Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #537

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.

  1. Insurrection
  2. Triumphantly
  3. Laurels
  4. Withered
  5. Entrenched
  6. Auster
  7. Irritable
  8. Usurpation
  9. Stalwart
  10. Evangelical

6 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #537”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    The somnolent auster carried the fragrance of laurels into the First United Separated Baptist Church. It had one task: quell the incipient insurrection being fomented from the pulpit of the entrenched, evangelical egomaniac.

    The breeze triumphantly turned even the most stalwart supporters of usurpation into irritable, withered zombies who barely had enough consciousness to check their watches surrepitiously.

    The charismatic preacher vowed to get the air-conditioning fixed before next Sunday.

    • Mitch – Sorry for my absence. Family obligations as the primary caregiver of my 80-year-old dad whom just got a new left knee. But what a treat to have some time to come, read and… head to the dictionary because you have used a word I did not know. “somnolent”. Thank you Mitch! okay… now I will read on. :]

      And then a chuckle escaped my pipes. Thank you.

      I, for one, am glad you Write On,


      • Anklebuster says:

        Kathleen, no need to apologize for having your priorities straight. I hope you dad adjusts well to the knee replacement. After the pain of therapy, he should find relief from whatever pain caused him to get one. My mother had an arthritic knee replaced and used a cane for a year, but afterward, she bopped up and down the steps like a woman half her age.

        I’m glad you enjoyed the ditty.



  2. Chet Ensign says:

    Mitch, neat and brilliant. I did not see the air conditioner coming. That tied it up nicely.

  3. Chet Ensign says:

    We had been in the house less than a week but already we were entrenched, stalwart citizen-soldiers on the front lines of a war to put down the chaotic forces of entropy that daily threatened the usurpation of our domestic tranquility.

    I was in the kitchen, helping Julie – she always said the word with finger-quotes; I never knew why – “helping” her unpack the groceries. Boogers, our blonde moose of a dog, stood to my right doing a whole-body wag, his truncheon of a tail thumping the metal trashcan and his optimistic face turned up, patiently waiting for the treat he knew I would sooner or later break ranks and, braving one of Julie’s eye-rolls, slip to him. The twins – Rascal1 and Rascal2 – sat facing into opposite corners of the dining nook. They had turned irritable in the breakfast cereal aisle, ignoring my injunctions against opening boxes before we paid for them, and throwing tiny handfuls of Fruit Loops at each other. Now the pair slouched in their pink and blue play-stools, feigning remorse, and surely plotting some new insurrection as soon as they were granted their pardons.

    Julie had just rescued a family-size can of plum tomatoes from the shelf in the pantry where I’d set it – temporarily – and was waving it triumphantly over her head, shouting in the direction of the Rascals, “Do we mix the canned vegetables with the legumes now? Has it come to that?” when I was jolted by the bang, bang, bang of the knocker on our front door. Boogers immediately lost interest in me and charged off, barking loudly, into the foyer. Julie muttered “What’s that dog about now?” and continued grouping boxes on the pasta shelf. I jumped as if goosed with an electric cord.

    This knocker was one of the quaint features that endeared almost everyone in the family to this particular house above all the houses we’d seen. “Quaintness,” along with “character” and “charm,” had topped Julie’s priority list of qualities for our next domicile, well ahead of the elements I favored: central air; modern wiring; convenience to commuting. But then, I only wanted a house to live in; Julie wanted a house to star in. I had learned early in our marriage that nothing was to be gained from arguing with a Princess fantasy strong enough to power an entire Disney franchise.

    The door knocker was a long, dour face with disapproving eyes and bulbous lips. The hammer part was sculpted like a long lock of hair, hung so as to land squarely on the hooked nose. Julie dubbed it ‘Old Marley’ the instant she saw it. “Old Marley was dead as a doornail,” she’d chirped. To this day, we never approach our front door from an outing but Jule will observe “Yep. Old Marley’s still dead,” and pat the thing affectionately.

    Fond though she is of the knocker, Julie has never once used it. No one has. There is a perfectly good doorbell conveniently positioned next to the doorknob that makes a pleasant trill of chimes in the hallway just outside the kitchen.

    Apparently, our visitor had missed this modern convenience for he or she was busy banging at the door again. I left the packages of frozen green beans thawing on the counter and went to answer.

    The door was constructed of thick oak panels. It was heavy and took quite a tug to start it swinging open so I was distracted making sure that I judged its momentum accurately and didn’t end up knocked over on my behind and it was a moment before I looked up and took in our visitor.

    Before me stood a thin, withered gentleman dressed in the uniform of a general of the Confederacy. He was a full head taller than me, although his ram-rod posture and the swoop-brimmed calvary-man’s fedora sporting some kind of large feather, probably enhanced the effect. His double-breasted field jacket was fastened by two lines of star-shaped buttons leading straight up his chest to a starched, upright collar decorated with twin leaves I took to be laurels. He did not smile; his lips just made a straight line across his face. His eyes, steel-gray in color, looked over my head and burned with evangelical fever as if he saw final salvation somewhere back inside my house.

    My skin prickled all over. I stood struck dumb; speechless. And before I could gather up my thoughts, organize myself to respond, he came towards me, as if drifting on Auster, the south wind, and whether around me or through me I am not sure, entered our house.

    I turned to follow, thinking that I should assert my domestic rights, send him back out, but the hall was empty. I hastened back to the kitchen to find it just as I had left it. Then Julie emerged from the pantry, rubbing her arms briskly and shivering.

    “Uff,” she glared at me. “What, did you turn on the air-conditioner?”

  4. KathleenMK says:

    Chet ~ Wwwwoooowwwww! Bravo.

    I love the “…threatened the usurpation of our domestic tranquility.”
    Your use of description of the dog! (I saw my dog), the kids, the family, the house … oh the description of the oak door! I felt the beauty! And then you brought this reader, already entrenched in your story right around to the … wonderful unexpected end. BRAVO.

    Please, Write On!

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