I have written about Creative Copy Challenge at my business writing blog. It is a fun place for writers and non-writers designed to blast writer’s block.
There you find 10 writing prompts of words or phrases. From those, you create a story, poem or whatever creative form you’d like. Check it out.
To say I’ve gotten hooked, is putting it mildly. I started a Death and the Detective series from the Challenges. I thought I’d share them. Who knows, this may be my next novel. The words in bold are the writing prompts from Creative Copy Challenge.
Challenge #1
It’s hard to say what makes a good detective – especially a homicide one. What is that x-factor that gets a detective up every morning, especially after all he has seen? How is it he still finds a purpose for life?
Brett Connors had been a homicide detective for 25 years. It stopped being a job years ago – it simply was his life, who he was. It was mornings like this where he had to reach deep to find that purpose for life. The killing of a child never made sense. Why should he go on when one so small, so innocent, could not.
The trial was this morning. The courthouse sat next to the townhall, its shadows reflecting Brett’s own dark mood. Like most cops, Brett hated testifying – not that he didn’t want to nail the son of a bitch. No, it was the frustration from the many times the system made a mockery of what he called justice.
Settling in a seat at the back of the courtroom, Brett barely registered the parrot repetition of the bailiff’s instructions. His mind replayed the tragic scene as if he was standing there now, instead of all those months ago.
He saw it all – the silky, blonde hair, stiffened by blood, like the small body robbed of life – the baby smooth skin, drained of the innocence of youth. Why couldn’t he be at some ball game, with a glove on one hand, and a box of Cracker Jacks in the other? That’s what the life of a 7-year-old boy should be – not this caricature of evil. There should never be unions made of children and death.
As the crime scene technicians gathered evidence, Brett walked over to the computer sitting on a child’s desk. Shifting the mouse, Brett brought the monitor to life. If only he could do the same for a small boy. That is when he saw it – Google, shouting beneath its rainbow hue, THOU SHALT NOT KILL – OOPS – I DID.
It was all Brett could do to stop from smashing a fist through the vile words. At least when he touched the mouse, he used the sadly ironic birthday napkins lying on the desk – not that he expected prints. Brett prayed there really was a God, one that would banish the killer to eternal hell. He had no doubt he violated more than one of the 10 Commandments.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge James Angel.”
Pulled back to the present, Brett wondered if his thoughts of God had sent him Judge Angel. God, he hoped so. The city of San Francisco could use some divine help – otherwise, it was going to be a long, cold season of killing.
Challenge #2
“Finally, a win for the good guys,” Brett mused.
There was little satisfaction, however, hearing the “Guilty” conviction. No amount of the killer’s suffering could erase the horror of a murdered child, one not far removed from Winnie the Pooh tales and the Tooth Fairy.
You would think with a prior work history spanning 25 years as a homicide detective, Brett’s hardened heart would not ache quite so much. But a cop, unshaken by the death of a child, had better turn in his badge.
A weary, lined face stared back from the bathroom mirror. Lack of sleep and eyes that saw too much did that. Try as he might to shut it out, the song kept playing over and over in his head.
Well, You know you make me want to shout
Kick my heals up and shout
Throw my hands up and shout
Throw my head back and shout
He had no idea what put it in his head. All he knew was that he wanted to do a whole lot more than shout. A head-shot blast aimed at the killer had a much better ring to it. But, then the authorities frowned on that kind of thing, especially in today’s world of lawsuits, targeted at those who serve and protect.
Those who pushed the propaganda that all cops were heartless bastards never saw the things that Brett had. If they experienced even a third of what he had, they might recognize his hard exterior as the defense mechanism against a crippling world of hurt.
Stepping into the shower, Brett let the cold, hard spray reduce the song to the distant twitter of sound. Routine was his salvation – a cold shower, a hit of orange juice, and he was ready to face another day.
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