For this week’s challenge, you have two choices: you can either write a ten-word story using five words from the list given, or you can write a summer (yes, I know it’s autumn in the UK, but we’re all yearning for a bit of summer) themed story/poem from the second list:
Option one: Choose five words from the following list and write a ten-word story:
- Ineffable
- Gymnastics
- Dank
- Emotional
- Huffle
- Love
- Horatio
- Eunoia
- Minion
- Hiraeth
Option two: Write a story/poem, with any of the following summer themes:
- Sea
- Holiday
- Sunshine
- Flowers
- Barbeque
Last week, your ten words were as follows:
- Bond
- Autolatry
- Knismesis
- Pyknic
- Smile
- Clinton
- Bonkers
- Wizard
- Stench
- Eggs
Here are the simply brilliant results:
Bumba (http://bumbastories.wordpress.com/) kicks things off in style:
The Wizard Bill Clinton smiled at Ward Bond’s eggy stench.
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Helen Gaen said she found this week’s words trickier but she still came up with a good few entertaining and clever stories:
Les Moriarty went for it with three super stories this week:
Clinton’s smile at Bond’s autolatry outweighed the stench of eggs.
The wizard was bonkers, made Bond smile. Not with knismesis.
Wizard was pyknic and smiled at Clinton’s stench of eggs.
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Option two was to write a story/poem, with any of the following autumnal themes:
- Acorns
- Spooky
- Colour
- Chill
- Fireworks
You sent in some varied and beautiful pieces:
Please visit Carol Campbell’s site for her lovely poem:
https://writersdream9.wordpress.com/2015/10/23/crisp/
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Keith Channing sent in a delightful poem:
My little Jack Russell is smitten
By the sight of a fluffy new kitten
Standing perfectly still
In the late evening chill,
It’s about to be royally bitten.
That’s the plan that the little dog hatches
“I catches and then I despatches”
But, not on your Nelly
‘Tis fireworks, I tell ‘ee,
‘Cos he ends up covered in scratches!
You see, he’s a little bit thick
To think he can pull off this trick,
It’s the noise of his yap
That forewarns the wee chap.
He’d be better off chasing a stick!
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Bharul Chhatbar enjoyed writing a sonnet:
Lustre
Thy eyes welcome with vivid colours
Rushing me in your arms,
Safe, secure, sedate I feel
Your charisma magnetic!
Out there is distinct chill
Filling the air with festive colours,
You hold me with passion
My heart in flames with fireworks!
Such is, the autumn of our love
Each day it springs,
Illuminates like summer
Ectasy like heavenly showers!
Our life but a metaphor
Loved with true divine LUSTRE!
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David Harrison sent in a story to give you goose bumps:
The Chill
I can to this day recall the look on his face. It was a look that I had never seen and the closest to terror that I have ever felt. I can but relate his singular tale to you and leave you to judge for yourself.
It was December. A cold, icy, dark December. I was late in my study nodding over some papers when the bell of the front door chimed through the house, disturbing the stillness and the silence. Even now, as I recall the incongruous clang of that bell, my entire self is disquieted. At the door stood my friend the professor, his face a contortion of fear and agitation which sent an instant coldness through my spirit. I have mentioned never having seen such a look-and it is my hope that I never see such a look again.
“What on earth has happened?” I enquired of him as I poured us both a large measure from the whisky bottle. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”
At this he started violently and sank back into the armchair, remaining silent for what seemed an age. “Well that’s just it,” said he. “I have had a most distressing experience for which I can offer no rational explanation. You know me as a sound, logical man not given to flights of fancy and well-known for his self-possession. And yet I cannot deny that it is a wreck of a human being that sits before you this night.” Even as he spoke his eyes stared fixedly ahead of him and he could not disguise the tremor in his voice.
I waited patiently and expectantly for him to continue so that I might discover the reason for the parlous state in which he presently found himself. “This evening,” said he, “I gave a lecture to the Literary Society. I decided upon walking as it was clear and crisp. The evening proved a great success and afterwards I was making my way home when my route took me through the copse at Woodman’s End. As I entered the copse a dense fog fell and I could not see before me. The odd thing was that upon chancing to look up at the sky it remained perfectly clear. The fog became denser and had about it a chill such as I do not think I have ever come across before. I had already fallen prey to worry when I heard a woman sobbing in the distance-the kind of sobbing which is born of some great tragedy. Naturally I was desirous to give assistance but could see nothing in the fog. Suddenly in front of me there emerged a woman, deathly pale, and with a look of such malevolence upon her features that I feared for my very safety. I hurried blindly away and eventually reached the path. On looking back I noticed that the copse was as clear as the sky. Not a trace of fog remained, the sobbing was no more and no woman was to be seen. The chill upon me became more intense still, and I believe I shall never be free from the vision of hatred upon her face.”
Some time has now passed since the professor related this story to me and I am glad to say my poor friend has recovered greatly, yet the hoot of a night owl turns him ashen-faced to this day.
A few days ago I found myself in conversation with old Tompkins, the gardener down at the Lodge, and I happened to mention the matter, briefly, to him. “Ah Woodman’s End,” he remarked knowingly. “That place has a chequered history and no mistake, sir. A woman was murdered there a long time ago. By her husband on their wedding night or so the story goes. With her last breath she swore a curse on all males. Oh yes, sir, a chequered history to be sure has Woodman’s End.”
And as I listened to him a chill descended upon me. A chill which entered deep into my bones.
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Esther Chilton 
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