Extreme Writing Challenge #59: “www [dot] com”

One quick word before we get into today’s challenge and story:  please take a second to check out my recently-launched author website, www.hopemccain.com.  I have an additional blog there I will use for all of my non-challenge posts–meaning Impossible Words will now strictly be my stories and challenges, and all other writing/reading-related content will be posted on my other site.  🙂

Today’s challenge is tied in to the theme of the story:  Every sentence contains at least three W‘s, and the story contains at least ten unique words beginning with com. 

---

Wendy was sure she couldn’t handle one more day of teaching old geezers how to use the computers their kids forced them to purchase. Admittedly, it was comical to watch their bony fingers hover over the keyboard while they searched for the letters they needed. Greta was the worst, scanning the keys once for twenty minutes looking for one labeled Enter.

Every day Wendy heard a new complaint she could add to her ever-growing list. These windows are too small, these keys aren’t wide enough, the click of the mouse is too loud. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to show up at work dressed for combat. These old wrinklies were whinier than a room full of toddlers.

And yet, all Wendy had to do was say the magic word. She’d tell them, “Now I’m going to demonstrate what you can do when you log on to the internet.” The complexities of technology that so far baffled them were nothing compared to the World Wide Web. Wendy opened a website, always a different one, and chuckled at the reactions. Jaws dropped and eyes widened during the ooh-ing and ahh-ing from a titillated crowd. They might as well be witnessing Halley’s Comet, they were so awestruck.

The web always stirred up the room until it felt ready to explode with commotion. The women wanted to shop and the men checked sports statistics and read the news and then griped about it. Wendy was proud to awaken them, no longer comatose in their dusty recliners and shouting numbers at the television while watching The Price is Right.

That’s why Wendy kept coming back when she longed to run for the hills. To share with these seniors the best part of life they’d been missing—where else would she find such satisfaction? With the few years they had left on the earth, they deserved the chance to enjoy the magical, wonderful internet.

Advertisement

Extreme Writing Challenge #58: “A Gift”

I can tell it’s fall by the fact that my fingers nearly froze as I was typing today’s story.  Brrrrr!  It’s almost the time of year where all of my free time will be spent curled up in a blanket with a book and a mug of hot chocolate.

The challenge today is: A story that contains at least 20 unique words containing all five vowels (a, e, i, o, u).  Hope you enjoy, and happy Monday!

__________

Maddie’s education ceased when she was 12 years old, the same year she became possessed by the beast called menstruation. That’s what her father called it—possessed—and every month he disappeared the day her cramps began, returning two days later when the hormonal pandemonium had settled down.

Maddie’s father had never been prepared for her mother to pass away. He read the obituaries in the newspaper every morning, like they were no different than the stories on the front page. The morning he read his wife’s, he vomited up his breakfast.

Maddie was homeschooled, her mother the teacher. She learned phonics, geography, and equations. Her favorite lessons were in writing: weaving together imagery and metaphors and dialogue to create a parallel universe. Maddie was ambidextrous and grateful for it, for when one hand got tired of writing she could give it a break and write with the other. She never wanted to stop.

When her mother died, Maddie’s father didn’t resume the lessons. He was unorganized and impatient, a man with a reputation as the person who never should have had children. Maddie approached the subject of her education often, always with precaution. But her father’s tenaciousness never faltered.

Maddie dreamed of writing for a newspaper one day, or possibly even a magazine. It was a revolutionary time for women. Maddie knew that, even at her age. Precarious as her ambitions were, they would not be stopped by her father’s stubbornness. She would not grow up to be a housemaid or a secretary. That was simply a facetious notion.

Every day Maddie wrote down a new thing she would like to write about. The Zodiac. Automobiles. Dentistry. Sequoias. When her father read her list and chuckled, she was not discouraged. He would never understand the euphoria of combining single letters to paint a beautiful portrait.

After her father perished in a car wreck when she was 18, Maddie auctioned off every item in his home. He wasn’t worth much, but it was just enough for her to enroll in the university. What he didn’t give to her in life, she took from him in death. With a small amount of change to spare, she purchased flowers for her mother’s grave. She placed them in front of the tombstone and uttered her appreciation for the gift of knowledge she’d always taken for granted.

