My Weekly Writing Challenge

For this week’s challenge, you have two choices: you can either write a ten-word story using five words from the list given, or you can write a summer (yes, I know it’s autumn in the UK, but we’re all yearning for a bit of summer) themed story/poem from the second list:

Option one: Choose five words from the following list and write a ten-word story:

  • Ineffable
  • Gymnastics
  • Dank
  • Emotional
  • Huffle
  • Love
  • Horatio
  • Eunoia
  • Minion
  • Hiraeth

Option two: Write a story/poem, with any of the following summer themes:

  • Sea
  • Holiday
  • Sunshine
  • Flowers
  • Barbeque

Last week, your ten words were as follows:

  • Bond
  • Autolatry
  • Knismesis
  • Pyknic
  • Smile
  • Clinton
  • Bonkers
  • Wizard
  • Stench
  • Eggs

Here are the simply brilliant results:

Bumba ( kicks things off in style:

The Wizard Bill Clinton smiled at Ward Bond’s eggy stench.

Helen Gaen said she found this week’s words trickier but she still came up with a good few entertaining and clever stories:

Pyknic Bond watched her wizard husband’s autolatry before initiating knismesis.
Rotten eggs dissipated Clinton’s smile: wizard Bond had returned.
Bonkers! Clinton’s smile as Bond practiced knismesis revealed everything.
The pyknic wizard loved rotten eggs and knismesis: bad stench!
Bond’s autolatry was bonkers: Clinton’s penchant for knismesis unknown.

Les Moriarty went for it with three super stories this week:

Clinton’s smile at Bond’s autolatry outweighed the stench of eggs.

The wizard was bonkers, made Bond smile. Not with knismesis.

Wizard was pyknic and smiled at Clinton’s stench of eggs.

Option two was to write a story/poem, with any of the following autumnal themes:

  • Acorns
  • Spooky
  • Colour
  • Chill
  • Fireworks

You sent in some varied and beautiful pieces:

Please visit Carol Campbell’s site for her lovely poem:

Keith Channing sent in a delightful poem:

Little Trevor, not so clever!

My little Jack Russell is smitten
By the sight of a fluffy new kitten
Standing perfectly still
In the late evening chill,
It’s about to be royally bitten.

That’s the plan that the little dog hatches
I catches and then I despatches
But, not on your Nelly
‘Tis fireworks, I tell ‘ee,
‘Cos he ends up covered in scratches!

You see, he’s a little bit thick
To think he can pull off this trick,
It’s the noise of his yap
That forewarns the wee chap.
He’d be better off chasing a stick!

Bharul Chhatbar  enjoyed writing a sonnet:


Thy eyes welcome with vivid colours
Rushing me in your arms,
Safe, secure, sedate I feel
Your charisma magnetic!

Out there is distinct chill
Filling the air with festive colours,
You hold me with passion
My heart in flames with fireworks!

Such is, the autumn of our love
Each day it springs,
Illuminates like summer
Ectasy like heavenly showers!

Our life but a metaphor
Loved with true divine LUSTRE!

David Harrison sent in a story to give you goose bumps:

The Chill

I can to this day recall the look on his face. It was a look that I had never seen and the closest to terror that I have ever felt. I can but relate his singular tale to you and leave you to judge for yourself.

It was December. A cold, icy, dark December. I was late in my study nodding over some papers when the bell of the front door chimed through the house, disturbing the stillness and the silence. Even now, as I recall the incongruous clang of that bell, my entire self is disquieted. At the door stood my friend the professor, his face a contortion of fear and agitation which sent an instant coldness through my spirit. I have mentioned never having seen such a look-and it is my hope that I never see such a look again.

“What on earth has happened?” I enquired of him as I poured us both a large measure from the whisky bottle. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

At this he started violently and sank back into the armchair, remaining silent for what seemed an age. “Well that’s just it,” said he. “I have had a most distressing experience for which I can offer no rational explanation. You know me as a sound, logical man not given to flights of fancy and well-known for his self-possession. And yet I cannot deny that it is a wreck of a human being that sits before you this night.” Even as he spoke his eyes stared fixedly ahead of him and he could not disguise the tremor in his voice.

