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Thread: Writing Prompts Game

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    spiderman's Avatar
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    Default Writing Prompts Game

    I was web surfing, and came across a website for creative writing prompts.

    So, here's a new game for the writers, similar to the caption contest. I'll start with a writing prompt, and a deadline. You respond. I choose a winner, and then he/she gives us all a prompt...

    (Not for twollars, just our personal 15 minutes of fame in a room full of clock watchers)


    Here's my first prompt, stolen straight from that website:
    If an ATM could be custom made for you, what would it spew out instead of money? Justify your answer.

    The deadline for entries is Sunday 8pm.

    Have fun!

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    I looked at the stupid hunk of metal encased in a brick wall. I looked down. I was so tired. I was so lonely. A bad day with the dogs, a fight with a friend, mom's giving me a hard time.

    I need to put gas in the car, I thought. I thought about the rising gas prices. Just another reason to be stressed.
    I need to buy dog food. More money spent, and the gas to get to the pet store.
    I need to eat.
    Who am I kidding. I am too tired, too stressed, to depressed to eat anything. Well, no matter, I need to get some cash. I dug through my wallet for my card. Fumbling a bit, I insert the card in the slot. Head hung, eyes dark and brooding, I look at the screen. A smiley face. That can't be right. Oh man, I am more tired than I realized. I am hallucinating now.
    All of a sudden, two arms come out of the sides of the machine. Wow!! I've heard about these emotichines, but I had never actually seen one, and to be honest, I can't say I believed they existed. An ATM that can sense your feelings.
    The cold metal appeared to soften a bit as I stepped closer. The arms wrapped around me in a great big hug. A hug. It felt so strangely comforting.

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    ZOMG! JELLY BELLY JELLY BEANS!!!

    why? well why not?...make a different flavor with all the different kinds mmm...takes your mind off things though..for a lil while anyway...nothing wrong with an escape

    now if ya did that in the bubble bath with candlelight ...oh boy...lemme at it!

    http://www.recipegame.com/RecipeContest/

    contest!! w00t!

    thats my answer and im stickin to it!
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    ((((((((twelevepeeps)))))))))

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    And now for the Luddite non-grrls:


    1. ZOMG
    oh my gosh's variant. used to excite one another. this is used constantly by those who make fun of people that say omg and lol.

    zomg u teh very cool lolz!1111oneoneoe


    2. ZOMG
    zOMG is a varient of the all-too-popular acronym "OMG", meaning "Oh My God".

    The "z" was originally a mistake while attempting to hit the shift key with the left hand, and type "OMG"

    Also used in all-caps, 'ZOMG' is generally used in a sarcastic manner, more often than not a humiliating fasion. It is also used as a device for stating the obvious.

    "zOMG! you r teh winz!!one!!eleven!"

    3. ZOMG
    A more enthusiastic (if not sarcastic) way of saying OMG. The Z doesn't stand for anything, but rather is added onto the O, thus making it pronounced "ZOH MY GOD!!1"

    I have to tell you something. I have canc-ZOMG A SHINY NEW PENNEY!


    4. ZOMG
    ZOMG is a varient of the all-too-popular acronym "OMG", meaning "Oh My God". ZOMG originated from the imageboard 4chan.org and one of it's members Zardoz.

    Always used in all-caps, 'ZOMG' is generally used in a sarcastic manner, more often than not a humiliating fasion. It is also used as a device for stating the obvious.

    ZOMG REI-CHAN!!! - A 4Chan user exclaiming sarcastic joy over a picture of Rei from Evangelion.

    5. ZOMG
    A variation of OMG. The Z doesn't stand for anything; the word was accidentally invented by users intending to hit the Shift Key instead of Z.

    It was used by some gamers for a time in 2004. In 2006, its usage became widespread.

    ZOMG! That mp3 player is awesome!

    6. ZOMG
    ZOMG is neither an acronym nor a word; it is an entity. ZOMG is a mythological figure who wields a sword tainted with the blood of emo kids. He slightly resembles a combination of a disdainful viking and the Motörhead skull mascot.

    And if UD allowed images, I would post ZOMG in all his Viking glory. I will edit this entry in future when I can post an image.