Extreme Writing Challenge #57: “Of Gin and Bravery”

I swear, the first and last sentences of a story are the WORST to write.  To make matters worse, I put off writing the last sentence of today’s story until returning home from running a 10K–plus walking two or three extra miles.  My brain is a little unhappy with me.

Today’s challenge is that one word in every sentence contains two sets of double letters, and none of these words are duplicated.

Now, did someone say “nap time”?

__________

Tom tried desperately not to embarrass his new lover. He saw himself as another of her dazzling accessories. A man of success, Tom was as well-dressed as the president and didn’t look a day over 40. Yet his thirst for gin appalled even the thirstiest of the town’s drunks.

Tom’s motto was, “Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy gin.” Raised in Tennessee by two redneck uncles, Tom believed the answers to any of life’s questions rested at the bottom of a gin and tonic. He and his uncles would drink until one of them passed out in a wheelbarrow in the middle of singing a television jingle.

Lucky for Tom, Melinda had no access to the details of Tom’s past. His uncles were both long dead, one from cancer and the other from a woodchipper incident. As long as he controlled his sloppiness, Melinda saw him only as a businessman who unwound at the end of the day with a few drinks.

Tom was thankful that the pizzazz of their lifestyle served as the perfect distraction. He accommodated Melinda’s every desire, from their monthly cruises to their reserved seats at the opera. Tom pitied the penniless drunks who couldn’t compensate for their nature. Before Melinda, he was plagued by aggression and self-loathing. He could snap like a frightened raccoon, mope like a disappointed toddler. He was on his way to becoming his own assassin, before Melinda.

As they lie on his four thousand dollar mattress, looking out over the mountains, Tom feared it was only a matter of time before Melinda opened her eyes. He sipped at his homemade cappuccino and stroked her hair as she slept. The moment was bittersweet.

Tom had always assumed it was the gin that made him bulletproof. Now the blurriness of reality was sharpening, and he knew it was not the liquor, but Melinda. In the stillness of the morning, he whispered for the first time that he loved her. A buffoon he was, for she didn’t hear it, and he would drive her away before he was brave enough to say it again.

Break Time–or, a Story Called “Cat Nap”

Tonight’s writing challenge is…

Actually, there isn’t a challenge for tonight’s story.  As much fun as my extreme writing challenges are, sometimes a girl just wants to write with no constraints.

I’ve been asked before why I torture myself with my restricting challenges.  I always give those people the spiel about how they teach me about the flexibility of the English language and help me to convey single ideas in an endless number of ways.  But the truth is, most of the writing I do isn’t constrained like it is in my stories here.  I want to share a story I would write without any limitations.  So, enjoy.  Next post will be business as usual.  😉

__________

There is no better napping place than Her stomach. Especially on the days she wears those wool sweaters. Nothing beats the moment she grabs a book and sits on the seat built into the window. The sun hits her just perfectly and I’ll lie on her stomach from the first page to the last.

It’s always been this way. The day she brought me home, she set me on her abdomen and introduced me to a warmth I’d never known. It was a drug I never gave up. Even when I grew and I could only lie on her stomach with my paws on her chest, reaching for her face.

Things changed, though. At first I couldn’t complain that her stomach was warmer than usual. Extra heat, yes please!

When my favorite napping place began to morph into a mound not fit for comfortable sleep, I grew a little worried. Was it a punishment? Did I eat one too many leaves off of the fern in the front window? Had I left paw print evidence of my midnight adventures on the kitchen counter?

Before long, her stomach was so big and round it wasn’t only uncomfortable, but it was impossible to lie upon it. When I tried, I either rolled right off or the lump in her shirt would kick me. I resorted to sleeping in the fresh laundry, no matter how much she scolded me. Fair is fair.

