I dedicate this challenge to my 103-year-old grandmother who passed away this morning. I’ll miss you Grandma.
BET YOU CAN’T do this writing prompt. Take the 10 random words below and, in the comments, crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story tying all of them together! And remember: after (if) you finish, highlight your words and click the bold button to make them stand out and help you determine if you forgot any words. (If you’ve missed previous writing prompts, we BET YOU CAN’T do those, either.)
- Shirt
- Gather
- Race
- Compulsive
- Burn
- Star
- Nonsense
- Temper
- Think about it
- Sharp
NOTE: Don’t copy and paste from MS Word. Use a program like notepad that removes formatting or just type in the comment field itself. Also, finish your submission, THEN bold the words. Thanks.
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Resources you should check out:
Thesis: Best Damn Theme on the Web
Collective Ink Well: Personalize Your Thesis Theme
Third Tribe Marketing: Marketing done the right way
Story Structure Demystified: Best damn writing book out there
{ 88 comments… read them below or add one }
Your family is in my prayers, Shane.
Anyone who lives that long deserves tons of respect… I’ll bet you will miss her, Shane.
May your heart soon be warmed by the cherished memories of a wonderful woman who lived long, seemed to have loved well, endearing herself to many whom she came in contact with.
She was a blessing shared with you from the creator. She is home now and shall be there when you get there.
@Kathleen: Thanks. That was great.
This time I did the words in order, backwards -
I’m not feeling sharp.
I don’t want to think about it.
My temper is nonsense
Yet I my star inside is burning, compulsively
Forcing me to race, to gather my shirts and all the other sh*t
And prepare for the move.
I like this… but does it mean you are moving again?
I feel your pain, Anne. Moving is the pits!
A star burns less brighter today.
Time to gather my memories and race them onto paper before I permanently forget—It’s a compulsive urge after such tragic events.
“No thanks grandma, I’ll just use my shirt.” Such utter nonsense, but we both found humor in it.
I must think about it and find a way to temper my anger and replace it with fondness.
The sharpness of life cuts, but I know time heals wounds.
This is very beautiful, Shane. I am so sorry about your beloved grandmother. You and your family are in my thoughts.
@Sara: Thank you kindly.
Shane — the sorrow you feel now will be replaced by the wonderful memories God has given you to cherrish. It may take a while, but they will rise to the surface.
Know that if you did not love the newly departed it would not hurt. It is becuase you loved your grandmother so much that your heart aches.
Do as many a writer does… write it all down. It works a source of release and helps us along the healing process. And it helps when you come, years later, to tell your son and others about your wonderful grandmother. You many uncover memories you thought you had lost.
Your family is in my prayers.
@Shane–Thinking of you and trying to imagine how I would feel if my grandmother were gone. I know it must be difficult and cut you and your family like a knife. Many thoughts and prayers are with you now
A beautiful tribute, Shane.
For Shane and his Grandmother:
I don’t know how to think about it!
You were such a star in my life, tempering all my compulsive young nonsense
With your well earned wisdom, making you so very sharp, burning with truth
As we raced around with youth-induced madness you quietly gathered our shirts and spread your love.
Grandma, I miss you so.
Wonderful
@Anne: Thanks and I loved the submission.
@Anne–beautiful!
Shane, I am so sorry to hear of your loss. Wow-103 years-the stories you can share! You & your family are in my thoughts & prayers. See you Saturday for this challenge–Big virtual hug!
Think about it…a parent’s job is to see that their child grows up right with all the correct values, but sometimes in the race to the finish line they become a bit compulsive, sharp,and at times lose their temper when they should just shrug things off and laugh.
A grandmother, on the other hand, gets to encourage the nonsense of her grandchildren with patience and wisdom, knowing that these are moments that will burn in their memories. A child will see themselves as a star through the sparkle in grandmother’s eyes when they share a silly story, gather flowers in her garden, or sit at her knee as she lovingly repairs a shirt, before mom can see it. A grandmother has a different place in life.
She is the the one a child can identify with because she has done her growing up and can now be a playmate.
Cherish, your memories, Shane. Condolences to your family.
@Margaret-well-said, grandmas are the best!
