Monday, June 15, 2015


Welcome back! Thanks for joining us today. Go check out the prompts and write us something amazing! :)

If you haven't read the full version of the rules, go here. Otherwise, here's the short version:

1. Start with the given first sentence.
2. Up to 500 words
3. Keep it clean (nothing rated R or above)
4. Optional Special Challenge
5. Stories submitted must be your own work, using characters and worlds that you have created. Sorry, no fanfiction.
6. Include: Twitter/email, word count, Special Challenge accepted
7. The challenge is open for 24 hours on Tuesday EST

Oh, and feel free to change pronounspunctuationtense, and anything in brackets to fit the story/pov/tone. I'm not going to be TOO picky... Our judge however...

Our Judge today is Pratibha Kelapure. Read her winning tale from last week here! Pratibha is a writer and poet. She is the founding editor of The Literary Nest journal. In her previous life, she served the Silicon Valley as a VLSI Software Engineer. Other than that she is a wife, mother, and a community volunteer.
You can learn more about her on twitter @needanidplease and at

 Your first sentence for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #2-50 is:

[Thomas] flinched when [he] first laid eyes on the [male lead] with the physique of a Greek god for the role of [the prisoner].

 Your SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge is:

Use any two of these elements in your story: an amusement park, a skyscraper, a tower-bell, an umbrella.



  1. Destiny's gift
    422 words @geofflepard
    She flinched when she first laid eyes on the male lead with the physique of a Greek god for the role of the prisoner. It was as it had been foretold. The timing, the vision and the characterisation. They all fitted like a perfect jigsaw. How long had she waited for this?
    And yet she hesitated. If he really was the man of her dreams, the promised gift, then he needed to speak first...
    'Hello. I'm John. I...'
    'I know.' So much she knew. He desired her, not yet perhaps but he would. He thought her the most beautiful, the most desirable creature he had ever seen, even if he could never say, for fear of breaking the spell. He would not be able to leave her side. All was predicted.
    John laughed, Joy expressed in his limpid gaze. 'So Pete told you did he?
    She allowed a small smile. Of course Pete hadn't spoken of him. How could someone as drear and ordinary know?
    'So it's ok? If I stay? I won't be in the way and...'
    'Of course. Everything's ready.'
    John's confusion pleased her. He wanted her but he thought she was indifferent to him. That was how it had been determined. Slowly she would reveal her own feelings.
    'When shall I come round? We rehearse until two. After?'
    She nodded and turned away.
    'What shall I call you?'
    But she said nothing.
    She knew there were Devils. They would stop her, undermine her destiny if she didn't prepare. She wouldn't let it happen. And John, who the gods had provided, would understand. He would come, he would want to help. He would go to the basement. He would accept his role, until she was ready to love him, until they were safe from the Devils. He would play prisoner though he would understand it was merely a role he had been given.
    She couldn't understand what was wrong. He was angry and refused to eat. He was wasting away. Said it was unnatural. Like he was an animal. Of course she was upset. At first. But clearly she had misread the signs. She looked at the untouched food, his emaciated body and pulled back her shoulders. Picking up her shovel, she forced herself to the backyard where she started digging. She would have to keep looking because she had foreseen her future and he would appear, eventually. Her gift.
    Carefully she finished the hole. She was good at digging holes. After all she had had a lot if practice.

  2. Made for Television
    424 words, special challenge accepted.
    Dave (@parkinkspot)
    Sam flinched when he first laid eyes on the actor with the physique of Apollo for the lead role of Jesus. Nature built Mario middle linebacker parts, he would be perfect for any football movie. He cast a vast shadow like a skycraper—at least six foot four, three fifty—and those weren’t his only issues as Jesus.

    Sam turned helplessly to his producer, “Come on Morty, you cannot be serious.”

    “What wrong with him? Mario’s experienced, and he’d make a great lead for the film. The camera loves him and the ladies will love him, too, know what I mean?”

    “What’s wrong with him? Look at him! He’s got a blonde buzz-cut and he's whiter than sour cream, some kind of Nordic ideal. The Nazis would quickly breed as many Aryan babies as they could get out of him, and name them all ‘Fritz’.”


    “We want an actor that’s Levantine, Lebanese, Turkish, Jewish, Palestinian, Syrian, maybe Jordanian. You could even make a case for an Egyptian or East African. Has Mario ever stepped into the sunlight without an umbrella at all?”

    “Look, Sam, he’s a fine actor, and we can get him for scale because the public hasn’t discovered him yet. This’ll be a career-maker for him, right Mario?”

    Mario wisely kept his trap shut.

    “It’s not about the money,” Sam pointed out. “There’s just got to be a better option.”

    Morty shook his head. “Trust me on this one. We can darken him up in makeup, you know that.”

    The life of a director is an endless series of compromises. Art demands attention to detail, but sometimes the Money disagrees.

    Against his better judgement, Sam thumbed through Mario’s resume and face shots. Some good work here. No big awards, but a Mario had generous handful of supporting role credits in solid movies. He’d miraculously avoided typecasting in the empty-headed hunk parts. Just maybe this would be such an awful choice after all. The beefcake angle could even bring in some box office.

    Sam sighed and crossed his fingers. “All right Mario, we’ll give this a shot. But you owe me, Morty. Who’s up next?”

    “Casting for Mary Magdelene,” Morty responded. “You’re gonna love this one. Fresh face out of UCLA film school, she has terrific range and some good chops. Tits and ass aren’t bad, either, you’ll see.”

