Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #543

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.

We have my spouse-type fella, David, to thank for this week’s list:

  1. Agerasia
  2. Xerophagy
  3. Witzelsuchte – a feeble attempt at humor
  4. Skoptsy
  5. Dippoldism
  6. Parasitism
  7. Bad case of Cagamosis
  8. Estrapade
  9. Bathykolpian
  10. Brontide

6 Comments on “Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #543”

  1. Anklebuster says:

    Barclef Forte, a bathykolpian descendant of Brunhilda of Austrasia, attributed her bad case of cagamosis to the fact that her husband was a descendant of the vile Queen consort, Fredegunde. He certainly inherited the nastiest genes–including an ungodly dose of dippoldism. While Barclef enjoyed a bit of adventure in the marriage bed, she drew the line at his zealous whipping of their two daughters. Her unhappiness stemmed from the co-dependent nature of their relationship. It was a brutal parasitism of take and take.

    Schwachstelle Forte was an old soul. Actually, he was a vampire. He hid this from his lovely wife by concocting an elaborate web of deceitful genealogy, wherein his paternal line was traced to Niccolò Fortiguerra and his maternal roots went even deeper into time to touch the Franks. The latter fabrication was embellished with a bit of Witzelsucht, in that he claimed Russian cousins who survived the predilections of the Skoptsy heretics.

    He also conned Barclef into believing that his patent agerasia resulted from a combination of xerophagy and heliophobia. This, in turn, spared him from her unappetizing meals and her desire to remove the heavy drapes from their bedchamber. He knew she was unhappy, but he didn’t care. Nine of ten consorts succumbed to his enchantments. The damsels of the tenth part, Barclef included, added much needed spice to his existence.

    Their sex life, for example, had the kick of curry. Indeed, the highlight of each evening was Barclef’s attempt to give Schwachstelle the estrapade as he mercilessly pounded her into the pillows. On the rare occasions that she succeeded, he rewarded her with her coveted position, though it deprived him of the opportunity to create a delightful brontide between her massive breasts. Schwachstelle was a modern, giving lover. He had no problem trading a motorboat for a reverse cowboy.

  2. Chet says:

    “Why were you called the Miracle Baby,” I asked my father.

    It seemed an innocent enough question, one whose answer could while away an hour at the nursing home. I expected some stale family lore about a difficult pregnancy or a child come late to a couple who believed all hope was lost.

    In answer, my father picked up the old family bible that I had brought from home, sitting on the bedstand. From the front piece, he took out an old tintype of an elderly man standing next to an ancient woman.

    “Your grandparents,” he rasped with what little of his ravaged voice he had left.

    I squinted and tilted the reflective surface side to side to get a better look. No matter what angle I turned it, the man looked the far younger of the two.

    “How old were they when this picture was taken?” I asked.

    “He would have been 103. She would have been a few years younger. ”

    “What? Why he looks half that age!” I said.

    “Yes,” my father answered. “His was a true case of agerasia. Once every month, he practiced xerophagy for a week. He claimed it was that discipline that accounted for his health and longevity.”

    ‘Damn the old man,’ I thought, and reached for the other book on the bedstand. He had always dervied some great joy from sending his children running to the dictionary to figure out what he’d just said.

    “I was an immigrant Russian in the McCarthy years,” he once explained. “Education and language were our only shield and sword.”

    “What were they like?” I asked, holding up the photograph. He sighed, as if he was taking up a great burden in answering.

    “Their’s was a marriage built on parasitism,” he said. “At least in the beginning. He was a noble. She was a social climber. But then, in the end, it was your grandmother who saved them. She heard the brontide of the Bolsheviks rumble through their district well before the first upheavals in St. Petersburg and pushed your grandfather to immigrate. He was fed up with the Tzar – they all were – but refused to believe that the army would turn on them. Grandmother talked every day with the peasants who serviced the estate. She said she could hear in their daily lives the cracking of the ice.

    “So, why are you called the miracle baby?”

    “Your grandfather had been a Skoptsy back in Russia.”

    Again, I flipped madly through the dictionary.

    “I doubt my mother knew about it when they were married. Nor about his penchant for dippoldism. Or maybe she didn’t care. Most of the patriciate were a little bent by then. But evidently, it all gave their marriage a bad case of cagamosis.”

    “Your grandmother was a woman of great spirit though. She carped and squawked and engaged in all manner of estrapade when the old man beat her. And it was a great shame.” My father shook his head as if he still could not understand. “In her youth, my mother was a bathykolpian beauty. What a waste…”

    “This is all very interesting,” I said though I had not planned for the conversation to turn quite so reminiscent. “But again, why were you called the Miracle Baby?”

    My father shrugged.

    Witzelsuchte?” he said and chuckled. “Better that than “Virgin Birth.”

    “Never mind,” I sighed. Clearly, I wasn’t getting the joke.

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