Margaret — Yes, yes, you said it well.
Sorry to hear about your Grandmother Shane, my condolences.
Short piece first as usual!
Her hands grabbed my shirt.
“Gather your energy.” I told her.
“Is this a race?” She asked.
“That certainly would be compulsive.” I said.
“Do you not burn to be first?” she said.
“I want to touch the stars” I replied.
“That is nonsense.” She said.
“Temper, Temper.” I admonished.
“Think about it,” she said, “The whole world, at the mercy of your sharp fangs…”
see them all at http://delphiusbogue.wordpress.com
@Justin: Another fine submission in that style I dig. Carry on.
@Justin–sweet & sharp – like his fangs.
Sorry to hear about your grandmother Shane. My condolences to you and your family.
@Lisa: Thank you.
Part 14
When Jax said goodbye and left to explore the forest, he was all no-nonsense. His mind was sharp as he focused on his surroundings, memorizing the placement of the trees and the creek in relationship to the house. Soon he would stop to create the beginnings of a map. But for the moment, he just took it all in as he hiked.
Ever since Kel’s strange ability had shown itself, things had been a bit awkward between the two of them. He was disconcerted by her and she wasn’t all that happy with him at the moment either. His initial distrust had been somewhat tempered by the vivid dream, but now he had other concerns: he was beginning to care for her, and he didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing.
He didn’t want to think about it all now, though, which was why he compulsively focused on plotting the terrain. It was easy enough to block out the emotional drama as long as he focused on his work at hand.
A little way off from the house, he discovered a clearing in the center of the woods. Upon closer examination, he discovered it was a garden, fully stocked with whatever foods its cultivators were unable to grow in the greenhouse. This was an assumption on his part, but the cabin was near enough that he guessed whoever owned it also planted the garden. It seemed there was no end to the food supplies growing nearby. Was this because the residents had a passion for planting or because of their remoteness from civilization?
The possibility concerned him. If he were unsuccessful in finding signs of life within a few days’ worth of travel, they would be left with only one other option. And it was a thought he did not relish.
Jax continued on his trek, seeing more wildlife in the next several hours than he had in all the days previous. Shy rabbits bounded away as he stumbled upon their nests. Once, a doe and her fawn locked eyes with him for a moment before darting off through the trees. Two birds with brightly colored wing tips raced through the air in front of him and disappeared beyond the surrounding foliage. He even caught a family of beavers in the midst of building a dam further downstream.
He stopped for lunch, the only break he allowed his tired legs other than the short pauses to update the map. After that, he ignored his stomach’s complaints, pushing himself onward until the sun’s descent formed long shadows across the open spaces. Finally, he stopped in a lush meadow, sat down, and untied the shirt that still doubled as a pack for his belongings. He ate hungrily, gathering up the remains of the food once he was finished. There was probably enough left for two more days, he reasoned, as long as no animals found his stash during the night while he slept.
He was taking advantage of the last few moments of daylight, reviewing his sketches in the notebook, when he heard an odd sound approaching. The noise was still familiar although it had been several days since it first arrested his consciousness. The dream had been so vivid that he was immediately overwhelmed with a vision of being chased by buzzing metal bees. But when he looked for the source, he saw something quite different.
There was something in the air, about ten feet in front of him. Jax rose to his feet, watching the thin ribbon, as translucent as if it were a heat ripple or a distortion in the atmosphere. It seemed to grow slowly as it floated toward him. The shapes of the leaves and trees twisted and then returned to normal as the buzzing anomaly passed over them. He gazed, starry-eyed at the strange wrinkle, rooted to the spot until his curiosity couldn’t resist its pull any longer.
Mesmerized, Jax reached out to touch the ribbon, now only a foot from his face.
Contact.
And then there was pain. Only pain. A burning sensation like an electrical current flowed through his bones, jarring all his senses until his mind turned to mush. And then his world went black.
@Becca: THAT’S a way to end a submission. Alas, waiting!
@Becca…still keeping us in delicious suspense!
You know, you know. Just keep comin’ back.
@Becca-great ending! Can’t wait for the next submission.