    Sam glanced up at the pink Mohawk, the low-cut top straining to contain 44D’s, and the copious body jewelry and ink. He made a strangled noise and pounded the desk with his face.

  3. Revival

    Alfonso flinched when he first laid eyes on the newcomer with the physique of a Greek god for the role of the elderly corpse. Makeup and a wig wouldn’t be enough to pull it off this time, like he’d done for the swimsuit model-as-burn-victim-child; he would have to rewrite the script (again).

    “Have you even played a corpse before?” Alfonso didn’t know why he bothered asking; the role was already assigned, and he had no say in it.

    “Of course,” said the god, relaxing into a lunge and flexing his triceps. “Pushed off a cliff, filled with arrows, attacked by the Plague, poisoned, you name it. Once I was even decapitated.”


    “Chicago 2008. Romeo.” The god eased gracefully all the way down into splits, stretching heavily muscled arms above his head. Somewhere stage left, a girl fainted in rapture.

    Alfonso hated himself for not walking away. “But Romeo wasn’t decapitated—”

    “Not originally,” the god acknowledged modestly.

    Alfonso clamped his mouth shut to prevent any snide remarks (curses that he needed this job!) and hurried to check on the dancing birds.

    Who should have been practicing fastening and unfastening the suspension wire clips, but instead Alfonso found backstage, sitting cross-legged in a circle, giving each other shoulder massages.

    “Dancers!” said Alfonso. “Are we Mistresses of the Carabiners so quickly?”

    The dancers didn’t bother looking up.

    “Don’t need them,” said one. The others murmured in agreement.

    “But of course you need them! You are to soar above the stage, see? You will be in harnesses, and will have two minutes to change costume from majestic swans to forbidding vultures—”

    “Ech,” said the same dancer, dismissing Alfonso’s protests. “We’ve done this show a thousand times. My mother was a vulture, and my grandmother a vulture before her. Don’t get your loincloth in a wad.”

    Alfonso took a deep breath. “This is where I point out your last show was ages ago. We have technology now, and the Carabiners are crucial to the flight of the entire avian chorus—”

    “I could speak to my uncle, if you need reassurance. He is skilled at dealing with concerns.”

    “NO! I mean—I mean, no, thank you. I don’t need reassurance. I was just hoping you dancers would practice with the Carabiners. But—I will figure something out.” He scribbled Carabiners on his chart, beneath Marie Antoinette gown for the diva refusing to wear the prophetess’ robe and Horse to address the current minor (but vocal) Equine Conservation campaign.

    Six months ago he had thought this play could save not just his career but also—perhaps!—establish his legacy as the greatest stage manager in history.

    Six months ago he had thought a revival of The Iliad an ambitious but culturally and politically safe choice.

    But six months ago, he had also not yet hired the infamous Mount Olympus Casting Co. He suspected today’s appearance of Apollo as an elderly corpse would be the least of his worries come opening night.

    498 words

  4. @fs_iver
    WC: 476


    Kylie flinched when she first laid eyes on the guy with the physique of a Greek god for the role of her future husband. He was floating in an incubation tube, his pectorals perfectly plump, his Gluteus quite Maximus, his obliques a cinched corset of trim waistline. He was the quintessence of perfection. If only he had skin.

    “Does he come as is?” The right side of her lip floated up over her canine as Mr. Kylie Brennar To-be and his corpus cavernosum drifted to facing her.

    “Oh goodness, no!” Dr. Minerva Marley cackled like she’d walked into an abandoned cackle-web only her teeth didn’t fall out and her hair was definitely still purple, not gray. “He isn’t done yet, Ducky. There’s at least another two weeks of grafting. Can you wait that long?”

    “I’m in 5th grade.”

    “Well, you know they’re bringing them home younger and younger these days.” Dr. Marley’s voice sounded like a mosquito zipping around inside a bell tower: high and entirely too nervous. “Not that they’re doing stuff, mind you, but he could help you with your homework or take out the trash. Nasty little chores we all hate.”

    Kylie didn’t trust the way the woman’s eyes disappeared into half-moons. Or the umbrella she kept tucked down the back of her lab coat, always ready to make a quick exit. She could be a sugar-based life form. They hated water and loved a good death-fight. If she could tip over the Skyscraper Slurpee (available at your nearest amusement park now for a limited time only!) on the workspace, she’d know if she should warn the others.

    “Did your mother bring you in today, Ducky?” Type. Type. Type.

    “My dad did.” Scootch. Scootch. Scootch.

    “I hope you didn’t let him wander off alone.” Click. Type. Click.

    “He’s with my aunt.” Shfff. Shfff. Shff.

    “Out of trouble, then.” Dr. Marley finished inputting code into the computer. “Now remember, Love, you’ll need your mother’s consent to pick up your man.”

    “I know.” Kylie’s arm brushed against the Skyscraper Slurpee causing it to tip...

    “Woops!” Dr. Marley caught it, her reflexes spider-like. “That would’ve been a mess!” She popped the straw in her mouth and slurped the red crystalized drink. “We’d have to get your father in here to clean it up.”

    Not sugar-based, then. But she would’ve bet her front teeth that that umbrella was actually a cane sword. Dr. Marley looked the type.

    Outwardly, Kylie shrugged. Why was it taking them so long? She was running out of distraction material and skinless Mr. Brennar gave her chills.


    Aunt Zoe and dad burst out of the Genetics Lab.

    Spursssh. The Slurpee dropped.

    Blood trailed down Aunt Zoe’s head. Her dad was limping but he had it, the matriarchal manuscript.

    Hordes of genetically neutered males sprinted from the belly of the lab.

    “Kylie, RUN!”