This weekend's challenge will push your creative limits.
I dare you to write a 199-word story, not including the title, using the five (5) following words. All must be included in the order of your choice: Soar, Whisper, Meadow, Lantern, and Vibrant.
We’ll showcase the top two challenge responses in our newsletter. And the best part, you, our readers, decide who wins. The two entries with the highest number of likes will be declared the winners. You’ll have until Sunday or Monday midnight to post your response. Once we lock the thread, we’ll reveal the two writing champions and their entries! Are you up to the challenge?
Today I woke exhausted, per usual, feet bloody, nightclothes filthy. I usually wake plagued by vague, but vibrant memories of battles won, fights lost, and sometimes lovers vanquished. This morning I remember a meadow and a surprised raccoon. Gingerly I tip-toe to the shower paying special attention to the fingernail grime I can’t identify. I scrub the gore, maybe blood and gristle, or could be chocolate and cookie crumbs. I will find out soon enough. Dressed for work, I open my door and find a dead raccoon, answering the question of my raggedy chipped nails, the unidentified scratches on my arms, now covered with a tattersall button down. So, it’s blood and gristle for the win. This can’t go on. Its early, so I light a lantern to clean up my porch, then go to work with the usual baggage under bloodshot eyes. I avoid the judgey whispers until my noon session. Grateful I don’t have to explain my weary, battle worn appearance to my lunch hour therapist. A raised eyebrow greets my arrival. She ushers me toward a chair,
“What happened to you this time, a failure to soar then a fall and a brawl with something feral?”
The storm came in with a whisper to start. Its breath nudged a greeting against the leaves of the old oak. A calm that brought with it a welcome chill after the searing heat we’d been used to. We’d arranged to meet in the meadow, beneath the tree. I lay, head on its gnarled root, watching the sky change as I waited. Pale puffed clouds scudded across the blue before smears of greys and charcoal took over.
We’d chosen a secluded corner spot for this, our first stolen day. Beside me bramble blossom promised treats at summer’s end and bindweed flowers, light among the green, were strung like little white lanterns. Tiny orange butterflies kissed their petals, offering a shock of vibrant colour.
She climbed over the gate, and a breathless hammer in my heart stopped my words. She smiled at me as a bolt of thunder split the sky. A warning some might say but one that I’d foolishly ignore. Rain plopped on our bare arms; a cooling shock on warm skin.
We looked skyward. The swallows, oblivious to all, continued to soar. Then as thunder rumbled around us we moved together and we shared a hesitant embrace.
Once upon a time, there was a red-winged blackbird who loved to soar over the meadow. He would watch as the vibrant butterflies flitted from flower to flower. He would listen as the worker bees hummed songs about their Queen. Even on gloomy days, there was plenty of entertainment to be had. The wind would whisper through the grass, gossiping about all the creatures who called the meadow home. Did you know that poor Rabbit has toothache? And that Mrs. Dove has laid three new eggs? Oftentimes, Blackbird was the one who had some news to report, and he’d call out a headline or two: “Cricket has finally found a mate! Chipmunk beat Kestrel in a race!” And Wind would reply with a thrilled gust that lifted Blackbird’s wings. As day faded to evening, he’d perch himself in my branches and wait for the show to begin. One by one, the fireflies switched on their lanterns, and oh, how lovely their twinkling lights looked against the dark blue sky! Yes… I can still remember the beauty of the meadow before the bulldozer came… before the black tar smothered the ground. I miss everything, but Blackbird most of all.
I have your latest letter and, oh, how my heart ached to see your words penned so delicately, and yet, each word so vibrant that I clutched it to my heart and wept. Of course I cried reading it knowing you are “Over There,” while I sit here—ever the waiting Penelope—knitting by the light of a single lantern while listening to birdcalls echo across the meadow, waiting as the dawn arrives with a whisper. It is the only time I can find for myself as Father had a nasty fall last week and broke his leg. Mother is beside herself with worry. Edmund, ever the faithful son, does what he can to help, but there is little that he can do.
Please, I beg of you my love, come back to me. I long to hold you, and feel you inside me once again. There are nights when the skies are clear that we can see the flashes of the big guns, hear their roars like distant thunder, and I shudder at the thought that you are there. I love you more with each passing day.