In a compulsive move, she bent down to gather his old shirt into her face, inhaling the sharp burn of motor oil. She felt her heart race as if her shining star were still in the room, and not across the globe, hired to temper with matters that didn’t involve either of them.
“Don’t think about it,” she whispered to herself, knowing the very idea itself was nonsense.
@Sara: So much packed into that short piece. That’s a fine submission.
Thank you, Shane!
@Sara-wow, great power in such few words-well done!
Sara — hope you are proud of this submission, because it is good. Writting effective shorts is not easy, but you make it look that way.
Programming note:
The funeral for my Grandmother is this coming Monday, so I have two choices: post on Monday afternoon (EST) or Sunday night. It will probably be Sunday night so keep a look out for it in case you have more time on weekends and want to finishing it before work.
@Shane–don’t worry about us, Shane–we will be here for you!
Cathy is right. It’s nice for you to worry about this side of your family, but it is our turn to worry about you. So stop worrying about us. It is time for you to focus and worry about your immidate family. We will all be here for you when you get back and have time to deal with what needs to be dealt with in loving memory of grandma.
Avenged in Blood Part 13
The drive back to the care center became a race, a race to end Cabrese, a race to finish this part before I fell over from exhaustion. A race to be there when the rest of the force showed up to take stock of the damage, and send me the butcher’s bill.
“This is nonsense.” I told the steering wheel. “Why should Cabrese die? We can wring information out of him at the station.” “Nah,” I told myself. “He won’t talk. Besides I have all of his files.” I debated with myself the whole way back.
When I pulled up to the care center it looked just as I left it. Cars were parked neatly in rows, only dim lights on inside, all seemed as it should be. Only I knew what waited inside. I parked my car near the entrance and got painfully out of the driver’s side, leaving a brownish stain on the seat from the dog bite and the gunshot wound. It was compulsive,but I reached over and grabbed the trash can full of files to take with me. Cabrese had to know that I had it all. He had to die with the knowledge that he was finished. Completely and utterly finished.
I gathered my wits as I limped toward the heavy mahogany doors that shut the outside world away from the residents of this place. I would need to be sharp for the rest. I set the trash can down next to the door and drew one of my pistols. A deep breath and a quick tug gave me ingress to the horror show within.
I scanned quickly, leading with my pistol but there was no movement. I could hear a moaning in the back, had to be Cabrese. I picked up the trash can and proceeded carefully through the carnage that was just beginning to stink. Grey daylight was working its way through the few windows in the building and the filtering skylights in the central reception area.
There were bodies everywhere. I couldn’t quite believe the scene, even though I had created it like some sort of real life Cecil B. DeMille movie. There were so many bodies. So much blood. Was it enough to give Jack peace in the next life? Nothing would replace him to my sister and their boys, but was all of this enough vengeance? I hope so.
I slowly made it back to the chair that held Cabrese. It was lying on its side, Cabrese trying to work his bonds free and finding no success. He was muttering curses as he tried in vain to loosen himself. It was no use. I tie good knots.
My leg began to burn as I reached him. I set the can down, holstered my pistol, and tilted the chair back upright. I walked around to face him. He proceeded to spit blood and snot all over my shirt. My temper flared and before I could think about it I had punched him in the face again, hard enough to knock the chair over again. “You always demanded respect you worthless worm. You can’t even give a little bit.” I set the chair back upright.
He was woozy and I am sure he was seeing stars. “I went to your office” I told him. “2 goons and a Doberman are dead. I have a pile of paper over there,” I gestured towards the trash can. “That will take the Cabrese name off of the map. I told you I would take away everything you held even the least bit dear.” I walked over and righted another chair that I moved in front of Cabrese. I sat down ignoring the pain and picked up the files.
I started reading off the names of the business and operations in the Cabrese empire. His eyes filled with even more hatred and he snarled the more I read. Finally, I was done reading. “Any more?” I asked. He remained silent even though Miranda rights held no sway here. “Fine.” I said.
I stood. “Raymond Cabrese, “I began in the voice of a judge. “You have been charged and convicted of prostitution, drugs, racketeering, pornography, theft, kidnapping, murder of a police officer, murder of my best friend, and impersonating a human being. You are now sentenced to death. May your soul end up in Hell where it belongs.”
