Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #506

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. Chilling
  2. Terrorized
  3. Scourge
  4. Venerate
  5. Dread
  6. Monstrosity
  7. Demon
  8. Imaginary
  9. Pitch blackness
  10. Headless
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8 Comments on “Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #506”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    Harold drove slowly past the monstrosity that Xenia thought he called home. The once-venerated Hopewell Mansion leaned into the pitch blackness like a drunk cripple on crooked crutches. Shutters lay on the lawn–useless, rotten teeth kicked out by the dread demon of neglect. The porch sagged into the crawl-space, as if to meet the crumbled brick steps in the weeds.

    He had explained to Xenia that he was just waiting for the right woman to join him in restoring the property. She didn’t believe him, of course. That changed as soon as he “accidentally” allowed her to see his bogus stock broker’s statement. As if! He wouldn’t be getting a dime for this assignment. He pressed down on the accelerator. Time to get this done.

    Antonio had terrorized Harold since the two of them were in elementary school. Indeed, “Little Ant” was the scourge of the neighborhood. Girls shrieked in fright, boys cowered behind parked cars and rats scurried back into the sewers whenever his shadow darkened the sidewalks. To get what he wanted, all Antonio had to do was glare with those chilling gray eyes.

    Harold was sorry that Xenia had gotten on Antonio’s bad side. She pretended to like him and, though Harold saw right through her, he still enjoyed the attention that she had to muster up to become that desired woman. The perfunctory sex was way better than that headless blow-up doll he was using. It would never last, though. She would have found out about the imaginary investments sooner or later.

    He was still thinking about the last time he humped her, as he parked, jogged up the walkway and rang her doorbell.

    • KathleenMKK says:

      Mitch ~~ You did it again! You brought a multitude of images to this mind’s eye! You made me see the sad house. And then you made it hard to keep my bit of lunch in my mouth as I got to “…better than the headless blow-up doll…”

      Thank you, again, for brightening my day.

      Write On, PLEASE!

      Kathleen

      • Anklebuster says:

        Thanks, Kathleen! I’m having fun imagining the sequence of events that culminated in CCC 505!

        Spewed lunches are second only to milk through the nose! Glad to assist!

        Cheers,

        Mitch

  2. /chet says:

    In the upstate hamlet of Moaning River, the ladies of the Women’s Club venerate your Chocolate Pumpkin Bourbon Pecan Pie. Every year, as the end of October approaches and the chilling air outside lays frost on the gourds, you retreat into the kitchen to do your demon work, combining the pitch blackness of the filling and the piercing aroma of the spirits with whatever black magic you spin up from your spice cabinet to create the scourge of the Blustered County Halloween Fair’s Best County Pie competition. The ladies gathered from the other communities dread the moment that you and your monstrosity come through the doors of the high school gymnasium and the male judges catch its scent in the air. It is as if they are truly bewitched by your concoction.

    You laugh to yourself of course, at this trifling demonstration of your arts. How terrorized would they all be, you think, if they could observe you at work. For there is nothing imaginary about your powers. Those women who mutter “She must be some kind of witch” to one another have no idea how right they are. If they laid eyes on the goblins and the imps and the headless fiends who danced around your ovens while the pies baked, you would never, ever, be invited back.


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