He saw the waves soar, and pulled down the blinds. The whisper grew to a crescendo. The sea, so like a meadow with the breeze ruffling the grass just a couple of hours before, had become a churning death-trap maelstrom of turbulence.
The alarm bell indicated that the lantern at the top of the lighthouse had gone out; unless it was fixed within the shortest time possible, shipwrecks would be inevitable.
The Keeper grabbed the candle from the sideboard, and made his way up the winding steps of the turret of the harbour lighthouse. The fuse kept tripping each time he switched the lantern on again.
Exasperated, he rigged up a system of mirrors and prisms, and placed the candle such that its light was magnified into a thousand vibrant rays. Immediately, there was enough light to illuminate the sea for miles around.
“How far this little candle throws her beams!” he quoted. “An enormous lighthouse lantern does not work, because there is no electric power, and yet, this tiny candle serves us well…”
He radioed Land for a technician, who would come by helicopter as soon as the storm abated.
Woken by the whispers of the sun, they gently rose eager to dance with the sunlight. She gazed upon her lovers vibrant eyes as they stood side by side enthralled by each others reflection. Close enough for arm hairs to embrace but far enough to crave skin’s touch. “How can someone be so beautiful as summer’s meadow?” She thought. Her lover smiled, mouth full of paste and face glittering like a lantern—her the candle, love that lit their flame.
“I see you looking at me. Thinking bout how I handled you last night huh?”
She giggled “Perhaps. Or maybe I’m excited for breakfast”
Her lover gargled water and spit their morning breath into the sink never breaking eye contact. Her whole body anticipated their caress. The intense chemistry in the air would make anyone’s feet levitate and soul soar.
Before she could blink she’s swept off her feet by her lover’s lips. Food could wait. She was filling her belly’s desires. Fingers wrote love letters as toes spoke in tongues. Their thunderous passion aroused the heavens. The sky gave her tender blessing with warm rain. They lay joyously entangled and damp like blades of grass firmly planted in Earth.
Vibrant colors of the sunset illuminate the sky, as gentle breezes whisper through the meadow. Tall grasses and wildflowers sway, creating a soothing melody as they segue to rustling woodland leaves. A lone lantern flickers in the distance, casting a soft glow as twilight deepens to night.
High above, a barred owl soars through the air, wings outstretched, effortlessly riding the currents. Its keen eyes scan the grasses and wildflowers in the meadow below, searching for any movement.
Then, with a sudden dive, the owl descends, its powerful talons gripping an unsuspecting field mouse. Meadow life falls silent for a moment as the mouse struggles, but the owl’s grip suffocates. As quickly as it begins, it ends; the owl emerges triumphant.
With its prize secured, the owl takes to the sky once again, rising higher and higher. The darkened sky is lit by a waxing crescent moon, as the owl's hoot becomes a triumphant sound in the landscape.
Nightfall transforms the meadow into a world of shadows and mystery, with the moon and scudding clouds seeming to soften the meadow’s edges. The owl continues to soar, carrying the field mouse to its three owlets waiting in a tree cavity.
At night, four elders whisper through the meadow an unspoken song of ancient mountain rivers flooding downwards, as if reaching the very center of the earth. Suddenly, vibrant, joyful, winged lanterns soar though rocks and join in with a deep chorus of birdsong. Four youngsters hide and seek. Their face, an echo. A future being, a luminous eternity, one heavenly spree.
I have tried to enter my story up on Substack. I found this site difficult to use and unsure if story will get read. Unfortunately not enough time to post in comments.
Hours of walking had started taking its toll on Mic. The path before him was well defined but lacked any feel of civilization. “Hell, it’s not more than a step up from a deer trail.”
Surprise at seeing a lantern swaying in the winds of the dying storm he’d been enduring had Mic’s step faltering. “Maybe more civilized than I realized.”
The gloom of the storm was fading but the lantern’s flame glowed vibrantly, magic he’d felt in the air bolstering its flare. The light assured all that traveled along the meadow path safe travels.
Glancing down at his map, Mic noted that he was headed the right way. A roar above had him looking up, his eye caught by a large soaring form, floating on the wind currents.
“Damn, a dragon. Seeking its dinner no doubt. I’m not much more than an appetizer but I don’t want to be on it’s radar!”
A niggling whisper filled his ears. ‘Seek cover to stay safe.’
“Wise thought, I’d better take shelter.”
Scanning the terrain, he noted a cliff just ahead. “That’s where I’m going to find my shelter.” Plan in mind, he set a fast pace toward the cliffs ahead.
Confession of a Somnambulist
Today I woke exhausted, per usual, feet bloody, nightclothes filthy. I usually wake plagued by vague, but vibrant memories of battles won, fights lost, and sometimes lovers vanquished. This morning I remember a meadow and a surprised raccoon. Gingerly I tip-toe to the shower paying special attention to the fingernail grime I can’t identify. I scrub the gore, maybe blood and gristle, or could be chocolate and cookie crumbs. I will find out soon enough. Dressed for work, I open my door and find a dead raccoon, answering the question of my raggedy chipped nails, the unidentified scratches on my arms, now covered with a tattersall button down. So, it’s blood and gristle for the win. This can’t go on. Its early, so I light a lantern to clean up my porch, then go to work with the usual baggage under bloodshot eyes. I avoid the judgey whispers until my noon session. Grateful I don’t have to explain my weary, battle worn appearance to my lunch hour therapist. A raised eyebrow greets my arrival. She ushers me toward a chair,
“What happened to you this time, a failure to soar then a fall and a brawl with something feral?”
When it Began.
The storm came in with a whisper to start. Its breath nudged a greeting against the leaves of the old oak. A calm that brought with it a welcome chill after the searing heat we’d been used to. We’d arranged to meet in the meadow, beneath the tree. I lay, head on its gnarled root, watching the sky change as I waited. Pale puffed clouds scudded across the blue before smears of greys and charcoal took over.
We’d chosen a secluded corner spot for this, our first stolen day. Beside me bramble blossom promised treats at summer’s end and bindweed flowers, light among the green, were strung like little white lanterns. Tiny orange butterflies kissed their petals, offering a shock of vibrant colour.
She climbed over the gate, and a breathless hammer in my heart stopped my words. She smiled at me as a bolt of thunder split the sky. A warning some might say but one that I’d foolishly ignore. Rain plopped on our bare arms; a cooling shock on warm skin.
We looked skyward. The swallows, oblivious to all, continued to soar. Then as thunder rumbled around us we moved together and we shared a hesitant embrace.
Once upon a time, there was a red-winged blackbird who loved to soar over the meadow. He would watch as the vibrant butterflies flitted from flower to flower. He would listen as the worker bees hummed songs about their Queen. Even on gloomy days, there was plenty of entertainment to be had. The wind would whisper through the grass, gossiping about all the creatures who called the meadow home. Did you know that poor Rabbit has toothache? And that Mrs. Dove has laid three new eggs? Oftentimes, Blackbird was the one who had some news to report, and he’d call out a headline or two: “Cricket has finally found a mate! Chipmunk beat Kestrel in a race!” And Wind would reply with a thrilled gust that lifted Blackbird’s wings. As day faded to evening, he’d perch himself in my branches and wait for the show to begin. One by one, the fireflies switched on their lanterns, and oh, how lovely their twinkling lights looked against the dark blue sky! Yes… I can still remember the beauty of the meadow before the bulldozer came… before the black tar smothered the ground. I miss everything, but Blackbird most of all.
August 22, 1917
Ambrose:
I have your latest letter and, oh, how my heart ached to see your words penned so delicately, and yet, each word so vibrant that I clutched it to my heart and wept. Of course I cried reading it knowing you are “Over There,” while I sit here—ever the waiting Penelope—knitting by the light of a single lantern while listening to birdcalls echo across the meadow, waiting as the dawn arrives with a whisper. It is the only time I can find for myself as Father had a nasty fall last week and broke his leg. Mother is beside herself with worry. Edmund, ever the faithful son, does what he can to help, but there is little that he can do.
Please, I beg of you my love, come back to me. I long to hold you, and feel you inside me once again. There are nights when the skies are clear that we can see the flashes of the big guns, hear their roars like distant thunder, and I shudder at the thought that you are there. I love you more with each passing day.
Ever your devoted wife, and love,
Enid.
He saw the waves soar, and pulled down the blinds. The whisper grew to a crescendo. The sea, so like a meadow with the breeze ruffling the grass just a couple of hours before, had become a churning death-trap maelstrom of turbulence.
The alarm bell indicated that the lantern at the top of the lighthouse had gone out; unless it was fixed within the shortest time possible, shipwrecks would be inevitable.
The Keeper grabbed the candle from the sideboard, and made his way up the winding steps of the turret of the harbour lighthouse. The fuse kept tripping each time he switched the lantern on again.
Exasperated, he rigged up a system of mirrors and prisms, and placed the candle such that its light was magnified into a thousand vibrant rays. Immediately, there was enough light to illuminate the sea for miles around.
“How far this little candle throws her beams!” he quoted. “An enormous lighthouse lantern does not work, because there is no electric power, and yet, this tiny candle serves us well…”
He radioed Land for a technician, who would come by helicopter as soon as the storm abated.
Not one single life was lost that night.
Morning Dew
Woken by the whispers of the sun, they gently rose eager to dance with the sunlight. She gazed upon her lovers vibrant eyes as they stood side by side enthralled by each others reflection. Close enough for arm hairs to embrace but far enough to crave skin’s touch. “How can someone be so beautiful as summer’s meadow?” She thought. Her lover smiled, mouth full of paste and face glittering like a lantern—her the candle, love that lit their flame.
“I see you looking at me. Thinking bout how I handled you last night huh?”
She giggled “Perhaps. Or maybe I’m excited for breakfast”
Her lover gargled water and spit their morning breath into the sink never breaking eye contact. Her whole body anticipated their caress. The intense chemistry in the air would make anyone’s feet levitate and soul soar.
Before she could blink she’s swept off her feet by her lover’s lips. Food could wait. She was filling her belly’s desires. Fingers wrote love letters as toes spoke in tongues. Their thunderous passion aroused the heavens. The sky gave her tender blessing with warm rain. They lay joyously entangled and damp like blades of grass firmly planted in Earth.
Life cycle
Vibrant colors of the sunset illuminate the sky, as gentle breezes whisper through the meadow. Tall grasses and wildflowers sway, creating a soothing melody as they segue to rustling woodland leaves. A lone lantern flickers in the distance, casting a soft glow as twilight deepens to night.
High above, a barred owl soars through the air, wings outstretched, effortlessly riding the currents. Its keen eyes scan the grasses and wildflowers in the meadow below, searching for any movement.
Then, with a sudden dive, the owl descends, its powerful talons gripping an unsuspecting field mouse. Meadow life falls silent for a moment as the mouse struggles, but the owl’s grip suffocates. As quickly as it begins, it ends; the owl emerges triumphant.
With its prize secured, the owl takes to the sky once again, rising higher and higher. The darkened sky is lit by a waxing crescent moon, as the owl's hoot becomes a triumphant sound in the landscape.
Nightfall transforms the meadow into a world of shadows and mystery, with the moon and scudding clouds seeming to soften the meadow’s edges. The owl continues to soar, carrying the field mouse to its three owlets waiting in a tree cavity.
Fireflies
At night, four elders whisper through the meadow an unspoken song of ancient mountain rivers flooding downwards, as if reaching the very center of the earth. Suddenly, vibrant, joyful, winged lanterns soar though rocks and join in with a deep chorus of birdsong. Four youngsters hide and seek. Their face, an echo. A future being, a luminous eternity, one heavenly spree.
I have tried to enter my story up on Substack. I found this site difficult to use and unsure if story will get read. Unfortunately not enough time to post in comments.
How do you enter story up? Probs using app shame as interesting story to write.
Hours of walking had started taking its toll on Mic. The path before him was well defined but lacked any feel of civilization. “Hell, it’s not more than a step up from a deer trail.”
Surprise at seeing a lantern swaying in the winds of the dying storm he’d been enduring had Mic’s step faltering. “Maybe more civilized than I realized.”
The gloom of the storm was fading but the lantern’s flame glowed vibrantly, magic he’d felt in the air bolstering its flare. The light assured all that traveled along the meadow path safe travels.
Glancing down at his map, Mic noted that he was headed the right way. A roar above had him looking up, his eye caught by a large soaring form, floating on the wind currents.
“Damn, a dragon. Seeking its dinner no doubt. I’m not much more than an appetizer but I don’t want to be on it’s radar!”
A niggling whisper filled his ears. ‘Seek cover to stay safe.’
“Wise thought, I’d better take shelter.”
Scanning the terrain, he noted a cliff just ahead. “That’s where I’m going to find my shelter.” Plan in mind, he set a fast pace toward the cliffs ahead.