I drew my .45 for what I hoped was the last time that night and aimed it at the once great Raymond Cabrese’s head. “Any last words?” I asked. He started to say something but my .45 didn’t want to hear it, and neither did I. The smoke cleared as the noise slipped away and Cabrese joined the tribute to Jack Reagan.
see it all at http://delphiusbogue.wordpress.com
@Justin: Cabrese finally got what was coming to him. That bastard!
Well done.
@Justin-whoa–powerful writing
… “and send me the butcher’s bill.” Wow, Justin, great description!
And giving Cabrese a fitting ending with a .45 and a man who do not want to hear a word Cabrese might want to say.
Hummmm and I know there is going to be more… right? heheheeeee
There will be more, I am just not sure exactly how to do it, but I have some inklings…
Temper your compulsive ways for life is not a race. Gather enough information and make sharp decisions; think about it before you do it. Be the star in your life and forget about the nonsense that’s around you. Burn no bridges. Dress in your best shirt and go out the door with confidence.
@Rebecca: Everyone should print that out and put it on their frigs.
@Rebecca: Inspiring words!
Rebecca — great words many a graduating senior should be listening to.
The Girl Who Stayed the Same (continued)
Breakfast ended up being plastic-wrapped pastries and lukewarm Cokes that Kelly grabbed from a kiosk while Jonas waited in line to get their tickets. Even so, they had to race across the platform to catch their train just before it left the station.
They swayed with the train’s rattling motion as it gathered steam for the journey west, picking their way down the car’s aisle in search of seats. Halfway down the row, Jonas stopped and convinced a sharp-edged businessman in an expensive-looking suit to move to one of the empty spots they’d already passed up, and so secured them two facing seats next to the window.
Kelly settled in, spilled their breakfast across her lap, and looked with distaste from the cherry sweetroll to the sleeve of waxed chocolate donuts, and back again. After a moment Jonas saved her from her indecision by snatching the sweetroll and tearing its plastic wrapper with a surprisingly loud crinkle and a look of pure relish.
She shook her head at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and passed him his soda, too. “You know, I’ve never eaten here before,” she said, feigning surprised delight. “I’m amazed you were able to get a reservation.”
He chuckled at that, drawing surprised looks from the two passengers sitting right next to them, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on Kelly’s. “Your story,” he said. “Tell me.”
“What story?” she asked, pretending nonchalance. She tucked her hair behind her ear and shrugged a shoulder. “I did a job, collected a paycheck….” She trailed off, surprised at the knowing laughter that danced in his eyes. “What?”
“I’ll never understand your compulsive desire to pretend you’re not a rock star.”
His answer caught her so off-guard that she barked a laugh, notwithstanding the big drink she’d just taken. She ended up spitting Coke all over his shirt, before her body was wracked with a violent coughing fit.
Jonas tried to fly to her aid, but the best he could do was kneel on the car’s floor in front of her with a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. When the fit passed, her eyes streamed, her throat burned hatefully, and she felt intensely embarrassed. She reached out a tender hand and pushed him back toward his seat.
“I am funny….” Jonas said, shrugging both shoulders, and Kelly had to fight down a new burst of laughter at that. Her throat couldn’t take it, though. She threw him a warning glare, and he shrugged again. “Temper, temper, Miss Lane.” He settled back and considered her for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry.”
She waved away his apology, then held up a finger for him to keep quiet while she took another drink to try to soothe her throat. Then she gasped a deep breath, and croaked to him, “I’m really sorry, Jonas. I ruined your shirt–”
“Nonsense,” he said lightly. “It looks better this way.”
Kelly hung her head in her shame, swallowed painfully, and then said in a more normal voice, “You just took me by surprise. You keep talking like that, like I’m already something special–”
“And now you’re talking nonsense again,” Jonas said, chiding. “You are special. I think Wednesday night’s little adventure proves that.”
Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know–”
He shook his head, ever so slightly, but it was enough to cut her off. He nodded to her, and his eyes bored into her. “I want to hear you tell it,” he said. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows in a pathetic puppy-dog expression and added a pitiful, “Please?”
