Writing Challenge #23

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  1. WRITE:  Write a scene, no more than 100 words, that showcases the living (or working) space of an eccentric personality.


2. COMMENT: You MUST comment on FOUR other entries to qualify. If you do not, your entry will be disqualified from the challenge. Give and take… Keep the cycle going.

3. IMPORTANT In order to qualify, you MUST vote for your TOP TWO choices. If you don’t vote, you cannot win this challenge (even if you receive the most votes!). To vote, you need to reply to the email that goes out for the Weekly Challenges. In that email, if you scroll to the bottom, you will see all the information you need to vote for this challenge.

You must join our mailing list in order to receive the weekly voting email. 

4. DEADLINE: Tuesday, September 6th at 11:59 p.m. PST. Voting booth will open for this challenge on Wednesday, September 7th, and the winners will be announced the following Wednesday, September 14th.

CONGRATULATIONS: To the winners of Challenge #21… Lina Rehal, Tim Hillbrant and Marcia Yearwood!


Have fun!

Author Notes

102 Comments for “Writing Challenge #23”


“Why in the middle of the woods James? Makes no sense. We have this huge palace with 33 bedrooms, pool, workout room, and golf course,” wife Susanne asked.
“I need a peaceful place that inspires my writing. That treehouse just fits the bill,” James pushed his ball cap back through his greasy hair, threw his overall clad leg over his motor scooter, “Besides, it gets me out of your hair, Honey.”
James reached the treehouse, climbed the rickety ladder, kicked back in his ragged recliner, pulled out his laptop, and stared outside. Then fingers flying, started the “great American novel.”



I have always wanted my own tree house. What a GREAT place to write in! Great job, Marcia!


Me, too, Riss! Treehouse Masters on TV fuels my fire about wanting one every week. Thanks for your read and comments, appreciate it!


Oh my… I have never heard of that programme, a time to google me thinks😇

Mary Cooney-Glazer



Guys invited to Smitty’s poker games always went.

Quiet, nerdy, Smitty, a math genius and secret card shark, ran the company computers. Few knew about his love of poker and railroads.

The red velvet upholstered train car where he lived paid tribute to his hobby. Nellie, his gorgeous girl friend, wore saloon hostess costumes and bent over deeply when she served drinks at the table.

Nobody minded that Smitty always seemed to win. A nice little soul, he never fleeced guys.

His winnings were more than enough to pay for Orient Express trips twice a year.

Carol Moore


Jeanie worked from home on her computer, so she didn’t have to have contact with people. They were all out to get her, she was sure of it. She had all her deliveries put outside her door, paid for everything online. Her pay was through paypal. The landlord never saw her more than once a month when she paid her rent. She was sure he was out to get her too. She had the locks on her doors changed so only she had the keys to her place. She never left the apartment so she really didn’t need keys anyhow.


The office holds a huge oak desk that faces the window a laptop, neatly piled reference books alongside trays full of notes. On the sill is a Photo of a bride looking gorgeous bookended by her brothers. A wooden dog sits atop the frame and a matching cat balances on the sill, a black angel and a fat blue fairy look to be on guard. Washing lines around the room are full of character profiles, mind maps and sketches on huge sheets of paper. While fairy lights twinkle around a mad hatters hat on a dressmakers bust.


Henry waters the colorful array of flowers he’s planted in the countless pots that adorn his eclectic patio garden. Dozens of solar candles soak up the late day sun as it bounces off the collection of disco balls, plastic butterflies, crystal ornaments and the myriad of do-dads hanging from two open red umbrellas that cover the glass tables.

Pinwheels, spinners and twirling objects gyrate and spin in the breeze, while wind chimes clang noisily. Hundreds of tiny white lights make it all come alive at night.

Later, with a cold beer, he sits and looks out at the Atlantic.



Homicide detective James Frost spoke with the owner of the old apartment building, an older gentleman with the purest white hair he’d ever seen.”

“You found the body?” he asked.

“Yes, just about half and hour ago,” the man answered. “please, follow me and sir? Brace yourself.”

The man led him to the door of the apartment, fumbled with a set of keys and let the detective inside.

Stepping through the doorway, James gasped, for inside were thousands upon thousands of spiders of every shape and size, in every possible space, crawling over, under and out of the body. James fainted.

Tim Hillebrant


Spiders. *shudder*

One or two I’m good with. That many, would send Arnold Schwarzenegger running from the room, screaming like a five year old girl. He’d later be found drooling, tucked in a corner in a fetal position, mumbling, “I will not be back. I will not be back. I will not be back.”

Well written, Riss!!

Tim Hillebrant


Something’s amiss! In my head I ticked down my checklist: My desk is straight, keyboard set four point five inches from the monitor screen. My Reference books, dictionary, and thesaurus are to my left, sitting on a little shelf exactly five inches above the tray with holding my black pen, blue pen, red pen, and mechanical pencil. My left side had my books on writing, arranged first by height, then thickness. My Darth Vader candy dispenser sat on the top shelf, and…that was it! My write or die coffee mug was an inch out of place to the left. That should do it. Now, to writing I go.

**No, this wasn’t descriptive of anyone I know. Not at all.

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