What a nice crowd this week. And so much amazing writing prompted by “teapot.” You’re obviously all much more creative than I am. I looked at the prompt and had nothing. Ah well, we can’t always be brilliant. Or often. Or ever.


Thanks again to Monica B.W., @Monica_BW for judging this week. It’s harder than it looks but she soldiered on. Not only that, but she’s going to comment here soon on just why these five were chosen from among so many great entries. That’s work ethic for you.

The finalists she named are:

That Neil Guy, @ThatNeilGuy

J.D., @Sachula

Chris Blanchard, @BlanchardAuthor

R.C. Murphy, @RCMurphy

Paul Freeman, @PolFreeman

Congratulations! Bravo! Molto bene! Auf wiedersehen! (wait…)

Here are their entries, so give them a read, a vote, and a pat on the back. (Don’t hit them too hard just because you weren’t a finalist this week.) See you all at 9:00 EST tomorrow when we announce the winner.

That Neil Guy, @ThatNeilGuy

I’m a little teapot.
I am short.
I am stout.
She grabs my handle.
She pinches my spout.
Now I am all steamed up.
I try to shout.
She tips me over.
She pours me out.
She drops the knife.
I watch the red tea spread from underneath me.
I look up at her. My eyes are steamed up. I think she is smiling. She is not sorry.
She has no reason to be.
I close my eyes and feel the steaming burn in my side. I try to scoop the red tea and force it back inside. Too late. Too late.
I am a teapot. I should never have burned her. It was all my fault.

J.D., @Sachula

“I’m a little teapot, short and stout~”
The song echoed through out the house, as Will took a hesitant step forward. The pitter-patter of a child’s feet rang to his left, causing him to swing the beam of his flash light. The light touched dusty paintings and broken furniture, before resting on the little girl in the door way.
Will screamed and turned to run, but the girl was already in front of him again. She gripped the bloody knife easily in her small hands, and raised it.
“Here is my handle, Here is my spout~”

Chris Blanchard, @BlanchardAuthor

“A teapot?” Grand Warlord Glarg scowled over the alien word. “What does it do?”

“Well, your highness,” Major Marok said, pointing at the strange, round device before him. “Apparently, it is used in a strange ritual.”

The major lifted up the top of the ceramic pot, revealing it was hollow inside.

“Water is placed in here,” Marok said, and Glarg nodded. Water storage was important, but this would not serve as storage. The container had a long tube with a hole on the end, and no stopper that he could see.

“And then the container is placed over,” Marok said, then hesitated. “Fire, m’lord.”

“Fire?” Glarg said, pushing himself backwards into his chair. “Does this work have so much water that they can burn it?”

“Indeed they do, m’lord,” Marok said, bowing and wiggling his antenna in an apologetic manor.

“And you say this is used in rituals?” Glarg said. “Do they sacrifice the water to their heathen gods?”

“No, m’lord,” Marok said, his antenna waiving even more frantically now. “It get’s even more… perverse. I hesitate to continue.”

“I order you to tell me,” Glarg said.

“M’lord,” Marok said, standing at attention and getting his antenna under control. “The Earthlings take the now hot water,” he flinched at the word hot, “And then pour it into a cup, over leaves.”

“Leaves?” Glarg asked. “As from a tree?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Marok said, and his eyes were turning a pale green, as if he were feeling ill. Glarg couldn’t blame him, he felt slightly ill himself.

“And then comes the worst part,” Marok said.

“Don’t tell me,” Glarg said.

“I’m afraid so, m’lord,” Marok said. “They drink it.”

R.C. Murphy, @RCMurphy

She bore a striking resemblance to a teapot. Narrow chest, slight bulge at the stomach… and those hips? I wanted to grab hold and ride until we were both completely exhausted. The pressure against my fly let me know I wasn’t the only member of this two-man crew cooking up fantasies for later.

“What are you staring at, Stan?” Linda tugged at the hem of her shirt. The self conscious move made me grind my teeth.

“I’m staring at the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth and wondering what I can do to her once we get back to the hotel.” It was rude. I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

My forward statement was blessed with a blush that crept up her neck and stained her cheeks. If not for the table between us, I would kiss those blushing cheeks. Linda did not know how precious she really was.

“Stop talking out of your ass.” A hand drew through her blonde hair. “You were checking out the waitress not five minutes ago.”

The look on my face made her frown. It’s the one I assumed when Linda insisted on belittling herself. “Only ’cause she’s holding my damn food hostage.”

Linda’s laugh broke the tension hovering over the table. “Always thinking with your stomach, baby.”

I grinned and leaned over to capture one of her hands. “I was, until you smiled. Now I’m back to being a lecherous hornball. What color are your panties?”

Paul Freeman, @PolFreeman

Jimmy stood in the centre of the ruined house, scorch marks ran up the sides of the walls and across the timbers on the ceiling. Debris that once been furniture and treasured possessions of a family littered the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an old tea pot lying in front of the fire place, he bent down and picked it up, cradling it lovingly as if it were a priceless relic. Memories flooded back of sitting around the big oak kitchen table, his mother hovering over them, fussing as usual, doling out steaming mugs of tea and thick wedges of jam and bread.

The conversation and banter would flow back and forth, good natured ribbing. There was always a visitor in the house, the welcome and hospitality was famous in the neighbourhood. A tear flowed freely down Jimmy’s cheek as he wiped a spot of soot from the teapot.

“It’s not safe in here, sir. You’ll have to leave,” the voice of a fireman interrupted his thoughts. He wanted to turn and yell, it’s my house, this is my fucking home, leave me be. But he didn’t, he simply turned and allowed himself to be led from the house.

Outside a throng of people had gathered, they whispered in hushed tones behind their hands, ‘no survivors,’ he heard someone say, ‘all dead.’ ‘his whole family.’

He pushed past the crowd, avoiding their gazes.

“Excuse me, sir. Could we have a word?” Jimmy stopped and looked at the police officer. They knew, he thought. Somehow they had found out.

“Okay,” he said.

“Sorry, sir we know it’s a bad time. Maybe we can leave it til later.” The police man smiled reassuingly.

As he walked away he dug his hands into his pockets. The box of matches rattled there. He couldn’t remember when the searing heat of a blazing fire first drew his interest How he became mesmerized by the dancing yellow flames.

Fire, he thought, only fire can cleanse the soul.

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