She smiled. She took another drink. Then she told him all about it — everything she remembered, anyway. But as she told the story pieces started falling in place for her in ways they hadn’t since that night.
She remembered some of the things the councilman had said — not just that he loved her portrait, not just that it was special to him, but that he had connections in the photography business. She felt her eyes widening even as she repeated the words, considering some of the long-term possibilities.
And then she looked at Jonas and saw him nodding in approval — as though that private revelation was all he’d been looking for all along. She frowned at him, without realizing it, and cut her story short. “What?” she said. “What is it? You’re so mysterious.”
“You respond well to mystery, Miss Lane,” Jonas said. “I suspect some of your best friends wouldn’t even know that about you, but it has proven a surprisingly effective motivator.”
She sighed. She let her head fall back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I don’t really feel up to this right now,” she said. “Just talking to you feels like chasing fireflies.”
When he didn’t answer she cracked an eyelid to see if she’d hurt his feelings. He was grinning, though. She shook her head, and sat forward again. “Okay, Jonas,” she said, trying for authority. “Answer me one question. Why are we going to Chicago?”
“Just think about it,” Jonas said.
That mischievous delight danced in his eyes, but Kelly didn’t have the patience for riddles. She shook her head. ”No. Not right now, Jonas. Don’t make me think, just tell me.”
His smile faltered, but only for a moment. “I…sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I thought this one would be obvious, with the story you were just telling.”
She frowned, thinking. “Something about the councilman?” She trailed off, trying to remember what she’d been saying before his stupid face threw her into such turmoil. After a moment, her eyes shot wide.
“Exactly,” Jonas said. “The councilman’s wife’s second cousin’s gallery.”
“In Chicago,” she whispered. Her gaze drifted down to the floor while her mind raced. After a moment she shook her head. “No.”
Her eyes snapped back to Jonas’s. “That’s…that could be incredible, Jonas, yeah…. But not now. I’m not ready. I don’t really have a portfolio. I don’t have…anything. Not really. Just that one photo, and….” She laughed darkly, and gestured with her empty hands, “I don’t even have that, Jonas. I didn’t bring a thing with me.”
He sat forward to place a hand on her knee. “It’s okay, Kelly,” he said, and his voice cut through the anxiety stirring up black clouds in her head. “We’re just going there to meet with a friend of mine.”
Kelly barely hesitated before the answer came to her. “The gallery owner,” she said, almost irritated at it.
“The gallery owner,” Jonas repeated, with a little smile. “The world is just full of silly little coincidences.” He saw the panic bubbling behind her eyes again, and shifted his position. He leaned forward out of his seat, crouching on his toes right at eye level, and raised her chin with a light touch so he could capture her gaze again from inches away.
“It’s just lunch, Kelly. You are going to love her, and she is going to love you, and maybe afterward we can catch a movie or something. After that, we’ll just wait and see what happens.”
Kelly drew a shuddering breath, and leaned on his gaze as her only support. “I’m not ready for this,” she said quietly, and he smiled up into her eyes.
“You just keep trying to pretend,” he said. “But the universe has other plans for you.” His eyes fell down, unconsciously, and Kelly’s heart pounded as she realized just how close they were. He’d glanced at her lips.
Something jostled the train then — an irregularity in the track or just a strong gust of wind — and it was enough to rob him of his precarious balance there. He steadied himself, then pushed up off the ground and sank back into his seat.
He toasted her silently with his half-empty bottle of Coke, and smiled across at her. “Don’t worry about photography, okay? Let’s just have a pleasant Saturday in the Windy City. Everything else can take care of itself.”
She smiled back, a little weakly, and then turned her gaze out the window to the passing countryside. A moment later she sighed, and smiled to herself, and finished eating her breakfast.
@Aaron: This was one of my favorites. Great job of describing so much detail about surroundings and emotions without slowing down the story. Write on.
@Aaron-I love how you make the simple actions of life-breakfast, riding the train, paint such a beautiful picture.
Well…damn. Apparently “Delaware” and “Maine” are in different places, geographically speaking. And Kelly isn’t in Maine.
Shane, could you change the “south” in this entry to “west”? Thank you heartilly!
