We rarely went to see her parents and on the few occasions when we did, they struck me as distant and stern. When I asked her if it had been difficult, setting out on her own, she shook her head. “My parents don’t know.”

    When we got the diagnosis, I was devastated. It took all the self-control I had not to collapse in the doctor’s office. But when I looked over at her, she had a expression like she was just turning it over and over in her mind. Like she has trying to solve a puzzle or work out a tricky cross-stitch. She drove home and when I was finally composed enough to ask her how she could be so calm, she stroked my hand and said “Doctors don’t know.”

    For those next months, I spent every minute I could with her, telling myself that I had to cherish every moment. Of course, no one can sustain such an intense emotional state for long. Life and its routine cares would return and then I would wake in the middle of the night, berating myself for being selfish.

    On one of those nights, a couple of months after getting the news, I woke and felt that her side of the bed was empty. She was standing by the bedroom window, humming the song quietly. A car coasted silently by outside. Its light rolled across the room and cast her shadow on the ceiling.

    “Hey,” I whispered hoarsely, not wanting to wake the baby. “Come on back to bed.” She came back to me, with that distant smile.

    We took trips to all the places that she had ever wanted to go. I scraped together all my vacation and sick time and took loans against my retirement savings. In June, we went out west for two weeks. To the mountains and the canyons and the deserts. I have a picture of her, at Mount Rushmore, holding the baby and waving its hand at the presidents. Later that summer, we went to Europe and traveled from Ireland all the way to Greece. I felt like she really enjoyed herself. I didn’t hear her sing the gospel song, not once.

    As fall came on, she got weaker but she wasn’t in pain. She would take herself to the park down the street from our apartment most days and sit on a bench that she’d found. It gave view across the meadow and she would sit there and work on a little pink sweater.

    I awoke on that night around 2:30 with one of those dream-feelings you get, like something monumental has just happened. I had a hazy memory of her singing the song to me. When I rolled over, she was not in the bed.

    She was not standing at the window. I rushed around the apartment looking for her but I found no sign. The baby was sleeping soundly, so I threw on a bathrobe and slippers and rushed out into the street. The image of her singing the gospel song to me played over and over in my head.

    When I got to the bench, she wasn’t there. A light, at that hour maybe a cop car, was disappearing around the curve. I could faintly hear a deep thrumming in the air. There was just enough light for me to see the sweater and her knitting needles. The yarn still held the scent of her. I sat down and pressed it to my face and wondered what to do next.

    I didn’t know.

    • Anklebuster says:

      Chet, you write great, moving vignettes. This piece gives us so many avenues to contemplate.



    • KathleenMK says:

      Chet ~~ you have had me gripping the edge of my desk from the first sentence!
      You held me the entire read, which I slowed myself to read… carefully so I did not miss something. Bravo.

      …The yarn still held the scent of her….
      I choked back a tear on this one Chet!
      You’ve made me think of my mum.

      You have me wondering if this is based on a personal life experience.

      Bravo, you’ve held this reader and made her think even after my eyes leave the words behind.

      Thank you.

      Write On,

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