My Weekly Writing Challenge

Need a new writing challenge? Here are three for you:

OPTION ONE: Write a six-word story with the word CARAVAN in it somewhere.

OPTION TWO: Write a poem or limerick on the theme of the FUTURE.

OPTION THREE: Your word is RIVALRY. What does that mean to you? Sibling rivalry? Perhaps you’ve had a rival in your line of work, or in love. Your entry can be fiction or truth, or a mixture of the two; it’s up to you.

Now for last week’s challenges:

OPTION ONE from last week was to write a six-word story with the word BINGO in it somewhere. You all came up with some fantastic stories:

EDC Writing:

Up in arms her bingo wings.

Helen Jones:

Two fat ladies? No, just bingo.


B-I-N-G-O, an annoying song, but catchy.


Ninety.Top of the house. Bingo.

Bingo! Go for it! Do it!

Sacha Black:

Bingo! I unlocked the casino safe.

Al Lane: Love’s Winner and Love’s Loser:

Rajiv Chopra:

Bingo! Security staff protect crooked politicians!

Stephen Pigney:

‘Bingo!’ yelled Ethel. ‘Balls,’ sighed Deirdre.

OPTION TWO was to write a poem or limerick on the theme of INFATUATION.


Fondness, adoration, passion or feelings,
Extreme interest, fixation or crazy about one,
Foolish attachment, puppy love or crush,
Calf love, a thing for or object of love!
Call it what you may; infatuation
A short lived romance adds spice; so a must.

Stephen Pigney:

There was a young man who adored
A beauty whose name was Maud.
For hours at the station,
Rapt with infatuation,
He would await her and never feel bored.

OPTION THREE: Your word was HOLIDAY. Here’s what it meant to you:


Just ‘being’ is HOLIDAY to me! A day of colours of a different sort. No early wake up, no pre- dawn chores, just lie placid and still, staring at the ceiling or out of my high rise window. Reminiscing nothing in particular, rising at will to potter around the house without a care or thought of a pending task. Another word that expresses my thought on holiday – BE.

Stephen Pigney:


Samantha and Joe pitched their tent at the foot of a steeply inclining bank on which a couple of large bushes provided shade from the still bright early evening sun. It was a decent spot and Joe said how well they had done to possess it in time: a few other tents were going up now, but not one had as good a location as theirs. Joe rummaged through his rucksack and took out a camping stove, a tin of beans and sausages, a small pan and a can opener.

He pierced the tin and started twisting. “I fancy a beer with this,” he said to Samantha. “Are they still in the car?” With a final turn of his wrist he sheared the top off the beans and sausages before tipping them into the pan.

Samantha nodded. “I think they’re still in the carrier bag in the boot.”

“Okay, you get the food cooking and I’ll get the beers.”

Samantha watched Joe weave between the cars and vans, wondering if any of this really counted as a holiday. She admired Joe’s spirit, his determination to get on with things no matter what, but at that moment she wanted to cry. No, she cajoled herself, I’m going to hold it together, I’m going to light this stove and we’re going to enjoy our meal. She opened the side pocket of the rucksack, the one where the matches would be. But they were not there. She pulled out a penknife, aspirin and paracetemol, plasters, some string and some tape—but no box of matches.

Joe returned clasping two bottles of beer. “I can’t find the matches,” Samantha said to him. “Are you sure you packed them?” He put the beer down and systematically searched every pocket of the rucksack. “You know,” he replied after a few minutes, “I think we may have forgotten them.”

Samantha put her head in hands. “Christ,” she muttered, “this is a disaster. A complete and utter…” But Joe had stood up and walked off in the direction of a group of men who were playing cards and smoking beside a lorry. She watched him shake their hands; perhaps, she thought, he would rather their company than hers. A couple of moments later he returned, triumphantly brandishing a book of matches.

“There you go, problem solved,” he announced cheerfully. He lit the gas and gently stirred the beans and sausages. “Not that I want to alarm you,” he continued after a pause, “but those lorry drivers reckon we might be here for at least a week.”

A wave of despair crashed over her. She looked to the left then to the right: stretched out along the motorway was a mass of cars and caravans all hemmed in by the hideous lorries. Then she looked ahead at their own little car stuck in the middle of this ugly gridlock. No, she urged herself, I am not going to cry. She picked up her bottle of beer, raised it in the air, and said to Joe: “To our first holiday together—the first of many!”




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35 Responses to My Weekly Writing Challenge

  1. Sacha Black says:

    BabyBlack’s First Sleepovers In A Caravan

    100% cheated, but its a true story.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. EDC Writing says:

    Caravan her goal … his nightmare penalty!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. EDC Writing says:

    A caravan or me? … you’re thinking!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Bumba says:

    Ellington’s Caravan wafts o’er the desert.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Le Fragi says:

    I’m looking forward to the furniture!

