Elizabeth: Friday Writing Sprints – Let’s Vote On It.

vote_buttonElection season, which seems like it has been going on forever, is finally close to being over.  Of course that means the airwaves, phone lines, and mailboxes have been bombarded with candidates and policy supporters doing their last-minute best to woo voters.  I generally try to stay away from political discussions and out of the fray, but social media makes it rather difficult to do so, especially after nationally televised events like the recent presidential debates.

While deciding the fate of the country is serious business that requires serious thought, politics provides a fair amount of entertainment value.  For example, during the recent debate, one local pub offered presidential-debate-bingo, while another sponsored a special debate-drinking-game.  One of the more entertaining things I saw was this  TrumpBookReport Twitter thread showing well-known books humorously summarized in a sentence or two.  Some folks were quite clever in 140 characters (or less).

Anyway, now that I’ve stepped away from the internet, it’s time to do some writing, and what better way to start than with a little Random Word Improv.

Care to join me?

Whether you’re busy working, figuring out to how to vote, or just taking time to stop and smell the flowers, a few minutes of Random Word Improv are a great way to have a little fun and get some words on the page.  I’ll be doing my sprinting after work, possibly with a glass of wine to hand.  Feel free to start on today’s words without me, with your own beverage of choice.

Ready?

For any of you new to Random Word Improv, here’s how we play:

  1. Pick as many words from the list as you want
  2. Write the first line(s) of a story (or a whole mini-story) incorporating your words
  3. Post your results in the comments section.

All right, let’s get started. Here are today’s randomly selected presidential debate inspired words – can’t wait to see what stories you find hidden in this word list.

nasty                   support              wall                       bad

oppose               woman                campaign            media

hombre              interrupt            debate                 question

puppet               patience              lie                         respect

Are you ready?  Go!

*whistling aimlessly while you are off being creative*

Back already?  Can’t wait to read what you’ve come up with.

Happy writing to all.

8 thoughts on “Elizabeth: Friday Writing Sprints – Let’s Vote On It.

  1. “I am a nasty woman,” Carly said, sipping her wine.

    “I am woman, hear me roar,” Marisol agreed. “With doughnuts.”

    Their support group had gathered in Carly’s media room to watch the debate. The question was, now that they were five minutes in, could they bear to watch the rest of it.

    Frederica had wanted to lie on the floor, but now that she was down there, she had to tilt her head back at a bad angle to see the TV mounted on the wall.

    “Show some respect,” she said to Marisol. “Doughnuts? I oppose doughnuts.”

    “You could be happy if you learned to be comfortable,” Marisol said.

    “Not with doughnuts,” Frederica said.

    “With granola bars, then,” Marisol. “Or kale chips. If you must.”

    “Patience, my children,” Carly said, trying to listen. “Don’t interrupt the speakers.”

    “Who’s Patience?” Marisol asked. “Is someone else joining the group?”

    “I vote we move to watching Leverage reruns,” Frederica said. “I know Carly has all the episodes.”

    “The campaign is on,” Marisol said. “I vote for Leverage, too.”

    “Fine,” Carly said, giving up. “Season one, episode one? That’s ‘The Nigerian Job.’”

    “I think we have to start with ‘The Bad Hombre Puppet Job,’” Frederica said.

    Carly rolled her eyes.

    “There is no such episode,” she said.

    Frederica gave one more glance at the TV before she grabbed the remote and set it for DVD Play.

    “The hell there isn’t,” she said.

    • (-: Fun story! I wish I could have watched the debates with friends (and doughnuts!).

      Even though the ramifications are, quite frankly, terrifying, I found the debates to be extremely good TV. I was astounded to find that an hour had passed (I had to view the debates in two chunks). Everything you could want in a novel! Money, power, sex, elephants . . . . But it does remind one of WHY we don’t want to live in fictional worlds!

      I can only hope the writers can pull this mess together with a happy ending.

  2. A late entry, now that the weekend’s football games are over.

    ——————–

    Sheila looked at the glass of thick green juice on the counter in front of her with thinly disguised disgust and turned to drop a slice of bread in the toaster. “I’ve already told you, I’m not drinking that nasty stuff. My body is fine just as it is.”