I waited patiently and expectantly for him to continue so that I might discover the reason for the parlous state in which he presently found himself. “This evening,” said he, “I gave a lecture to the Literary Society. I decided upon walking as it was clear and crisp. The evening proved a great success and afterwards I was making my way home when my route took me through the copse at Woodman’s End. As I entered the copse a dense fog fell and I could not see before me. The odd thing was that upon chancing to look up at the sky it remained perfectly clear. The fog became denser and had about it a chill such as I do not think I have ever come across before. I had already fallen prey to worry when I heard a woman sobbing in the distance-the kind of sobbing which is born of some great tragedy. Naturally I was desirous to give assistance but could see nothing in the fog. Suddenly in front of me there emerged a woman, deathly pale, and with a look of such malevolence upon her features that I feared for my very safety. I hurried blindly away and eventually reached the path. On looking back I noticed that the copse was as clear as the sky. Not a trace of fog remained, the sobbing was no more and no woman was to be seen. The chill upon me became more intense still, and I believe I shall never be free from the vision of hatred upon her face.”

Some time has now passed since the professor related this story to me and I am glad to say my poor friend has recovered greatly, yet the hoot of a night owl turns him ashen-faced to this day.

A few days ago I found myself in conversation with old Tompkins, the gardener down at the Lodge, and I happened to mention the matter, briefly, to him. “Ah Woodman’s End,” he remarked knowingly. “That place has a chequered history and no mistake, sir. A woman was murdered there a long time ago. By her husband on their wedding night or so the story goes. With her last breath she swore a curse on all males. Oh yes, sir, a chequered history to be sure has Woodman’s End.”

And as I listened to him a chill descended upon me. A chill which entered deep into my bones.





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12 Responses to My Weekly Writing Challenge

  1. Sacha Black says:

    Hard work this week – had to google eunoia too!

    “Horatio’s Ineffable love?”
    “Caused by emotional eunoia from his hiraeth”

  2. somewords4u says:

    A poem for you, Mrs Esther

    Sunshine sunshine
    your coming is divine
    for like us
    branches, leaves and flowers
    had enough of taking showers.
    Now it’s time to grab
    the fun of holiday
    never mind it’s weekend
    or week day
    because it’s every.
    A day by the sea
    to enjoy with family
    and a yummy lunch idea in queue?
    Ah!……..why not a barbeque!

  3. More limericks, I’m afraid (verse 3 has the link to summer).


    While you’re drinking your Pina Colada,
    The poor periodic cicada,
    Live a life that they owe
    To pure H2O
    From New England right down to Grenada

    From their laying, for seventeen years
    They are down there, the poor little dears.
    Where pure water’s their food,
    The whole ruddy brood,
    I’m surprised they don’t drown in their tears.

    Then, suddenly, one summer’s day
    It is time that they come out to play
    They’ll all break their necks
    To find partners for sex
    So another batch females can lay

    Seventeen years they live underground
    Until their own time comes around
    And their zest for life peaks
    For five or six weeks
    While the earth with their singing resounds.

    After one month or so has gone past
    Each prepares to breathe his or her last
    And all that remains
    After all of their pains
    Is a mem’ry of noise unsurpassed

  4. TanGental says:

    This is based on an incident a few years back concerning my fear of the sea and my then young daughter’s delight in trying to make me overcome it

    Water Torture

    Her pudgy hands flap and wave; happy tyrant taunting me forward.
    Small green feet stamp and crash, breaking the dull grey mirror into limpid shards.
    Spinning, pirouetting gingham, doused in life giving varnish.
    Tiny, lidded sparkles demand my impossible easy involvement in her game.

    Dark deep boggy fears suction my throat; panic saturates my mind.
    Uncorked clammy wraiths suppurate to the surface.
    Frozen thighs and glacial calves anchor me to the grassy bank,
    While my bruised gaze bobs and yaws across the vast sucking swelling mob, seeking sanctuary.

    My immature autocrat, naïve Torquemada;
    How innocently you douse my quailing spirit with careless handfuls of sweet acid.

    The crusted froth-topped escarpments sprint at my feet
    Teasing, terrorizing with their careless repetition
    And, giggling, turn back to regroup.
    Behind the cheery bullying, the throbbing glutinous kraken snores.

    How can this humungous life-giving rabble,
    As blameless as a billion baths, liquefy my stomach and concrete my heart?

    The little legless imp, thigh deep in vacuuming ooze,
    Stays joyously impervious to my panting exhortations,
    Waving me forward.

    Are you out there, still waving? Are you calling me on or saying goodbye?

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