The prompt for the Shapeshifting 13 Challenge #98 at Grammar Ghoul Press is the adjective "sticky," meaning "tending or designed to stick to things on contact or covered with something that sticks.".
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My living room’s my son’s gallery of sticky finger portraits, caramel faces galore.
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Despite the setting sun, the air was frigid and kissed goose pimples to life, caressed strands of hair, persuading them to stand on end, and kicked dust into the air around the pair as they walked over the interstate’s asphalt. Milo shivered and shook, then looked longingly up at George and wished for a break. They had been walking for hours, stopping every so often for a release. As they stopped again, Milo wiggled in the confines of his collar. His eyes traced the black woven leash that was tied around his friend’s wrist, and looked up at George once again, who was leaning over with his hands on his knees, sobbing. Milo looked around, snarling, ready to attack whatever was hurting George. When he saw nothing was around them, he nuzzled George’s swollen leg, licking the caked dust on a pants leg. A faint metallic scent wafted around the two of them, and Milo licked more vigorously. George didn’t let up; he just hung his head, then jerked himself up and screamed an obscenity at the sky. Milo flinched, his tail between his legs. He had never heard George say something so angrily before. Milo looked down, whimpered, and stared at the dirty, broken shoes on George’s feet. A hand reached down and softly stroked Milo’s head. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.” George knelt down, holding Milo’s face close to him. He pulled out his phone, pushed buttons, and sighed. “No service.” George gave another sigh, and looked back at Milo. “We’re gonna be okay.”
Marc scanned the email chain from his client. “Dinner should be served at seven. The attire is intentional. Don’t be alarmed.” He chalked it up to some theme party; he had catered many theme parties over his two years in the business. Walking into people’s home as a caterer had proved immensely interesting and amusing. He gathered his pots and spoons, produce and meat, into a large wooden crate and carried it to his truck.
Lucas woke up to the setting sun, surrounded by feathery reeds and tall grass, lying beside splinters of wood and a lonely wagon wheel. With trees off in the distance and the sun slowly escaping below the horizon, his stomach twisted and ached for a warm meal. The memory of his mother, standing on the wooden front porch, screaming his name as the wind swept over his face tingled his skin and filled him with sorrow. He forced himself to sit up, but pain quaked his body with the movement. His legs were held to the earth under the weight of the wagon wheel. He struggled and writhed, trying to move the wagon wheel, but it was too much for Lucas to budge. He blamed his withdrawal inside the home when his father was working outside for his lack of physical strength. Never once did Lucas venture outside to help chop wood or herd cattle, to milk cows or to mend the fence. His journey to this spot was a blur, but it slowly merged into a vivid picture as he cried, his voice carrying pain away from him and echoing back, reverberating the fire in his leg.
I successfully painted the brick walls of Old Man Murphy’s shop purple in protest. Word was the owner refused to serve certain people, claiming religious dealings.
As I bragged, Mom said, “Your uncle bought that space three weeks ago.”
The Bananacon invitation read: “5 of 7. Mind the yellow walls--they’re delicious!”
Heartbroken and alone, he trekked across the sand until the glowing ocher ooze caught his eyes. As lava spilled into the surf, he questioned how such beauty could be dangerous.
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The prompt for the Shapeshifting 13 Challenge #48 at Grammar Ghoul Press is the following image with a focus on the color orange:
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Tony is actively working on several writing projects including a play, a novel, short stories and children stories. Some of these items may appear on this page, and others may appear on the store page (not active).
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