Writing Slam!


This week at the Writing Slam we had about 15 minutes to write about honey. Naturally, I came up with this. Special thanks to a fellow writer who allowed me to steal the name Honey Shack!

Deep within the Honey Shack, it dripped off the giant novelty spoon, forming a thin continual flow, shining with a glossy sheen of golden yellow mixed with intense fear. Each spoonful added to the danger, added to the sense of urgency. It was up to his waist now, and Captain Many Adjectives struggled helplessly against his honeycomb bonds. Our hero grimaced as the level of overly sweet magical bee nectar rose higher and higher in the gigantic over-sized jar.

This was no way to go, to finally be eliminated. Hundreds of horrible death traps created by maniacal Super Villains had been concurred in the past, the Stewing Pot of The Line Cook, the Barraging Ball Returner of The Tennis Instructor, The Spinning Wheel of House Roulette, and the Machine of The Omega Mechanic. But this trap was different. Not different in the sense of how overly complicated the device was, they had to be as required by law, but different in way of who had built it.

This super villain was not like any other he had faced in the past. Long hair, delicate features, constantly humming bee wings, and the sweeter than honey smile. She was the very first super villainess he had ever encountered. The Beehemoth Queen was her name, and with her legions of gigantic radioactive killer honey bees she had captured two things from Captain Many Adjectives. His body, which she was going to preserve in toxic bee honey for all time, and his heart.

Lissa: Nipple Honey: Deluxe

Lissa: Nipple Honey: Deluxe

Frying Pan

This week at Writer’s Group something magical happened with our three slams. They became a Grand Slam and turned into one complete story! All it took was a name change. (Take that Dennys)

For the first part of the story visit here:


Frying Pan

The sound of sizzling erupted as the fatty meat was dropped into the hot frying pan just seconds after a dollop of rich creamery butter. White portions melted away slowly as the satisfying sizzling continued. Two eggs were cracked open and added. Spectators with a weaker stomach might have retched away from the sight of the egg whites dancing in the thick layer of grease, but that was how she liked them done. Dripping with fat, thick with grease, and place on top of precisely layered tomato slices on her black and burnt toast.

Breakfast was her guilty pleasure, it always had been. She would eat like no one was watching. She would cook like the owner of a frat house and damn well like it. Today’s breakfast was special.

Today after breakfast she will have used up the last of that hitchhiker with the stained automotive service shirt, and burn marks on the side of his face, with the embroidered name on it that said Steve. Today, with Steve gone, she could go for a drive, maybe to the country this time to find someone less fatty. Leaner meat was healthier after all. It was not as good for cooking eggs at breakfast though. Guilty pleasures!

Roodg: Bacon!!!

Roodg: Bacon!!!


For part three of the story… I will need to hunt for another blog!


This week the writing slam was Gravel. We had about 12 minutes to think of whatever we could do with the word gravel. It was not the easiest word to work with, the slam had more revisions than any other slam so far. I still like the result.

The waitress gave the best half smile she could muster up at 3:17 in the morning. She was dressed in a stained yellow uniform with an apron that likely had been white at one point long past. Both had been marked with the stains of countless apple cobbler specials. Her nametag was faded and scratched. It simply said ‘erly’, the presumable ‘Bev’ having faded off long ago. erly was someone that had given up on all their dreams at least thirty years ago, judging by her hairstyle and makeup choices.

Barely able to keep her balance on the roller-skates thanks to the sticky surface of the diner and holding a half full pot of coffee. Far too slowly it sloshed in the pot, not keeping time with erly’s bad balance. It was thick with age and countless reheats.

She motioned towards his coffee cup and said with the voice of someone who had been around the block a few times while chain smoking a carton of cigarettes the entire ride. With a gravelly voice she spoke out.

“Can I top you off toots?”

He shook his head.

Fournimer: Trowing Stones

Fournimer: Trowing Stones

Fournimer: Throwing Stones


For this writing slam we used the word I suggested last week but did not use and promptly forgot about. We gave ourselves 10 minutes to write as much as we could about the word Silhouette. In reality we had 11 minutes, but don’t spread it around okay?


Why? That was the one question that private eye Harvey Bloomfield could not figure out. Sure, he was not having much luck with the other common questions, but that one was sticking out in his mind. Why?

When? That question wasn’t a problem, considering the complexity others. It was last night, one am.

Where? Another easy one. Outside O’Finningans, his long time favourite club.

Who? Well, that one was obvious. Her. The singer on the piano in the eveningwear with the gloves that almost went past her shoulders. The woman from last night that had started this whole debacle. The woman that in the end had evaporated in a flash of mist after the gunshots rang out.

What? Harvey wasn’t fully aware of what this answer had really meant, but he did know it, thanks to the hoodlums that had fired the Tommy-guns before she had vanished. She was Silhouette, that was either her name, or it was what she was, something dark and mysterious, but yet something that had needed him. Needed his help.

How? Harvey didn’t really know, but he had used his detective reasoning and had settled sometime ago on the only possible explanation. Witch’s magic. It is what made the most sense considering the events of last night.

Why? That was the question he could not figure out.