    ZOMG, the vikingotörhead, owns all your foolish definitions.

    ZOMG is not an example, either!!!


    7. ZOMG
    An awsome version of OMG. Usually used to mock the people who use the term "OMG" every other sentance.

    ZOMG Lets Go Get Some Shoes!


    12pm: I believe that's all pretty much self-explanatory, non? And as for:

    "I have to tell you something. I have canc-ZOMG A SHINY NEW PENNEY!"

    !ROFLMCAOYMcOS!

    (rolling on floor laughing my Caucasian ass off yet mildly concerned over spelling)

    ((holli))

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    Focus...

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    The sign flashed purple neon that reflected strange glaring points of light onto the shiny red surface of the letters: SHECRAB-MATIC. Shecrab? what was this--some kind of joke? There was a slot. Insert Crab Card here, said the sinister red letters.

    Funny it should say that. She had found one of these purple and red cards on the sidewalk, just outside the office, after limping out of the door to her building and finding her car had a flat tire. Screaming hadn't helped. Kicking the car on a foot that was already sore from kicking her desk hadn't helped either. Now she thought her big toe on her right foot might actually be broken. And it was her damned boss's fault!

    "Miss Jones--I need these typed and ready for presentation by COB today."

    "What? But it's 2:45 now! They'll take at least an hour to type, then there's binding and covers--I have an appointment after work today--at 4. I told you about it three weeks ago--it took me over six months to get into see this stylist, and it's costing me a hundred bucks! I can't stay--I'm sorry--I just cant."

    "Either you stay, or you can just not bother coming back tomorrow. It's your job or your hair, Miss Jones--which is more important?"

    "Well, of course my job is important, Mr. Beelzie--but you didn't tell me about these until now--and I wasn't doing anything all day! You could have given these to me several hours ago, and I'd have had them finished professionally after lunch--why am I just getting them now?"

    "You know, Miss Jones, every time I give you a task, you argue about it. Just do it. Or be fired. Your choice."

    And as his fat butt retreated into the depths of his leather-and-oak-embellished office and closed the door against further discussion, she noticed his golf clubs ready by the door, as they always were when he had a golf date waiting. That JERK. He had a hot golf date he could not break, but a six-month-ago appointment meant nothing to him. Nor the astronomical charge she was going to have for missing this appointment--and the 100% assurance she wouldn't be given another appointment for at least another six months. Steam rose from her forehead and made her already frizzy bangs even frizzier. Hair or no job. Yeah. Right. What choice did a secretary have?

    The reports were on Beelzie's desk at 4, professionally typed and bound, and as she grabbed her purse and started to run out the door, she heard the boss yell one last thing as he grabbed his clubs and hoisted the bag over his shoulder: "About time, Jones. You did remember to make 10 copies of each, right?"

    Her heart smoldered in her chest like a live coal. He walked out with a half-smirk on his jowly face. A molten tear trickled down her cheek as he slammed the door and she heard the gentle hum of his Mercedes engine starting up. That was when she kicked the desk.

    The pain was great and her toe was swelling. More than once she wished there was a vial of poison in her purse so she could put a few drops in his capuccino maker's frothing attachment. She could barely see she was so pissed. But maybe they'd wait at the salon--maybe--as the last copy was finished, and stacked on his credenza--and yes, they had indeed said they'd wait all of fifteen minutes more for her--but she had to be there then or forget it--Jean-Paul waited for no woman--and she limped out the office door to find--the flat tire. It was the last straw. A huge, guttural scream rose from the depths of her diaphragm, and despite the equally huge pain in her foot, she hauled back and kicked the side of the car, scratching the paint, nipping off a piece of rusty metal, and further injuring her already injured toe.

    The pain was galvanizing--and it stopped her cold. She gasped, took in a big breath and was suddenly calm--though much more depressed than she had been in a long time. Triple-A would change the tire, and she'd just have to reschedule with Jean-Paul. That SOB boss of hers would...nothing. He was Teflon. He was Silicone. Nothing stuck to him. Making him pay for his bad behavior would be like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree.