I barely noticed when her belly returned to normal. The return of my napping refuge came at the price of a new creature invading my territory. It was my size and kept low to the ground like I do, but it smelled suspiciously like a bath and elicited screeches that could break a deaf cat’s ears. The creature was almost permanently affixed to the warm belly I once napped upon. I was left to perch myself on the back of the sofa and look down upon the squealing thief in my spot.

For several years I endured the inconveniences of the creature’s presence. It stole my mousie toys and for a brief period even helped itself to my food. Only after it was locked in its bedroom was I free to curl up in my usual spot on her stomach, and only if I could catch her on the sofa before she found something to scrub or sweep or dust.

I accepted this new lifestyle eventually—against my will, of course. The creature began to grow, and the larger it became, the more belly time I seemed to procure.

On a winter night, she was cooking in the kitchen and the creature sat calmly in front of the television. Approaching with caution, I surveyed the creature as I cursed the cold air that had seeped in from the outside. The creature’s stomach looked almost big enough to lie upon. It was a risk, but it was one worth taking.

There is no better napping place than Her stomach. But in a pinch, the creature is just as happy to have me on his.

Extreme Writing Challenge #56: “Noise Complaint”

When I sat down to write tonight’s story, I wavered between a few different challenges.  I have a little handwritten list that I add to whenever an idea hits.  It usually comes in handy, but when it gets long (like it is currently), it’s really hard to decide which one I want to do!  It’s like standing in a donut shop.  Impossible.

I finally made up my mind and tonight’s challenge is that every other sentence contains exactly five words.

__________

Ted asked his neighbors five fucking times to quiet it down. It wasn’t an unreasonable request. Eleven o’clock at night was a really stupid time to set off bottle rockets while blaring Grateful Dead at full blast. Neighbors of the fucking year.

Ted called in a noise complaint, but the cops had serious things to worry about. Drunk drivers, rapists, car thieves. Never mind the people who need to fucking sleep and be productive members of society in the morning. At midnight, Ted lost it. He threw a robe over his boxers and marched into the backyard with steam coming out of his ears.

Were his other neighbors deaf? Between the music, the firecrackers, the hooting and hollering, and the three dogs barking at the booms and pops, there was no way anyone else was fucking asleep.

Ted kicked the wood fence. “It’s the sixth fucking time I’ve asked you to shut up!” he screamed. The response was hysterical laughter. A bottle rocket soared into the sky as a man shouted in a prepubescent cry, “And it’s the sixth time we’re ignoring you, asswipe!”

Lousy neighbors they were, anyhow. They never mowed their grass, always left trash on the walkway, and they painted their mailbox to look like that squeaky little robot from Star Wars. Worthless as legless fucking horses.

“I’ve called the cops, you know,” Ted growled. His threat was maddeningly ignored. Ted stomped back inside and tore apart his bathroom until he found an old pair of earplugs crusted in year-old earwax. They were little orange failures. The spongy pellets in Ted’s ears were no match for the ludicrous shenanigans of the world’s worst fucking neighbors.

Ted, a grown man, sobbed. He cried embarrassing tears for his doomed sales pitch in the morning. That’s when poor Ted snapped.

His old aluminum baseball bat was still in excellent shape. A shiny, metallic, reliable beast. Ted was anything but calm as he cradle carried the bat like a rifle and invited himself into his neighbors’ backyard.

Yeah, this was fucking war.

“Hey man, did you decide to join us?” asked the dickhead next to the cardboard box of bottle rockets.

“Kill…the…music,” Ted snarled.

When the response was a bottle rocket launched directly at Ted, he swung the bat at an empty lawn chair. “Don’t ignore me,” he warned. He swung again, cracking the white plastic arm. At this, the neighbors cheered.

Ted began swinging like balls were coming from every direction. He smashed the barbecue grill. He demolished the ceramic frog figurines that lined the flower garden. Oh yes, and the fireworks. Ted annihilated the box of dreadful fucking bottle rockets.

The stereo was up next. Ted raised the bat, giddy with excitement as he prepared to smash it to smithereens.

Then he saw the lights. The flashing red and blue lights, lighting up the street like some sort of rave.

