My Weekly Writing Challenge

Looking for a writing challenge? Here are three for you:

OPTION ONE: Write a fifteen-word story with the words THUNDER, TRUMP and TIARA in it somewhere.

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

OPTION THREE: Your word of the week is the MUSIC. What does that mean to you? A song from your childhood? Learning to play an instrument? Going to a concert? Your piece can be fact or fiction. 

I really enjoyed your entries from last week:

OPTION ONE was to write a fifteen-word story with the words WICKED, WRITER and WAR in it somewhere.

Junglegirldiaries was quick to get a brilliant story in:

A writer she will be but then a war so wicked rages in her soul.

Rajiv Chopra is topical:

That wicked writer strongly urged Don and Hillary to wage war on our common sense.

A lesson in alliteration from Bindu:

Wee Willie Winkie, the wicked writer winked slyly at her, to stir a winking war.

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

Here is the super duper Keith Channing:

I’m told that my humour’s home-spun;
That the best I can do is a pun.
I bet you’re a bloke
Who’d laugh at my joke.
I just want to have me some fun.

I just ate a big, creamy bun.
Any more, and I’ll soon weigh a ton.
I think that I’d like
To go out on my bike.
It’s tiring, but might just be fun.

Or I could do a nice, long road run
With Georgie, my fit young grandson.
We’ll eat up those miles
With laughs, jokes and smiles.
We’ll do that, and have us some fun.

I wanted to buy a handgun,
My grandson already has one.
You don’t have to wait
If you’re in the right State.
Let’s do it and have us some fun.

So we’ve ended ‘fore e’er we’ve begun
And I’ve now set my phaser to stun
The question is moot
If I’d ever shoot.
But let’s try it, and have us some fun.

ddmoonsong sent in a poem to make you smile:

My tights are ripped, I do not care
Pink hair, tulle skirt and a daredevil flare
sumptuous breasts and a wicked smile
these are enough for a job like mine

Here they come with their slouching gait
one and all – looking for a date
someone warm, who will take them in
as long as they’ve money, it is not a sin

A girl’s got to eat, my mam used to say
For good or for ill, be it night or day
just call me, you know me, I’m always game
many hands and no faces, to me all the same

As long as you pay me, I don’t really mind
if we do it standing, from the front or behind
I’m not picky, not choosy, come on one and all
we can rent a room, or go behind the wall

A pert bottom, parted lips, with high heels and a wink
I’ll have your interest and pecker, before you can blink
Look no further, come hither, yes I am the one
‘Hey Mister, I’m Heather, let’s go have some fun!’

David Harrison treats us to some humorous limericks:

An old lag out on the run

In a pub got drunk for fun

He was so darn pie-eyed

That he got nicked in Ryde

Now he’s back where the bird is done.

 

 A message for President Juncker

“Go away and have fun in your bunker”

While we all loudly shout

“We voted out!

You silly old Euro funker.”

–

For OPTION THREE, you were given the word the PAST. 

Here is a piece to get you thinking from Keith Channing:

When I look over my past, I see more unwise decisions than wise ones, more bad choices than good ones, and more opportunities missed than seized.

I frequently wonder what would have happened had I resisted family pressure and pushed on to university; had I been more resolute and taken, not the job my parents wanted me to, but one that I had chosen for myself. I consider the alternative futures I might have enjoyed, had I not confided in my supervisor that I was less than happy, and was wondering whether I could be happier in alternative employment; and the list goes on.

There are two sides to every coin, and so when I reminisce, I congratulate myself on the wise decisions, the good choices, the opportunities I didn’t let go.

But underpinning it all is my belief, not in predestination, fate, karma or whatever name you choose to use, but in cause-and-effect and in chaos, the butterfly effect. I know, that had I done anything differently in my past, made any decisions other than those I actually made, seized or let go of any opportunity differently to the way I did, then my present would be different. As would the present of anyone who has been directly or indirectly touched by the results of any of my choices or decisions (and let’s not forget the butterfly effect).

And do you know what? I rather like my present. True; there are a couple of things I would change (mostly involving one of three symbols – £, € or $), but changing a part would change the whole and, on the whole, I don’t want to.

And that’s all there is to say about it, really.

EDC Writing brings you a story rich in description:

Destination Reached

“Turn left and continue to the end of the road.”

“Okay let’s hope you got it right, this lane looks like it’s going nowhere.”

He taps the screen, the satnav turns off. A second hand one, hanging by its twisted black cable from his rear view mirror. Appearance has never been his thing. He’s on a promise, of a sort. Something about her, the way she’d stood, so close, appealed beyond reason, the reason why he’s here.

That was an hour ago, car boot sale, mostly tat and crap as usual. He goes most Sunday mornings, not much else to do. Her goods laid out on a knee high wicker table part covered by a faded lace shawl. A bit odd amongst the functional folding tables straining under the weight of stuff no one ever wanted and likely never will.

Her curves he first noticed, fluidic, not an inch of her ever still. Let’s get real, it wasn’t going to be her smile or eyes, or anything remotely subtle that would work on him. Lust not his only weakness, two pairs of candle sticks, tarnished, caught his eye, his stare diverted from her to the silverware. He’d always had a thing about old silver, finger tips worn through endless rubbing, his prints almost unreadable.