    Her mother put the juice back in the refrigerator with a sigh. “You’re not taking this pageant seriously.”

    “God no.” Shelia put her toast on a plate and reached for the jar of jam. “I oppose the objectification of women and have to seriously question your motives about this whole campaign.”

    “Being selected as Miss Honeydew is a very prestigious honour,” her mother insisted. “Four generations of Smith-Henry women have worn the crown.” She glared. “Have you no respect for tradition?”

    “I adore traditions,” Sheila shot back. “Meaningful traditions. Traditions that include presents or turkey dinners or handing money down from generation to generation. I’m happy to support those traditions but . . . “

    “I am not debating this with you,” her mother interrupted, her patience clearly at an end. “You agreed to participate in this pageant. I expect you do to do whatever needs to be done to win.”

    Shelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Doing my best does not mean drinking unidentifiable green sludge or participating in media days with the other contestants, spouting lies like some kind of puppet for that matter.”

    Her mother was practically shaking in fury, though her Botox-enhanced brow was as smooth as ever. “I never asked you to lie.”

    Sheila picked up the page of notes from the counter in front of her and started to read. “I’ve always been concerned by the plight of the poor and have worked tirelessly to improve their situation.” She looked up. “Shall I continue?”

    “That’s not lying,” her mother insisted. “It’s presenting things in a positive light.”

    “It’s lying,” Sheila said flatly. “I know it and you know it too.” She tossed the notes back on the counter. “I’ve promised to participate in this pageant and I will, but on my terms.”

    “You have a very bad attitude, young lady.”

    “Get a grip, Mother. I know you want another picture to add to the family accolade wall, but I’m really starting to worry about your sanity.” Sheila grabbed her keys and left before her mother regained her powers of speech and moved on to criticizing her clothing choices.

  3. Joanne Arc spat in the dust at the bottom of the 80-foot high blush ombre wall. Rats, she thought. Her Guards troupe was now support staff for a bunch of disgusting paparazzi. She barely had the self-respect to get out of bed this morning. This campaign was bad. The Puppets – 120-foot tall aliens who had built the walls around every major city in the world – flopped over the Wall, swaying and spewing their nasty language across the city. Their tongue sounded like heavy-metal guitar, screeching and scorching the air. No one knew what they were saying. The Puppets, at this point, did not attack. They did not fight. They did not oppose. They did not debate. They only loomed over their Wall, flailing like Punch and Judy dolls. Their noise, though, interrupted the very warp and woof of human interaction all through the city.

    Joanne shook her fist at them. “New York isn’t going to take this, you evil Puppets! We’ll kick you to the curb and force you to go home yet!” But the Puppets paid as much attention to her as humans might pay attention to a spider in the garage. They only had eyes for the Channel 5 News Van.

    Three days ago, Riley O’Will, the tall, dark and handsome star news reporter, had driven straight into their clutches. “Don’t worry, Lt. Arc!” he’d yelled through the window. “The media will save you!” The question was, who would save the media? Not Joanne Arc. Lord knows, she tried. By now, Riley must have been shaken to bits in the news van, cradled by the ungentle appendages of the Puppet Master, who was crooning into the satellite dish of the van. On Day One, they tried patience. On Day Two, they tried bullets, tranquilizers, water cannons, lasers and the sort of hard rock that broke Manuel Noriega. The mustard gas had brought tears to the monsters’ eyes, but it didn’t stop them. Now, on Day Three, Joanne Arc lie in wait, hoping for the perfect moment when the Puppets would croon again to the news van. During the night, Joanne’s team had fixed a special sort of bug bomb, devised by John Hopkins, to the roof of the van. They tried to get Riley O’Will out . . . they could hear him groaning inside . . . but the monsters had awakened and they were forced to run away.

    She wasn’t a woman to question her orders; and when the chance came, she didn’t hesitate. The creature leaned in, leaned in, and then its mouth was right over the satellite. Joanne detonated the measles bomb, which sprayed with an awful KER-CHOO into the Puppet Master’s mouth. If this worked, they’d all be dead in two weeks. If it didn’t, the humans would probably be all insane soon after. The noise had to stop.

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