Then he remembered the cops. The cops he’d called to lay down the law.

Ted finally slept that night. For half an hour, in the back of the cop car that transported him to the county jail.

Extreme Writing Challenge #55: “Swamp Water”

For tonight’s story, the challenge was to use at least 20 unique words beginning with “sw.”  And you know, I severely overestimated the number of these words in the English language.  Sure, there were quite a few on the list that didn’t get incorporated into this story.  But I wrote this sober and I think using the words swastika, Swahili, swagger, switchblade, and swashbuckler in a flash fiction story requires at least two decently-sized cocktails.

So, enjoy this not-as-weird-as-it-could-have-been story.

__________

“This is a swamp,” I declare.

“It’s a pond,” Keith contests.

I’ve been swindled. Lured here by a dolt who doesn’t know the difference between a swan and a duck or a swamp and a pond. I turn my head away and mouth a string of swear words. When I turn back, Keith is swatting at the bugs dancing around his head like confetti.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks. “You look disappointed.”

I swallow my words before they have a chance to escape my mouth. At least he’s trying. My sister told me I should remind myself of that every time I start to swell up with defeat.

For the truthful half of my response I say, “Just a little uncomfortable.” For the dishonest half, I tell him, “Sweaty and a bit sticky, is all.” The summer heat, sweltering as it is, bothers me very little.

Keith nods his head toward the swamp. “A swim will fix that,” he chuckles.

Beside us, a swarm of mosquitos floats through the trees, swerving around the old, fissured trunks. They come to a steady swirl around my face, creating a veil that softens the anger in my eyes. I try to remember the old Keith. I yearn for the days before the switch was flipped and our marriage faded to black.

I’d begged him for a trip to Sweden. I swore to myself if Sweden didn’t happen, neither would the rest of our lives together. For the weeks leading up to our anniversary, he was a gentleman. Sweeter than I’d ever known. He took me ballroom dancing. I’d always wanted to go, to entwine our bodies and sway, carefree, through the openness together.

What I thought would be Sweden turned out to be a cabin at Swordfish Pond. For our 25^th wedding anniversary, we’re trapped in a net of insects next to a swamp.

Keith sweeps a strange blue fly off of my tank top. It’s the tank top I spent hours choosing. I spent an entire afternoon at the mall. Finding it was like winning a sweepstakes. It was a prize. It was perfect for this day.

“I think I’d like to lie down for a while. You know, relax,” I tell Keith. He doesn’t follow me to the cabin; he knows better. As I rest my head on a thin, musty pillow, I wonder if Keith is actually the same old Keith, and I’ve simply forgotten the old me.

Extreme Writing Challenge #54: “Admission”

Happy Tuesday!  We’re one day closer to the weekend, which is always great news.

The challenge for today’s story is that each sentence contains at least five instances of the letter that ended the previous sentence.  I’m feeling quite thankful there are no common words that end in Q!

__________

I walk up onto the stage and I’m prepared to admit everything. Mr. Green gives me a pat on the shoulder as the whole school nervously giggles at the word etched in Sharpie on my forehead. To say I’ve dreaded this day is an understatement. It’s worse than the incident with the super glue, far more humiliating than prom night, and dumber than the prank I pulled on the school security officer.

The students’ faces disappear under the barrage of overhead lights. I know they are all still there from the hiss of their whispers. If they think this scribble on my skin is bad, they’ll be shocked to hear why it is there.

I can’t tell them anything unless I look down at my feet. Even though the lights have blurred their faces together, my dignity pulls my head downward. “Yesterday I did something bad…like, really bad,” I begin.

Now I close my eyes and pretend my friends aren’t out there watching me. “I can guarantee I won’t be allowed to come back to this school. It’s all good, because most of you treat me like a real loser anyhow.”

It’s weird that this whole time, I got to know only a few of the kids at Whitmore High. The faces hiding in the lights belong to the most familiar strangers I’ve ever known. Now I’m confessing to them as though they matter—as if I can salvage any of the twisted life I’ve spent with them.