    The furniture? Don’t you mean the future?

    Okay. I’m looking forward to the furniture of the future.

    Wow, but ironically; like an open wound needs a suture.

    How? Apart from phonically, does that expression suit your face?

    Being ‘wrong rhyme, wrong place?’

    No. Just being wrong in the very first place!

    A perfect rhyme, you clever goose;
    Pray tell how ‘you’ did avoid the noose.

    They sought me here
    They sought me there

    You wished you’d worn clean underwear?

    Haha, you fool, you loon, you win
    I must leave off when you-


    I shall. Is there no future in the future?

    Now, there is a question
    That hinders digestion.


    Liked by 1 person

  6. Bank Holiday Monday. A Caravan Nightmare.

    She cleaned the caravan. Now where?

    Caravan love? Linked with the car.


  7. TanGental says:

    Verb Love
    Her past was tense, poor Sally McGraw
    Perched on that fence, neither either nor or,
    Plucking a flower, he loves me or not
    Driving her crazy, forget-him-the clot.
    Bur Harold McGee’s, principle weakness
    Is plain, you see – a crippling shyness;
    Harold loves Sally, and that awful defect
    Will not stop them marry-ing, their future is perfect.

    Liked by 1 person

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  9. Paul says:

    There was a learned man from Crimson Dene,
    Who invented the world’s first amazing time machine!
    With it he flew through time and space
    To see what future humans would face,
    Only to find a race of aliens whose colour was green!

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Caravan? No… AND a van!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  11. Bindu says:

    A people group. Priests! A caravan.

    Liked by 1 person

  12. Bindu says:

    Holiday! Caravan. Time for relaxing fun.

    Liked by 1 person

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  14. Aishwarya says:

    Wandered my way here but I loved this post. The prompts are interesting and I might write something on these prompts soon. Cheers and have a lovely day! Looking forward to more posts ^_^

    Liked by 1 person

  15. Rajiv says:

    Hi Esther
    Here are two from me… No verse this time

    6 word
    We ride a caravan to Hell

    Rivalry…. Be warned… This is a long one…

    Disclaimer: The following story, Dear Reader, is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance, Dear Reader, to the living, the dead, the real or virtual is entirely the result of the workings of your mind.

    We all thought Don and Hillary were rivals, and in many ways they were. They fought and gnawed at each other all the time, coming (as they were) from different view points. He bit, and she scratched, and soon they were both bloody from their battles.

    He could not believe that a woman could put up such a fight. He was a boorish man, misogynist, obnoxious and intolerant of others. That a woman could challenge him had never even crossed his wildest imagination.

    She, neither, could believe how fierce the battle would be. She had a formidable war chest at her disposal. Included in her arsenal was money; the rich, conservative and powerful establishment of which she was the centre piece. We must not forget to include her charming but faithless husband. He too had tasted power, and it lingered. She as a dour, sneaky and ruthless woman. Her tactics were those that others deemed unfair, but she did not care. There was a surprising strength behind his bombastic exterior and she had under-estimated this.

    Their rivalry had spawned a whole army of men and women dedicated to fighting each other, and defending the cause of their Chosen One. Whole industries had been spawned to feed this rivalry. Advertisers, cartoonists, writers, memorabilia makers and newscasters all rose to the challenge and the opportunity. The fighters changed camp at the blink of an eye.New mercenary armies were born and old ones resuscitated.

    For Don and Hillary, however, beneath the rivalry, shared a mutual, grudging respect for each other. They shared a camaraderie for each other, and a realisation that each would trade principles for power.

    In lust, they were one.

    Whoever would win the bloody war was – at the time of writing – unknown. Yet, the protagonists knew one thing, that they would share the booty. The ‘victor’ and the ‘loser’, each would get a fair share of the spoils. They would have each others back in the end, and each would be a keeper of the others darkest secrets.

    Where scoundrels play at war, there is reality and there is Maya – illusion. The Great Game is played out, and a curtain pulled over the real machinations behind. Like the magician, a spell is cast, and the world is pulled into illusion.

    The blood is spilled in the arena, but is it real? Do we feel the pain that the rivals feel, or are we made to believe in the pain.

    The play of war is often more important than war itself. Today one wins, and the other loses. Trades are made, and pleasantries exchanged. The winnings are divided between the two.

    We, the spectators, follow their moves, but do we know the minds of the chess player? Are we the pawns who are moved on the board, for the merriment of those like Don and Hillary?

    When the bell finally tolls and the game is done, is it for us that the bells have tolled?

    Does Maya then, remove the veil?

    Liked by 1 person

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