“How much for a pair?” he asked.

“Which pair do you like most?” she almost moaned as she leaned forward.

“I’ll take all you’ve got,” he grinned.

“That’ll be quite a handful for you to carry around. Sure you can manage them?” her words hung as she appeared beside him, stroking the stick he was holding. “I’ve more to show you … if you’re interested that is?” He didn’t need to say a word, his body answered for him.

They got talking, beyond the obvious. She found his soft spot, her way in beneath the shallows of desire to subconscious memories of the only one he’d ever felt love from. Orphaned on his birthday, aged five, an open fire, a wicked lick of flame ignited, engulfed her. His mother, his father couldn’t reach to save, his heart failed, as he fell her screams all the louder, too much, their loss, he too young to take in.

Gran took care of him, well she tried too, unscathed, least that’s how he first seemed. Her house, old, terraced, of another era, toilet at the end of the tree hedged garden. A shadow walk of fear at nightfall, looking over shoulders, even now he never locks the toilet door, or even closed it then. He had to see the light beckoning, he had to see his way back to her.

In bright late noon sunlight, glinting off rows of disgorged cars, he told this young clinging nymph everything, more than he even knew. She asked no questions, sucked on his naivety, his need of complete release. His hand held as if cuffed, voluntarily arrested, she let her breathe be breathed in. Her green eyes never left his, pale blue, seen through, beyond colour, his soul exposed, restless. He gave a cough and shivered, as if not ready for the taking, she pressed, tight against him, her lips upon his ear and whispered, “We’re ready now, let’s go.”

He took direction, her postcode familiar, local; he keyed it in, looked up from the dangling satnav, to see a now vacant slot where her table stood, grass undisturbed. The field around flat from wheels and footfall, his mind on amber, unheeded, his desire on green. He turned the ignition key.

That lane, no more than a mile away, one he’d not seen before, no matter, he not one for rural bye ways, hemmed in by hedges, overcast by trees. He slowed, first bend blind, wound the window down, no sound, drove on, a long straight, accelerated, ditch either side, a smell, faintly sulphurous, he wound the window up. Another bend, much tighter, a slight incline dropped away to a stream, a ford, didn’t look too deep. He nosed the front wheels in, inched his way through.

Too late, beyond return, he saw her. Old and bent, a grubby lace shawl around her shoulders held by long fingered purple veined hands at a bleeding creped neck. Blood oozed from her face too, raked by circling crows, she shuffled closer. He stamped the pedal to the floor, wheels spun on mud, tarmac there no more. Engine cut, fuel vaporised and vented. Sudden darkness took its hold, he’d never felt so cold. Windows steamed up, condensation froze, metal groaned, lightening jolted to his core. Neurons fired uncontrolled, thunder rolled, tyres exploded one by one.

He rubbed the windscreen with his sleeve, mistake, as if it mattered. In that moment her ravaged face seeped in, needing sight of him, glass dissolving, she took his tongue. His scream an inner thing, resonating through bones, bowels voided. Adrenaline filled veins, throbbed, nowhere to run, arteries disconnecting, the ruin of her body permeating, corroding every cell of his. Eyes forced open, lids ripped away by curved nails, in agony to witness his passage through the gates of hell. Yellow light, candles, silver mounted dimmed. Her mortal form released, a green eyed beauty rose to find peace, youth restored, once cruelly cut, gutted in a past life, by an ever evil him, her soul reborn, his taken … final destination reached.

An atmospheric piece from Rajiv Chopra:

Three venerable old men sat down to talk. For want of anything better, and to avoid leaving them to the nameless dark, let’s give them names. They are, for the purpose of this story, called Nehru, Gandhi and Jinnah.

The three old men lived in that nebulous region between Heaven and Hell. Some call it the Spirit world. Others call it The Realm of The Damned. As old men are wont to do, they began to talk of the past, and their time on earth. They had been contemporaries, and each had imagined that he had done great service to his country during his individual lifetime.
After talking a bit, and exchanging notes amicably, a strange realization came over them. Neither could agree on a common version the events of the past, or the effect of the events of their time on earth on their generation, or those that followed.

Each cloaked their version in fancy figures of speech, and in the finest robes of imagination. At times they claimed that it was destiny that had shaped their actions. At others, they claimed that they were the agents of God, and were acting in his name. Each arrogated to themselves the best possible motives for their actions, and could only see the good in all that they had done.

Anger coursed through their ghostly beings, and they flailed at each other in vain. Gossamer arms passed through gossamer bodies, and all that remained were spirits of malice and spite.

Finally, they went to The Pearly Gates, and asked St Peter to be the arbiter of Truth and Justice between them. Each importuned him in the most wheedling manner possible, and fake smiles coursed across their faces.

The Good Saint smiled, and said, ‘Each version represents the truth, and each version is a lie. Each represents your own individual truth, but not the whole truth. Neither of you would survive the memory of the past, and must seek comfort in your own individual history, no matter the cost to the millions of innocents who lived in your times’.

With that, he closed The Gates, and left the three to wither and waste away.

***