A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments at Sammi’s #WWP.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
It was the first meeting of the Dadaist Society of New York’s Upper Downside. Mistrel McGarte chewed her lower lip mechanically. Rrrose IV had yet to show with the coveted clue to the Mona Lisa’s jilted lover’s true descendant: none other than Danette Brown, capitalist author of the DaDa Vinci Code. Mistrel sighed. There was a time for absurdity but not now. The capitalist clock was ticking alongside the urinal in the art gallery. A postman handed her an envelope. Mistrel tore it open. Fine particles of detritus, paint, bone floated free. A note inside read, “DNA here final clue.”
“Hold on,” said Ben who had just gotten dumped by the barmaid, “I feel a limerick coming on.” “Is it painful?” asked cheeky Dotty McDonald. “Just five lines in anapestic.” “Painful, then. Let’s have it.”
There once was a barmaid who never Spared a kind word for this feller While she binged on the prunes He bought her from Koon’s He absconded with her toilet paper.
“A revenge poem. I like that,” Dotty hooted. “Is it true?” “Clever devil. It took some planning,” his buddy John remarked. “There’s no going back after that,” Ben admitted. “Another romance down the toilet.”
Pastor Peter was all a’flutter. There was the baby. There were the parents. There was the baptismal font. And there was Mick Mooney, to whom he had given bottled water for the font, boasting a malicious grin. The unopened bottle stood, tragically, on the chancel rail. Peter prayed, opened the font. It was filled to the brim. Afterwards, he confessed his surprise to the happy couple. “Oh, that was me,” the new mother said. “I just wanted to say a prayer over the font before the service began when I saw it was empty. I didn’t do wrong, did I?”
Thought I’d see if I could squeeze a few fun writing prompts (see below) into one tale of terror. Thanks Di, Linda, and Michelle!
“That … that … that THING is coming closer!’
Kroot hugged her red scarf tightly and tried to be brave. Beside her Kreet cleared her throat, ready to deliver the speech she had been given by the Grand Penguin himself. Kruff shrank back into her corner, her eyes squeezed shut.
My Christmas cheer will last the year Though Santa’s hat fall off my ear To be picked up and packed away Or left abandoned, chewed and frayed. What difference thus to outward fur When hat on head makes not the cur But hope in heart is what gives cheer To puppy barks of “Happy New Year!”
“Iglish”: palm-burst noise City garden cries havoc Blunt carpe diem Inbred posturing front rows Masks of covetous fury.
The English tanka form has a 5-7-5-7-7 syllabic structure and is written from the poet's point of view.
Update: I think I counted right on a do-over of the second and third lines a day later and a tanka shorter! 😅
For Colleen's Weekly Tanka Tuesday Challenge and Cee's FOTD challenge.
For Cee’s FOTD Challenge, a tree whose split trunks look like a giraffe’s legs uneasily balanced in a tangle of wintercreeper.
Is it possible to go even one day without marveling at the infinite variety of God’s creation in our own backyards? This little garden nook positively proclaims it though it may be overlooked except by the Gardener.