This week, like last week, I’m giving you two choices: you can either write a ten-word story using five words from the list given, or you can write an autumnal themed story/poem from the second list:
Option one: Choose five words from the following list and write a ten-word story:
Option two: Write a story/poem, with any of the following autumnal themes:
Last week, your list of ten words was as follows:
Here are the amazing results:
R T Allwin kicks things off with a hilarious entry:
After maltreating a giraffe, Osteopath Boris became farctate on steak!
Jocelyn Barker used six words from the list:
The gongoozler watched osteopath Boris eat giraffe steak until farctate.
Helen Gaen spoilt me with all hers:
The gongoozler admired the farctate nelipot’s steak and beer struggle.
After his giraffe session, the nelipot osteopath needed steak and beer.
Aeolist Boris enjoyed giraffe steak washed down with beer.
The aeolist married a nelipot dompteuse: farctate gongoozlers clapped beer.
The nelipot osteopath stole the farctate gongoozler’s steak – to dance.
Aeolist Boris woke the farctate gongoozler with a beer shower.
The osteopathic dompteuse fell from the giraffe: beery gongoozlers screamed!
Nelipot Boris became an osteopath treating injured giraffes and dompteuses.
Giraffe boris kicked the nelipot dompteuse: the aeolist kicked me!
Aeolists and gongoozlers cheered the nelipot dompteuse and toy giraffe.
Aeolists and googoozlers waved beer: the farctate nelipot dompteuse vomited.
The nelipot dompteuse’s giraffe switched the gongoozlers’ and aeolists’ beer.
Consuming beers and giraffe steak, Boris ogled the dompteuse’s wife.
Les Moriarty brings the ten-word stories to an end in great style:
Boris the aeolist osteopath was farctated after eating two steaks.
Option two was to write a story/poem, with any of the following autumnal themes:
Here are some wonderul stories and poems on these themes:
David Harrison sent in a great interpretation of ‘darkness’:
As the darkness gave way to the fresh morning, his impending visit to the dental surgery flooded Edward’s mind. It wasn’t that he was scared. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. But the impending horror gnawed at him relentlessly and without mercy.
“Mr Taylor!” barked the receptionist with unnecessary ferocity. “Mr Butcher will see you now.” The cloud over Edward settled into a pall of gloom as a picture lodged in his mind of a fierce looking man with a meat cleaver lying in wait for him. In fact Mr Butcher was a red-faced rotund little man, his bald head gleaming like a dome. He buzzed and fussed and bustled and was in possession of a sense of humour to which Edward took an immediate dislike.
“Comfortable?” asked the dentist as Edward settled into the chair. “Oh well, we’ll soon put a stop to that! Ha ha! Hold tight!” And a fierce bright light illuminated the condemned chair.
That afternoon, his teeth resembling a piano keyboard as the black gaps contrasted with the remaining white molars, Edward attempted to ring his mother.
“For heaven’s sake,” she growled, “Ring me back when I can understand you!”
It proved a mistake of the largest proportions to suppose things could only improve. Having had his new teeth fitted, Edward’s mouth had gone in an instant from a piano keyboard to a cemetery, tombstones gleaming brightly. He couldn’t possibly ever go out again.
Then Edward woke up.
A sense of relief that he had been in bed dreaming lasted but a second as Mr Butcher loomed over him. “All done, sir. Had to pull most of them out I’m afraid. Never mind. The new ones will be in soon. About two or three weeks, sir.”
The glare of the light turned, in the blink of an eye, to a darkness blacker than any he had known.
Adhin Shamina sent in several poems. Here is her poem on the theme of ‘leaves’:
when being freshly green
bore as trophy on the tree
and held high on its head.
when dried and dull,
dismembered and downfallen
like necrosed tissues
to meet disintegration
after being crushed
and turned to dust
upon them will tread.
they lie at its feet soothing
bearing at times
the scorching rays
through the naked branches
ad waiting to surrender
all their best
to let their master flourish
with new freshly green
which will repeat
the same history ahead.
Here’s her poem on ‘darkness’:
The disturbing darkness
of the grey sky,
that changes every shades
into darkened and restless imagery
causing the mind to wander motionless
in vivid hallucinations of the alive,
mood dejected by that unwelcome guest
bringing coldness and lethargy along.
When will that beautiful lady
with the golden head smile again!
A smile that brightens
all in her way
and warms all that
fall for her charm.
And who wouldn’t want to!
Keith Channing also opted for ‘darkness’:
When it was still dark
I was up with the lark
For a jog in the park
When; did I hear? Hark!
The so-raucous squawk
Of a solit’ry hawk
Interrupted my walk,
As his quarry he’d stalk.
See? The hawk now perceives
Scuttling under the leaves
A mouse! He retrieves
It, as to it he cleaves.
As his prey was the runt
It was easy to hunt
With his fast stooping stunt.
Why should I feel affront?
Under cold skies of grey
On a chill autumn day
I applaud the display
Between raptor and prey.
The hawk’s hunting is done
Before mine is begun,
Under weak, wat’ry sun
I continue my run.
Geoff Le Pard opted for ‘leaves’:
Mrs Solomon pulled back the curtains, stiff through lack of use. Yes, she thought, she needed to sort things. Today would be a fresh start. She couldn’t keep pretending; life had to go on.
Outside the leaves from her neighbours cherry tree had blown in a heap by the side of her garage. She took her broom and a black bag and began pulling the heap towards her. She had barely started when her broom stuck on something. Sighing a little – it was a bone-chilling morning – she crouched and put her hand into the heap. She sat back, surprised. Whatever it was, was warm. Carefully she eased the leaves apart; a small scrunched face peered up at her.
Mrs Solomon looked around. Nothing moved. Everyone was indoors. Mrs Solomon held her breath and picked up the small child. One thing was clear; the child had to get in the warm.
Inside Mrs Solomon warmed some milk and found a bottle. She checked and changed the baby and took the milk and the child to her sitting room.
As she settled in her chair and offered the bottle she thought about her own child, her little Hattie who had died a year before. Once this little thing had been fed Mrs Solomon would call the authorities but just for a while she would take this autumn gift, this little fruitfulness.
It’s great to welcome Jasdeep Kaur back with her poem on ‘leaves’: