I’ll post some Writing Challenges here every week or so for folks to join in on! I thought this could be a fun way to get creative for no real reason Which is my favorite reason to do anything!
Your response doesn’t need to be a particular length, just write whatever feels good. I recommend trying these before you get down to your project writing as a way to warm up
Here’s your first challenge
Random Story Generator
Write a few paragraphs or a short story that incorporates the following three elements:
CONTEXT: On a balcony while begging for forgiveness… CHARACTER: …an arrogant secret agent… EVENT: …discovers they’ve recently become a werewolf.
As she was standing on her balcony, talking to herself like every month around the full moon, he noticed a difference. Today it was another full moon, and he finally saw her this night. But her behavior was more erratic, more frantic, gesticulating wildly while crying.
“Why am I always getting the strange cases?” He wondered while observing her.
He was looking for evidence to unveil the strange murder incidences occurring around this neighborhood, and a few months back, the leads led her to her. The murders happen around the full moon each month, and victims were torn apart, barely recognizable anymore, hearts missing.
But he couldn’t understand how she fitted into all of that. She’s a lightweight and wouldn’t be able to perform such gruesome murders.
"She looks bigger today…, " He wondered as he saw her spasmodic moves.
“Man… she might need an appointment with her beauty salon to get rid of all that hair.” His eyes grew round as he continued to observe her. She was not only growing bigger but hairier, and her full lips receded as her snout grew…
With every new feature appearing, his jaw threatened to hit the ground, and that while he sat in a tree.
“What the hell?”
Once she started to howl to the moon, he finally lost it - his balance - and toppled down to the ground. Groaning, he lay there and soon felt something sniffing at his feet, body, and face.
Growling, she bares her teeth at his face.
What now?
I scoff. “Oh come on, Andy. You? A werewolf? I don’t judge if you’re a fur–”
“I’m not that! And you expect me to believe you’re some hotshot secret spy–”
“Agent.”
“-Who happens to think my neighbour upstairs is some sort of a villain.” My dear, naive friend huffs in disbelief.
“More believable than werewolf thing, eh?”
He glances at the unraveling moon real quick. “You’re going to regret saying that.” He’s backing away from me, and nearing the balcony’s railing.
“Trust me.” I inspect my nails… and I didn’t realise they’re this dirty. Probably all the hard work I’ve done. “I’ve seen a lot from my countless missions and not a single… werewolf…?”
Oh my gosh, Andy is huge. He’s huge. Claws. Hair everywhere.
“Andy-bunny, what’s going on?”
He grows a flipping snout.
Growling, he run towards me! I get on my knees, close my eyes and apologise profusely.
A light smack on my temple is enough to make me stumble on the ground. I glare at him.
“At least I can prove I’m a werewolf. What about you, Charlie’s Angel?” He laughs.
“Har har. Help me get to your neighbour’s rooftop and I’ll show you.”
LOL I absolutely feel his arrogance in this, and the choices at the end? Perfection. JUST DIE AND GET IT OVER WITH that would absolutely be my choice, for this dude anyway. werewolf win!!
The first thing that reminded me I was alive was the gritty burn of desert sand against my back. The next thing was the harsh sting of rising wind throwing dust into my eyes.
I tried to sit up and look around, but the wind forced me to cover my face. All I could do was pull up the hem of my cloak to shield myself from the brutal, piercing sun.
With my makeshift shade, I was able to take a better look. A vast desert surrounded me in all directions- rough, cracked, and mottled yellow and grey. The skeletons of long-dead brush rustled weakly in the wind, every twig bleached pure white. No matter how hard I searched, I couldn’t see a speck of green, or water, or a sign of life anywhere.
Disorientation washed over me. I took a deep breath and tried to figure out what had happened. I’d been walking through the gates of the Hegemon’s palace. Trina had been right there beside me. And in the second between one step and the next, I’d somehow wound up here.
Damn it. Damn, damn, damn. I braced myself against the wind and slowly stood up, brushing sand out of my clothes. My feet immediately burned. The fragile dress shoes I’d intended to wear into the Palace were no match for the sharp gravel. I tried to draw on my magic, but sheer panic fogged my thoughts, and its power remained just out of reach.
