This week’s writing challenge is a fun one and it’s one I’ve set before. It’s to tell a story in only 20 words. It’s short and sweet so no excuses for not entering!
Last week’s challenge was to write a story or poem using the following five words:
- Murder
- Midnight
- Mask
- Maltesers
- Mud
Here are the results:
Steve Walsky sent in this highly entertaining story, guaranteed to make you smile:
On a Pedestal Table
Few would disagree that going into the house was a test of raw stupidity; nor, would they argue that exiting alive would be anything less than a miracle. Then, what’s a little murder among friends at midnight. Besides, the mud colored sky only added to the allure of adventure. Thus, with mask affixed, he stepped over the threshold, through the open doorway, to be greeted by the sensuous aroma of chocolate and malt. A bowlful of Maltesers sat calling on a pedestal table to the right of the door. As he reached for a handful, she shot him; twice. The Director called “CUT!” Odd, thought the Director, this simple scene had already used six takes and two bowls of Maltesers; ‘when will they stick to the script and stop eating the candy!’
(On a Pedestal Table, © Steven S. Walsky, March 2015.)
Now Geoff Le Pard first read about the challenge on his phone and misinterpreted mind for mud and mark for mask, but I loved his sonnet anyway:
A Life Spared
Cold midnight makes its mark on dead time
Taking from the senses, dulling compassion.
A slight shadow moves, night’s assassin
Poised to curtail another life; no crime
This act is instinctive. Fear grips
The target, knowing its very existence
Is lightly held. No appeal; resistance
Will be futile. The chance to flee slips
As mind freezes and muscles clench. Taut,
Death’s sharpened claws reach. But they stop short;
This murder is edge-balanced so fine.
Hope competes with despair. So thin a line.
The killer’s head turns; the prey slips his tweezers.
‘Come inside son. It’s late. Have some maltesers.’
Here it is with the correct words:
A Life Spared
Cold midnight is like a mask deadening time
Taking from the senses, dulling compassion.
A slight shadow moves, night’s assassin
Poised to curtail another life; no crime
This act is instinctive. Fear grips
The target, knowing its very existence
Is lightly held. No appeal; resistance
Will be futile. The chance to flee slips
As mind muddies and muscles clench. Taut,
Death’s sharpened claws reach. But they stop short;
This murder is edge-balanced so fine.
Hope competes with despair. So thin a line.
The killer’s head turns; the prey slips his tweezers.
‘Come inside son. It’s late. Have some maltesers.’
Esther Chilton 
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