Leaving (Continued from CCC#45)
Chapter 2
Dear Diary,
Can you believe it? I left Mark today. I didn’t gather many belongings, mostly just a few clothes and things that hold good memories. I guess I’m lucky to get away with more than just the shirt on my back. I felt like I was in a race to leave that house. Think about it, Diary…no more of his nonsense to deal with! His temper will never again cut me like a sharp thorn, digging into my soul. I feel so free after spending the past 10 years dealing with his obsessive-compulsive (and passive-aggressive) personality. I feel free, yet I also feel fearful. Diary, what if this is just a fleeting impulse? What if I crash and burn, like a shooting star? How will I survive on my own? Well, Diary, I am exhausted, so I’ll have to write more later. Good Night.
Love always,
Rachel
This one’s a bit melancholy, but I love the journal entry angle.
I like this!
I did not see chapter one, I will have to go back and see it… are you planning on writing this/presenting this story as Diary entries only?
This could work.
I can’t wait to see more.
You go “Rachel”
@Becca–Thanks
@KathleenL–Chapter one is broken out over several previous CCC’s. The first one was CCC #42. No, it isn’t all diary entries. I thought I’d use this approach occasionally to give a sense of what Rachel is feeling on the inside, in her words. On the other hand, telling an entire story through diary narrative is an interesting concept. (Brain sparks fly with new ideas!)
@Karetha-poignant and so real-well-done!
Karetha —
CCC#42 … I will go back and start at the beginning. Thanks. I do like the method of “internal dialog” you have choosen.
I read a book once that was entirely presented as letters between a brother and a sister. It worked well.
I think the diary entries could work.
A tribute to a long life and a wonderful gift:
The heart burns with the loss. 103 years is not enough, her family is addicted to her, her wisdom, her no-nonsense sharp-witted, good-lovin’ humor. The family gathers and race with a compulsive nature to see the star of family… grandma.
As I think about it all … my temper begins to get the best of me, a lump builds in my throat, and my eyes begin to sweat… oh, no, that is tears. I lift my shirt sleeve to dry them, take a deep breath and say, “Thank you God, for letting me know her all of my life.”
@KathleenL–nicely put
@Kathleen-beautiful tribute for grandmothers everywhere
@Kathleen–somehow my comment got gobbled–nice tribute to grandmothere everywhere!
Thanks yah’ll. Maybe I will save it for a greeting card submit…
Death & the Detective Series
————
Detective Brett Connors reached for his shirt while trying to gather his control. Slipping the Chargers t-shirt over his head, he was fighting a losing battle to the race of angry thoughts.
He had fought hard to overcome the compulsive urge to smash his fist into his lieutenant’s face when he was told he was on administrative leave for the next week. He did a slow burn while the lieutenant shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Look, Brett, be smart about this. Play the game and you’ll be back on the streets in a week. After all, we can’t have our star, Detective Maverick, on the sidelines. What would the press have to write about?”
Brett shifted a frigid, blue stare at his superior, his jaw clenched so tight, he felt the twitch of muscle snap against his temple.
“Okay, not funny, but you know this whole shrink-babble is nonsense. So, throttle back on that temper of yours and think about it. You visit the Doc a couple of times, dazzle her with that sharp mind of yours and kick back at the beach with a couple of Coronas for a few days.”
Visit the Doc. Oh yeah, he’d visit one Dr. Margaret Mary Sweeney, Brett vowed silently. But it would be on his terms. It was all about control, baby.
Shane–when you get to it-I have a typo–smash is fist–correct to smash his fist–no rush. Thanks.
In honor of Shane’s Grandmother
=======================
Like the soft comfort of a favorite shirt, a grandmother’s arms gather you in a warmth and security that is your own special place. She welcomes you as you race to her arms with some shared childhood victory. She’s there to pick you up when some compulsive act lands you flat on your back.
To a grandmother, you are always her star, one that will burn the brightest and longest. She smiles that sweet, understanding smile as you giggle at some foolish, childhood nonsense. And when you are in the midst of a serious temper tantrum, it’s a grandmother who knows just what to say, just what to do.
When you think about it, a grandmother is what love is all about. And though the pain of loss is still sharp, the happy memories remain in your heart, waiting to wrap their comforting arms around you, just like a grandmother’s love.