Danger in the ShadowsDangerous Shadows

Savage or Raisins

For this Writing Slam we had 7 minutes to write about either the word ‘savage’ or the word ‘raisins’. Not sure why that odd choice of words had come up, but some wanted to be savages, some wanted to be raisins, and we didn’t question it. I, of course…

Savage Raisins

The microphone came down with a sickening thud. Already it had found purchase countless times within the now unidentifiable smudge that had been music producer Todd, but now it was just adding insult to horrible death. It was as if his death had become a game for these… things. These horrible things. Once the music lover had finally been beaten to a fine pulp with the aid of microphones, plastic white shoes, and overly large sunglasses, the beasts jumped in to drink up the valuable musician nectar.

Claymations they were once called, at least before they were possessed by the ghost of that cult of demon-worshiping Nazi-sympathizing, serial-killer, werewolf-transformed, zombie-vampire, monster-clones, but now they were alive. Alive, and with an unquenchable thirst for revenge. Lo, how it had been a mistake to fashion them to resemble the driest of fruit. For now they had a terrible need for the blood of musicians that could never be sated because of their dried out husks.

These horrible things. These horrible savage raisins.

Lissa: Tastes Like Ovens.

Tastes Like Ovens!


The latest writing slam. This week we gave ourselves about 20 minutes to write on our random topic, but for 10 of those minutes we actually were listening to the Frozen soundtrack, so I don’t know if they count towards the total or not.


Snap! Another plank shattered from the force of a single hammer hit. Shards gently floated away and bounced off walls, ceilings, and floors with soft squishy noises. They had been at this all day, and barely had even the starting of their bookcase finished.

“These genetically modified mega-mushrooms are awful,” Ja’handa scoffed as another mushroom plank split down the middle just from her picking it up. “I don’t know how we are supposed to build anything with them.”

“I know, but it is all we have. Metal is too expensive. I wish that they knew trees couldn’t grow in zero gravity before setting off into this space trip.” said Maharizard with great exposition in her voice.

Timber was a prime commodity on Space Station Chiron 7, and was completely out of the salary range of two space accountants. So they would be forced to use this dirt cheap, poor excuse for mushroom timber to make their bookshelf.

“Why are we even trying? The stupid thing is just going to shatter if we put a book on it!” sighed Ja’handa.

“Not if we coat it with earwig honey first!” Piped Maharizard, who always saw the space glass as half space full.

“Earwig honey?” Yelled Ja’hanada, “On our salaries? Let’s just go get some space martinis, kick off our space boots, and call it a Space night.”

“Space yeah!”

White Wolf Kick

Anders: Finder of wood


The Blanket

The latest Writing Slam, With all correct apologies to the correct people. We had 8 minutes this time to write as much as we could on the random topic of Blankets.

Tattered. Always tattered.

Mary had always felt sorry for Blanket. What a horrible name that was, Blanket. Whoever named this kid had been a real, well as Mary’s mother put it, a real so-and-so. Sure, Mary had tried to talk to this boy when he first came to class, mysteriously appearing one day, his other siblings elsewhere in the school. As Mary’s mother said, just more victims of the welfare system. Adopted eventually after being rummaged from place to place, forgotten, and tattered.

Where did he come from originally? The adults seemed to know, but wouldn’t say. Mary’s mother certainly did know, but had never let it slip. This only hurt the boy’s chances further, strange and mysterious was a dangerous combination.

But still, Mary always thought of the poor boy, slightly younger than herself, as tattered. He always came off as distant, as if he was staring into space. Never really there, always alone. Just uncertain of who he was and where he came from, always just waiting to drift off again into his own personal Neverland.

White Wolf Kick

Mystery Blanket!

The Wires

Every Thursday I try to get out to my Writing Group. One of the exercises we do is spending 10-15 minutes writing on a random word or phrase and just seeing what happens. I call it the Writing Slam! (I don’t think anyone else does though.)

While they are a bit rough, they are still good fun.

I saw a fellow member had posted their Slam on their blog, so I said to myself, “Self, you need to steal that idea!” Then I did.

The Wires

They came in the night. Blood curdling screams pierced through the silence of Motto humming to himself as he dressed the last of the wild game before turning in for the night. The screams were combined with the bone chilling yarls of beasts, and Motto knew that this undressed last pheasant would have to wait.

The hunter hurriedly grabbed his bow and what arrows had not been ruined in today’s hunt, and fled the safety of his personal treetop fortress.

The yarls had been distinctive, and Motto had already been certain what was attacking the village. As he suspected, it was the Wyres. Thin lithe beasts with wicked claws, dull flesh grinding teeth, and dirty black fur streaked with bright crimson.

The creatures had smelt easy human prey, and Motto winced as Mrs. Partlebee was chased off camera by three of the savage beasts. Horrible noises left little doubt in his mind what had happened to his neighbour and Motto loosed an arrow and struck one emerging creature in the scraggy shoulder. Motto cursed at his foolishness at missing the heart as it was the only weak spot in the horrible beast. The Wyres were angry now, and had a fresh target. The leader, still with arrow sticking out of her flank, jumped towards Motto’s treetop sanctuary, wicked claws at the ready.


White Wolf Kick!

White Wolf Kick!