Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #598

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. Flew
  2. Flu
  3. Aide
  4. Aid
  5. Air
  6. Heir
  7. Ere
  8. Jack-o-lantern
  9. Which
  10. Witch

9 Comments on “Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #598”

  1. Anklebuster says:


    Ere we venture forth into this jack-o-lantern of madness, let me disclaim the following: I have the flu. I believe that illness fuels imagination, in ways that altered states can not. I wager one virus to ten hallucinogens of your choice that my madness will overpower yours.

    ‘Twas the night before Hallowmas, and all through the tent,
    Not a coin was forthcoming, not even one cent.
    The stockpot was placed in the firepit with care,
    As the flames leapt about to singe all my hair.

    The children were huddled, all hungry and sore,
    The last time they ate was two days before.
    Their mama made gravy from mud and crushed worms
    But the kiddies ignored it in practical terms.

    Outside of the tent, there arose such a noise,
    That cowering and shaking, I sent one of the boys.
    Away to the tent flap, he flew like a spider
    He lifted the canvas and that’s when we spied her!

    The moon gave a glow to the freshly mown pitch
    And clearly revealed a skinny old witch!
    She bent over double and walked with an aid,
    Which hurt our poor ears with the noise that it made.

    She was smoking a pipe and picking her nose
    While uttering curses as sharp as hypos.
    She turned to my son, she spit in the air,
    And offered some food in exchange for his heir.

    “A basket of bread, some sweet marmalade,”
    “Your firstborn I take for my personal aide.”
    Before I could stifle this horrible deal,
    My son snatched the food with a gibbering squeal.

    So we ate well that night and the next forty-two,
    And buried the thought of what would come due.
    Perhaps she’ll die first, or forget my dear lad,
    Or maybe the durance will not be so bad.

    This tale is a lesson for all cash-strapped folk,
    When your hen lays an egg, you’d best eat the yolk.
    Don’t mortgage tomorrow for a small bite today,
    For indemnity is a huge price to pay.

  2. stormwriter2 says:

    Three little witches were stuck in bed all day, sick with the FLU. By the light of the JACK-O-LANTERN, their dad came up to check on them in the evening when he got home from work.
    “I heard someone is not feeling well,” said Daddy Warlock. “WHICH little WITCH is sick?”
    The three little witches moaned, “All of us, Daddy.”
    “Well,” said Daddy Warlock, “we’d better AIR out this sick room ERE my HEIRS ne’er recover.”
    The little witches laughed weakly, causing a coughing fit.
    “Where’s my AIDE?” muttered Daddy Warlock. Louder, he called down the stairs, “Darling, please send us some water to AID with our little witches’ coughing spell.”
    Three glasses of water FLEW up the stairs and into the three little witches’ outstretched hands.
    “Is your wand broken?” came their mother’s voice, tinged with laughter.
    “No, darling,” said Daddy Warlock. “I left it downstairs. Now who wants to hear a quick bedtime story?”
    When the little witches had set their water glasses down and looked expectantly up at him, Daddy Warlock began:
    “A flea and a fly were trapped in a flue.
    They were imprisoned, but what could they do?
    Said the flea, “Let us fly!”
    Said the fly, “Let us flee!”
    So they flew through a flaw in the flue.”
    Then he dropped a kiss on each upturned forehead and tiptoed down the stairs.

    **I didn’t write the flea/fly poem… my dad used to recite it to me when I was little

  3. KathleenMK says:

    Short on time, looking forward to reading both,

    Write On,

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