Cathy – I like the imagery and the reality of … “Like the soft comfort of a favorite shirt, a grandmother’s arms…” It is sooooooooooo true.
And it is soooooo true that grandma’s think we are their stars. They are what love is all about.
My husband and I are in a race to chase that falling star. It is all about cutting the nonsense out of our lives while gathering burning knowledge that will create success. He needs to sharpen his skills in culinary school while we will both be praying we don’t lose the shirts off our back in the meantime. Our compulsiveness with finances should help us to remain tempered in the quest for a new life. We know we can do it, we just have to jump instead of wondering what if? Could you do the same? Think about it.
*****
I’m sorry about your family’s loss.
@Stacey: Hey there Stacey. Welcome to the CCC. Excellent 1st submission. You guys will be ruling the culinary scene before you know it! Everyone welcome Stacey to the addiction. I’ll add your name and website link to the community page next. (Nice website by the way, and thanks for your kind words.)
Stacey–Glad you stopped by–CCC buds-I told my new writer buddy, Stacey, about CCC so today’s welcome makes me smile – my 1st referral who followed through!
(I think I’m about 1 in 5,999-but I’ll keep trying!)
Stacey:
Welcome to CCC.
You’ll love this place as you push up your creative shirt sleeves. Let CCC envelop you when the “b” in writer’s block has gone BOLD or you need a virtual hug.
Shane will gather the words that race through your creative soul. Your visits become a compulsive urge that are difficult to control. The need for release will burn through your fingertips as your words star in the beauty of a passion shared.
At CCC, you’ll find drama and pain, laughter and tears and a whole lot of nonsense, too. We love our community and we love to meet new friends. There’s no need to temper what you think or what you feel because CCC welcomes you to express just that.
So, don’t think about it, just feel it, say it, believe it. Keep that online pencil sharp, and let the addiction begin.
Welcome, Stacey!
Welcome aboard the addictive CCC wordtrain Miss Stacey.
I would say more… but Cathy said it well enough for all of us; and all awhile including the challenge words. Lovely, just lovely and a perfect example of the nonsense that is within us as we gather at the keyboard with our compulsive urges to race to see if we can create a cohesive somethin’-somethin’ because we have a burning desire to temper our star-crossed futures with each other as we sharpen our skills…. Think about it, but not for long … just roll up your shirt sleeves and write, because it seems you do it well.
The Saga of Bayou Billy…
So I’m sittin’ on the front porch of that there nut house with one of them one-size-fits-all hospital gowns and I gots to tell ya, it’s fits my all ok but my ass is stickin’ out. Why don’t they just give us a regular shirt and some pants instead of this show yer butt crack nonsense?
Well, think about it, do you really want to see the ass end of a guy who spends all day drooling over his-self with his hand shakin’ so much you don’t know if he’s a mute stuttering in sign language or practicing his strokes?
Then they gets the bright idea to have group therapy. Half these people in here have mutil-personalities so they’s already in a group. I always wondered, if one of them fellers with multiple personalties threatened to kill his-self is it suicide or a hostage situation?
Anyways, it burns my ass that I gots ta tell my story to a group of dingbats and I’m trying not to let my temper get outta control, but nurse Ratchet or whatever the hell she’s called is given me the nasty eye. You know the kind where they look at you and look like they smell’d somethin’ sour but don’t wanna say nuttin’? Lord a-mighty she’s got a knot in her face a scout couldn’t untie. She asks me if I have any questions and I say, “Sure do… How would you know if a word was mis-spelled in the dictionary?”
She gets this look on her face like she sat on a sharp tack. I don’t know if she’s mad at me or tryin’ to figger out the answer so I asks her “What’s another word for ‘thesaurus’?”
Then this little feller o’er in the corner who ain’t said two words since I got here says, “matchbook.”
That’s when I says to myself, “Self,” and I recognized the voice right away cuz it sounded just like me. “Self, ” I says, “he may be crazy but he ain’t stupid. That was purdy damn clever.”
Ironically, he still ain’t said two words.
