Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #588

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. Bemused
  2. Arbitrary
  3. Perilous
  4. Somber
  5. Insinuating
  6. Condemned
  7. heir-apparent
  8. Beguiling
  9. Eponymous
  10. Disfigured

5 Comments on “Writing Prompt – Creative Copy Challenge #588”

  1. KathleenMK says:

    Sorry I have been absent. I need to think more of me and do that which relaxes me. I believe this posting will explain my absence, but if not, just know I have been here… somewhere.
    KK

    I am bemused by the seemingly arbitrary good-doers beguilingly insinuating that my somber mood, after a trifecta of deaths of my loved ones – in the space of four months, is not the grief it is. They decide that my mood is due to the unprocessed grief of my gone-to-soon heir-apparent.
    Such a narrow focus this person must think me to have. I shake my head, as the selfishness drips from my eyes and makes me think even more about my brother, my friend (who after 24 plus years is like a brother) and my stepmother. I work to avoid the perilous nature of those of us who are condemned to live longer.
    Is it because I don’t let others see when grief leaves me nearly disfigured that they feel pompous enough to make such inaccurate judgment calls?
    My heart is touched by so many. I know, I care too much. But my grief is not an Ethan eponymous. I am not as limited as I am being judged to be.
    The frustration lingers.

    • Chet says:

      Kathleen, I am sorry to read between the lines here. I hope this period passes soon and leaves you in a better place.

      • KathleenMK says:

        Chet ~ Thank you. This too shall pass. I am just still amazed at some folks ability to tell others how and “if” they are grieving properly.

        Writing (and Grieving as needed) On,

        Kathleen

  2. Anklebuster says:

    {18}

    Whenever people ask me when I was born, I give them a bemused smirk and mumble, “Arbitrary fifth, nineteen eleventy seven.” Whenever someone refers to my horribly twisted countenance–which, by the way, is not the result of over-smirking–I tell them of the doom tryst between a beguiling heir-apparent and a condemned pickpocket.

    The story appears to be insinuating that my parents engaged in a perilous act; however, the truth is not so somber. I simply ran into a fan when I was three. This explains my eponymous garage band: Blades in Faces.

  3. Chet says:

    Periolus Manray, heir-apparent to the ManRay Cosmetics empire, stood upright upon platform, tall among the somber lot of condemned ball players, cyclists, body-builders, and the like gathered with him behind the guillotine.

    His inclusion in this group seemed rather arbitrary. He could just as well been sent up last week in the ranks of the industrialists. But those were men who made their immoral fortunes from tangibles – steel, coal, and the sweat and blood of the 90%. Periolus assumed he was judged too effete for their company, even though he bought and sold them on a daily basis.

    He dwelt not, however, upon the injustice of his brief future. In truth, he’d been relieved that the sentence was beheading rather than hanging, which so disfiguired the faces of the dying. Indeed, he had paid extra attention to his toilette that morning, making certain that his head, when mounted upon the row of spikes arrayed across the front of the platform, would be a fitting testament to the efficaciousness of his products.

    Instead, he spent his final moments observing a beguiling young girl who was gently insinuating herself into a position directly in front of the basket where his head would fall. She had dressed herself in a formal white lace gown, the type one might wear for Easter services. From beneath her pill-box cap, her blond curls spilled down over the crimson scarf she had draped around her shoulders and he was bemused to think that she now lusted after his blood as much as her skin testified how, elsewhere, she lusted after his eponymous products.


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