“So, um, many of you might have seen the stories on the news about Mrs. Mulligan’s horses.” The whispers grow like a soft breeze that morphs into a sudden gust of wind. The stories had spread like wildfire and everyone was dying to know which student was so sinister. It won’t be long now that I’m on this stage with this ink on my face.

“The police think the kid that did it was messed up on drugs or drunk or something. But I’ve never done drugs and the only thing I drank that night was Gatorade, so they were wrong about that.”

The whispers erupt into gasps that shake the room. My admission blows them away, but it explains the word “MURDERER” my father made me write on my own forehead.

“Yeah, I did it, but do you know why I did it?” The students have traded their whispers for full, hearty cries of protest and disgust. To them I’m the same monster I was to the detectives when they found me out.

As loudly as I can I shout, “I was dared by some punks at this school who threatened to beat me to a pulp if I didn’t kill Mrs. Mulligan’s horses.”

Voices fall silent, one by one, until the room is still enough to hear each breath, each blink, each slight shuffle of a foot on the floor. I step back from the microphone and cover up the accusation on my forehead with my left hand. I suffered the hatred, the disrespect, and the loneliness, and now I am nothing more than a murderer.

Extreme Writing Challenge #53: “Endgame”

It’s Hump Day, although it feels more like a mountain!  Don’t you just HATE slow work weeks?

In today’s story, the challenge was: every sentence contains a unique word that begins and ends with the letter E.  This story may have been subconsciously influenced by my feeling like I deserve an Employee of the Year award for making such a smooth transition back to work after a two-week vacation.  Just a slight possibility.  😉

__________

I’ve been on the edge of my seat all morning. When I start to feel antsy I do that inhale exhale routine my friend Manny taught me. Any minute now they should be sending out an e-mail about the Employee of the Year. The excitement causes my nerves to explode one by one.

No one else in the office seems to have reached my level of anticipation. It must be that everyone already knows I’m going to get the award and they don’t stand a chance. I can’t stop staring at my screen, willing that little envelope icon to materialize. Then the celebration will ensue. The whole office will file into the break room for cake, and I’ll stay behind so I can make a grand entrance with all eyes on me. The CEO will probably give me a certificate and if I’m lucky, even one of those expensive pens all the executives have. I’ll practically become office royalty within the blink of an eye.

After the cake and the cheering, Mr. Earle will discretely tell me about my raise. I’ll stop by the travel agency on the way home and plan my trip to Europe. When I pull into my driveway, little old Eve next door will be weeding her garden and I’ll tell her I’m finally someone important. I’ve always liked Eve so I might even buy her an expensive flower pot with my next paycheck. My other neighbors enrage me with their loud backyard get-togethers and animals that poop on my lawn, but not Eve.

The IT man comes by to examine my computer after I reported a glitch two weeks ago. I make up the excuse that I’m in the middle of running a report and I’ll need him to come back later. I even show him one of my reports as an example so it’s more believable. By now my blood pressure can’t elevate any further than it already has.

Just a minute or two more; I won’t have to endure the wait much longer. The HR executive said she’d send out the e-mail by three o’clock. I’m finally going to emerge as a real somebody. I’ll be enviable by all of these other losers who think I’m just the reports guy. Yes, today is my endgame.

Extreme Writing Challenge #51: “Options”

I’m going to mix things up a bit and tell you what today’s challenge is before you read the story.  Why?  Eh, why not?  Sometimes you’ve got to shake things up…keeps life interesting.

In this piece, the third word of every sentence is exactly three letters long, and is not used as the third word of every sentence more than once.

And this challenge was a headache.  I won’t sugarcoat it.  It seemed so simple.  I was so very wrong.

So I hope you enjoy.  🙂

__________

In my new Armani suit, I was a caviar-eating, country club-loving, self-centered sonofabitch. All I had to do was drop a couple G’s and suddenly I was someone important. Elegance wasn’t the kind of life I was used to. No, a guy like me thinks he’s being fancy when he drinks beer out of a glass.