I turned slowly on the spot, trying to find familiar landmarks. Equal parts terror and relief washed over me as I recognized the snow-capped peaks of the Terrenmedas to my left, barely visible above a distant fog bank. I was somewhat east of the Temple. Something- likely one of the Palace’s protective charms- had picked me up and thrown me three thousand miles west in a matter of seconds.
As I looked out over the vast amount of sand, whipped up and down the dunes by the strong winds, and gathering around the occasional seemingly dead bush, I thought how lucky I was for sitting in my AC-cooled car. Drinking my cooled beer, while planning my route out of this hell and on to greener pastures.
Oooh, I love this! Thank you for sharing this excerpt. Makes me very curious about this MC and their relationship to the monarchy you’re hinting at here.
A thin-legged horse moves at a slow teeter through the red sands of the Pulverulenta desert. It’s pelt, a brilliant white, is painted with streaks of deep blue and purple insecticidal that reeks of orange peel and vanilla. The suited man who rides the stallion is leaned back against his pack, his feet propped up on the animals neck. Despite its rider’s unwariness, the animal navigates carefully through the landscape’s two-man-tall cacti and hissing gila monsters, moving with a steadiness towards an unseen destination through the infinite sea of red. There is a paperback book of the cheap airport thriller variety open on the rider’s lap. A water bottle filled with lukewarm beer dangles from one of his hands, a sawed-off shotgun in the other. He has to squint to read the pages of his book through the harsh evening sun; The very same sun that still refuses to set, and whose warmth has licked away every thought from his head. Now he is drunk on sun rays and expensive beer, giggling to himself and reading out excerpts of the novel to his horse, Beowolf, who does nothing but snort and shake out its mane in annoyance.
The thirst that he quenched due to the stubborn heat, gives him more the mirage of a cool oasis. Golden, sunny, windy, sandy place, far from the comfort that gives him peace. Can’t keep up with the camel’s pace, tiredly walking from miles away. The dreary summer winds of the desert’s air, can not stop him to move forward and let his loved ones know that he care.
Okay Beowulf is a fantastic name for a horse. What an iconic pair, tbh… not at all who I would picture at first as riding through the desert but Mr. Torao sounds very interesting. This was a surprising peek at a character study!
This is sweet. A story of perseverance. I think we’ve all felt that we were slogging through the desert at one time or another, metaphorically or otherwise, for the benefit of our loved ones.
Write a scene that focuses on one particular object. Use characters, setting, or exposition to show why that object is significant. Your object is: a pen.
The clouds fail to cover the sun when the metal table near the window is stinging in heat. I’m more worried about Jata’s pen on it, worried it’ll combust anytime now.
“Aida, stop eyeing the pen like that,” Jata laughs. “It’s not going to bite you!”
“Well it might explode! Remove it from the table.”
He glances over it, grabs it and–! Agh! He hits the pen on the table with a loud clang.
“Jascha, you’re on a thin ice,” I hiss.
He rolls his eyes and smirks. “Relax, woman. It’s not filled with gasoline.”
“But filled with poison,” I deadpan.
“And only for that CEO bastard.” He pats my head like I’m a freaking child and twirls the pen between his fingers with ease. “So calm your tatas.”
Ink splotches onto the parchment and then falls drop by drop off the tip of his feather pen. The thin piece of paper containing the man’s last will and testament is complete with all but a signature, rendering it null and void. As ink darkens the fibers of the page, color recedes from the man’s skin until it’s a pallor mortis white.
Had his throat not been slit, he could have finished signing the page, and had his daughter’s future secured, but alas, he was a betting man with remarkably bad luck.
The man’s spirit leaves the earthly realm, floats up into the air, and observes the scene from above. It quivers and turns as the will is torn and thrown into the fireplace. The torn pieces of paper shrivel and burn in the fiery hearth. As the embers float up into the chimney, a set of hands pry the pen out of the dead man’s firm grip, and place in its stead a sterling silver knife engraved with the words:
Which is my favorite reason to do anything!
GRIPPING. This was great. So much happening in just three paragraphs. You REALLY made the pen shine in this as an active story element! Great job 