Every now and then I like to come up with a different set of challenges, so I thought after my recent rollover challenge, I’d start something new. Here’s your new challenge:
OPTION ONE: Write a flash fiction story of 50 words, beginning with the following line:
‘How on earth did that happen?’ he said.
OPTION TWO: Write a story or poem, with the title MISSING
OPTION THREE: What does the word BEAUTIFUL mean to you? A place you’ve visited? A person? For this option, you can write a true-life piece, poem, limerick, story – anything and everything goes.
While I was away you sent in some super pieces. Your first option was to write a limerick with the word PLONKER in it. You clearly had a lot of fun:
Keith Channing took full advantage of the two weeks and sent in these gems:
I cheated and baked my new conker,
Believing it would be a stonker,
After only three hits
It broke into bits,
Now I feel feel a right blooming plonker.
“You plonker!” I heard from my brother.
I’d done something wrong or the other,
But try as I might
I can’t get it right.
He’s worse than my wicked step-mother.
But she’s not as bad as she’s painted,
Her character’s all but untainted.
I’d quite like to bonk her
(Well – it rhymes with plonker)
If we were not so well acquainted.
She tends to be over-protective
Though her efforts are hardly effective.
I’m such a plonker;
I need her to conquer
My shyness and moods introspective.
It’s not only I who’s a loser
Winding up every night at the boozer,
If she has too much plonk
Her response is to honk,
Which, in truth, serves just to confuse her.
Jason Moody is also a pro at this:
The match had ended six-one
for away fans, this wasn’t much fun
though the game was a stonker
the ref was a plonker
“Bored,” said my teenage son.
The royals they called him a king
but the fat sod had not done a thing
“he has yet to conquer.”
“that’s because he’s a plonker!”
Is what the towns people would sing.
I couldn’t agree with the man
this wasn’t a viable plan
he would not concur
that he was a plonker
“Sod it,” I said. “Back to the van!”
“My name’s William, I have cometh to conquer!”
“Death be quick if you do not concur.”
But he slipped on a skin
and done himself in
now he’s known as William the Plonker.
Would I be known as a moron, a plonker?
If I said that I only eat conkers?
I love them the most
When I put them on toast
This combo..oooh, it’s a stonker!
Was dipped in vinegar for such a long length
Of time
For the rhyme
Far from sublime
By this plonker who writes under the pseudonym of Strinegar Venth.
Who is a bit of a poet, and is two-thirds of a pal
So, I’ll try and see
If I can Limericky
And include the prompt word – yes, I shall.
For saying insults in different ways
From plonker to prat to poultroon
Then pilchard to blue-arsed baboon…
Tell me, what’s your favourite phrase?
The good looking dashing plonker,
Makes all the girls go bonkers.
When he smiles his enigmatic smile
His stupidity the box head does disguise.
Books are fab
Books are brill
Books are so old hat
But we love them still.
The smell of a book
The turn of a page
A book is forever
A wonder of our age.
And if you look
Inside a book
You can find
Every single thing
There ever was
Or is
Will be
May be
And couldn’t possibly be.
And you ask what a book means to me?
And here’s another from Graeme:
–
Book Haiku
I look at a book…
Next, I look inside the book…
Then I discover…
Geoff Le Pard has written a lovely poem:
All in a Book
A window on a soul
The ramblings of a fool
The steps towards your goal
#
A treatise on strange fruit
How to iron a suit
Cat pictures, always cute
#
The life cycle of the dove
A golden treasure trove
For you, with all my love.
Keith Channing, known for his talent at limericks, shows us he can write poetry too:
My love affair with books began
Ere ever I could read
The sight of mother, head in tome,
Was what first sowed the seed.
The words she read, sat up in bed
Fulfilled a deeper need.
She always seemed to be relaxed,
Content and fully rested
The house might well have been a mess
But we never protested
Because we knew that if we had
We could end up molested.
When Dad came home from his day’s work
And looking for his dinner
He’d often phone for pizza,
Always a sure-fire winner.
He had a special name for Mum,
Called her a lazy sinner.
But we kids knew that was a lie
She really was a saint
It’s true! It said so on the book
In letters bold, not faint
And when our father did complain,
She said, “Your slave, I aint!”
Thinking back across the years
I come to realise
The evidence I should have seen
Was right before my eyes
Twas not the book she carried
That led to her demise.
She always held the self-same book
To read it took her ages
And when she died we came to know
How she got worse in stages
Twas the bottle, not the words,
That hid in hollow pages.
I know what you’re thinking, but I never claimed to be a poet, did I?
Bindhu joined in with the poetry:
Books mean the world
A column-full here, a laden shelf there
A heap on the side-board, a pile on the floor
They are housed within, multitude surround me,
Books are what define me, for they resolve my doubts.
Adding to my knowledge, helping me learn more
When over many different kinds of books, I decide to pore.
The fragrance of their print ink, the crispness of the page
Creates a heady feeling, which no wine or drink can make.
The yellow-white pages that constitute all books
Bound by hard or soft covers that give it’s pretty look.
Are slowly disappearing from the now declining stores
As youth are caught up elsewhere and seek books no more.
The pride of a library, a prized possession once,
They made their presence obvious and were oh so distinct.
Sadly, paper backs and hard covers may go out of fashion soon
Maybe they are on the highway to becoming extinct.
Many series, volumes and brilliant manuscripts
Are now going digital, oh goodness what a slip!
What is reading if not with a crispy book in your hand?
Not for me the internet, it gives not the taste nor sound!
Book me a Book!
Come gather round friends, a story for thee;
Tales of the mountains, and of the sea.
Songs of the deserts, and rivers that flow;
Odes to the winds that continue to blow.
There are tales of Gods, women and men;
Along with those of goblins, demons and flames.
Stories of bravey, cowardice and vice,
Love betrayal and hearts of cold ice.
In days of old, beneath the stars of the night,
Sitting around the campfire’s warm light,
The Minstrel would sing, of Nature Divine
The stories would travel to friend, kith and kin.
Now found in bound books, these tales of yore,
Thrill and enchant us, sadly no more.
These tales and traditions continue to fade,
Books themselves may soon pass into shade.
Sounbytes replace the story teller’s craft
And books shall soon feel Twitter’s cruel shaft.
But all is not lost if we slow down a tad,
To lose the stories that bind us, would be very sad.
Come gather round friends, a story for thee;
Tales of the mountains, and of the sea.
Songs of the deserts, and rivers that flow;
Odes to the winds that continue to blow.
Your third option was to write a twenty-word story using all of the following words: WORDS, DOUGAL, DALLIANCE, ELIXIR, GAMBOL and PLETHORA. Here are the funny results:
Jason Moody was the first in with his story:
Dougal liked to gambol about, spitting a plethora of words into the air. His recent dalliance as sweet as elixir.
Bindhu completed all three challenges:
In his dalliance with Daisy, Dougal employed a plethora of enchanting elixir words that made her gambol like a lamb.
Rajiv Chopra‘s story will make you laugh:
A plethora of fairies. A bit of elixir, and Dougal wants a wooded gambol, and a dalliance with a pixie!
David Harrison brings the challenge to a close with an entertaining story:
Dougal’s dalliance with Florence was doomed. The elixir caused a plethora of words. “Go on,” said she, “gambol off immediately!”
***
Esther Chilton 
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