For a few days I was that bastard I always envied. There I was, eating hundred-dollar plates of food with 92 pieces of silverware and European linen napkins. At home, Sue was cooking Top Ramen and watching the news on the tube TV that only got one channel. That was our life—my real life.

It was all a big scheme. I planned for months, down to the nitty-gritty detail. I had one shot and I sure as hell couldn’t blow it. Once I met Don Adinolfi in person, I needed everything to fall right into place like that Tetris shit Sue’s always playing.

I had Don fooled from the first handshake, but that was only the beginning. Everything I did from that moment on was crucial with a capital C. Every head nod, every phony grin, every big word I memorized out of the dictionary. When we sat down to talk business, my heart was punching the inside of my chest. You know how your blood kind of tingles just before you ride a giant roller coaster or after you barely miss a horrible car crash? That’s a bit like how it feels to be a con man.

I put gel in my hair. My only tie spent more time around my neck in three days than it had in five years. I actually got a damn manicure to get the chunks of dirt from under my nails. Men don’t get manicures. So now you know, this was some real dedication.

I wasn’t out to get anybody. It wasn’t bad, what I was doing. It was die or steal. Sometimes those are a poor man’s only options.  I can say I chose the right one.

In my old, frayed jeans and a thrift store T-shirt from some 5K in 1999, I study my reflection in the mirror.  I am not the man I’m staring at–not anymore.  Then I bid farewell to my past life, and I slip out of my clothes and throw them in the trash.

Extreme Writing Challenge #50: “Traffic Jam”

Guess what?  (And despite what my husband says, the answer is NOT “chicken butt.”)  But really, GUESS WHAT.  It’s my:

When I started this blog, I wouldn’t have imagined I could possibly keep this up for 50 stories.  But here I am, and I’m loving every minute of it!

Tonight’s story strays a little from my “usual” challenges, but it was just as tough!  Give it a read and I’ll reveal the challenge at the end!

__________

Not again. The thought hiccuped like a broken record. The traffic gods were against Harvey. Horns cried out from every direction.

Harvey tried not to check the time. It only fueled his frustration. He looked anyway. His interview would start in seven minutes.

Oh, the strings Harvey had to pull to secure this interview. It was his second and, he knew, last chance. Traffic began to move.

Harvey missed his first interview thanks to a six car pileup. He’d practically had to beg Mr. Lin to reschedule. Harvey had six minutes and no more chances. He grew unbearably fidgety.

This job was Harvey’s lifeline. He’d finally hit rock bottom. It wasn’t all his fault, really. He blamed himself for some things, like the theater investment. He could’ve come back from that, though. Yes, that was one thing he controlled.

Five minutes left. Harvey was ten blocks away. Approaching the green light, he squirmed.

Joey, Jasmine, and Juniper. These were Harvey’s children—his triplets. He’d known for only two weeks that they existed. The phone call from Maria left him trembling terribly. Suddenly he was a worthless, unemployed daddy.

The triplets were six weeks old, Maria said. All comically chunky. Harvey gave Maria the silent treatment for days. She shouldn’t have kept it from him. Wrongdoings aside, an instant, overwhelming love for his children seized Harvey.

Brakes screeched and movement ceased. The traffic light showed no mercy for Harvey. Harvey’s death grip on the steering wheel loosened. He blew out a sigh of surrender—to failure, change, lost chances. When his phone rang, Harvey almost didn’t answer it.

“Hello?” he muttered, massaging his temple.

“Harvey Barnum, this is Angela Coolidge. I am Eric Yin’s executive assistant.”

Harvey swallowed, enduring the tang of bad news. With four minutes left, he had cut it too close.

“Mr. Yin encountered an emergency,” Angela told Harvey. “He’s asked to reschedule your interview this morning.”

Harvey’s cloak of stress unraveled. “Absolutely,” he mumbled in a daze.

Angela quickly scheduled a new interview. Harvey sobbed after he hung up. Grateful tears. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let his babies down. The light turned green. Harvey laughed. He wouldn’t be late. He’d be two hours early.

__________

The challenge in this post was:  The number of words in each sentence was determined by the roll of two six-sided dice.