After group therapy I learn there’s a star in our little group of misfits who lost the race for mental dominance over house plants. She weren’t in no movies and sung’d on no records or nuttin’, but she sure is popular. Yes sir, Miss Ginger, the girl with the compulsive sex disorder is right popular with the fellers.
I try to keep a wide berth from that lady, yes I do. Three or two times I caught her looking at the back a my Johnny shirt. Johnny may like’d struttin’ in stuff but if my wife, my sweet Yvonne comes ta visit and finds me talking to Ginger, I’ll be deader than a bottle a rum at my kin’s house.
Well I sure would like to stay chat wit’ y’all but it’s medication time and I’m tryin to gather enuff Percs to bribe someone to smuggle me in some damn gumbo. Lord a-mighty if I don’t gets me some gumbo soon I’m-a gonna go crazy.
@Kenn: I was beginning to fear that good ol’ Billy didn’t have internet access in the nut house. Glad to see him back in rare form. Excellent addition to the saga.
@Shane: Thanks. I got busy writing and editing a short story about a coal mining disaster called “Steven’s Song.” It was narrated by the same lady who narrated Dead Hunt and is now available on my website (free download as always). Plus I have been writing several other short stories that will be recorded as well.
WE NEED MORE NONSENSE
I didn’t think about it in advance. The words just tumbled out, the day you were born:
“Happy birthday, baby.”
Maybe it’s what everyone coos, as they gather their tiny child to them. Maybe I’m a big ol’ cliché, compulsively making sure those were the first words you heard; keeping the shirt you stained with new-baby-goo forever; looking out at the first star I saw that morning (3:30! and I’m wide awake!) and wishing for your life to be peaceful and spectacular, in whatever way you want it to be. The 9-month race was over, the sharp pains had already faded, and all I wanted to do was burn every minute in my soul (and yours! have you heard this story often enough, my little one?) for eternity.
Why temper those moments with realism?
I hope every baby hears such nonsense when they’re born. There’s time enough for realism. The world needs more cliché nonsense.
Shane—I miss mine still. I hope your grandmother heard such nonsense when she was born, and belatedly, I wish you peace now.
@Kelly: Real nice this one. And thanks for the message.
Think about it. The sharp temper of the star burns with compulsive nonsense. As they gather for the race, he tears his shirt off in front of the crowd and the cameras.
@Cleve: Haha. Great short. Fun read.
My grandmother was the light of my life.
Sure, she had her problems – she could be compulsive and drank too much, she put up with untold abuse and his temper, she gave too much to all of us around her. But she was my “Grammy”. She raised me when my own parents weren’t there. She hugged me tight and made it all seem ok when things felt so terribly wrong. When our fevers burned, she sat with us day and night to cool our brows. She laughed with us when we acted silly and full of nonsense. She listened intently as we told her about the excitement and trials of the day. Life was not a race for her, just a leisurely stroll and a daily adventure.
I gather her soft cotton shirt and bury myself in it’s scent. Perhaps the memories will dull with time, but my love will remain sharp. Gathering up her belongings and even though I don’t want to think about it, I know there is nothing left here for me.
The crickets sing their night-time gospel and the breeze pushes the field grass in a soft dance before me. Up above a star blinks faintly. I know she will always gaze down on me and wrap me in her love.
@Lisa: Another great, heart-felt piece. Carry on.
“Think about it,” said Captain Dunsel. “The star is in a race to burn its fuel before gravity crushes it to oblivion. But if we go down there and temper the fire to gather the excess, we can save the solar system from destruction! We’ll be heroes, and they’ll have to let us back into the Fleet!”
“With all due respect, Captain, that is utter nonsense,” said First Officer Groan. “You must be a compulsive gambler to get this close to a near-nova. There’s no way we’re going to land on that thing!”
“That’s a sharp red shirt you have on there, Mister,” replied the Captain. “Perhaps you should lead the landing party.”
@Steven: Officer Groan!!!! Too funny. And the red shirt…even funnier.
@Steven: I can’t wait until my daughter and I get to this phase. NOT!
@Steven: Well done. I bet “swig” prompted this entry huh!
ahhh! that was supposed to be on #47!
and this was supposed to be on #48!
[yes, swig was the trigger]
@Steven: I’ll move them.
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