    Then in the midst of her tears and as she looked down to see if her toe was bleeding, easing off her shoe and seeing the black and blue stain spreading under what had been a nicely-maintained pedicure before today, she saw the card. "CRAB CARD" it said. Red letters on a purple background. Blood and bruise--the colors of her soul.

    She picked it up and turned it over: insert this card in any Shecrab-matic machine, it said on the back. Shecrab-matic? She wasn't certain, but wasn't there one of those nearby--in that old drive-up bank area? Yes, the purple neon proclaimed it to be present--so she hoisted her purse, held her cell phone at 9-1-1 readiness, and limped over.

    She stood there now--looking at the machine, bathed in the strange violet glow it gave off. No explanation. No instructions. Just insert the card--so she did.

    The purple glow buzzed, and for a split second, seemed to dim slightly, then came back on more eerie than ever. Then, the machine made that noise like ATMs do when money is about to be dispensed--that clickety whizz sound--and a piece of paper emerged from the slot.

    It said:

    "YOU HAVE BEEN AVENGED. YOUR APPOINTMENT IS BEING HELD AT THE SALON--JEAN-PAUL WILL DO YOUR HAIR AND RESCUE THAT PEDICURE. GO NOW. DO NOT LOOK BACK. AND TOMORROW, WEAR YOUR BEST OPEN-TOED SHOES TO THE OFFICE."

    It was bizarre, but what did she have to lose? But how would she get there--the tire....and looking over she saw the two men from the bike shop across the street as they finished up putting her spare on the rim and tightened the lug nuts and waved her over, smiling.

    "We saw you had a flat, so me and Ray here we fixed 'er for ya. Pretty lady like you shouldn't haveta get yer nails broke changin' a tire! Hell no we don't want anything--just doin' our good deed for the week! Have a nice day!"

    In a dream, she drove to the salon, where Jean-Paul pampered her, cut and curled her frizz into something that a movie star would envy and attended to that pedicure too--and even apologized for the attitude of his receptionist--of course madame could come late! Eet waz nevair a probleem!

    Looking better than she had at her first wedding, she drove home, had a little leftover Kung Pao chicken and dropped into bed into a dreamless sleep.

    Next morning, when she got to her office, wearing her favorite strappy sandals, there were two execs from the head office waiting to see her. Apparently, there had been a thunderstorm on the golf course--(and ONLY on the golf course, oddly enough!) yesterday. Lightning had struck Mr. Beelzie just as he was about to tee off on the 3rd hole--and they were still trying to get the club un-fuzed from his charred hand. He was pretty much unrecognizable. But not to worry--since he had met an unexpected and rather deserved demise, there was only one person they felt they could promote into his position--and that was her. It meant a substantial raise in pay--did she want the position? She didn't trust her voice to speak, so she gave what she hoped was her most professional but enthusiastic nod and untoasted hands were shaken all around.

    "We'll send up someone to change the nameplate on your door, Ms. Jones," said the tall, graying one with the nice tie and no wedding ring. "Oh, and by the way--that's a lovely pair of shoes."

    As she watched them leave, she thought about the CRAB CARD in her purse, and the way the Shecrab-matic had glowed with a purple light last night--and noticed in the mirror over the (now HER) credenza, that her own eyes had a distinct violet cast that hadn't been there before.

    She wondered how much was in her account.


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    It would be oatmeal raisin cookies, but I'd have to take away my card, or I'd overdraw my account.  You know when your check bounces, it's bad, but when your cookie bounces, well, it's just crumby.
    I caught you a delicious bass.


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    Quote Originally Posted by 12pm
    6. ZOMG
    ZOMG is neither an acronym nor a word; it is an entity. ZOMG is a mythological figure who wields a sword tainted with the blood of emo kids. He slightly resembles a combination of a disdainful viking and the Motörhead skull mascot.
    ROFL
    Quote Originally Posted by spiderman
    Focus...  
    sorry

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    Default An ATM Machine

    attitude + time - money = budget problem
    Being and nothingness are illusions. Rollo May

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    Great entries, everybody!

    And no problem, Corgi... it was tongue in cheek, honest.

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