#WeekendWritercize 2: Different Folks

Welcome to the second edition of #WeekendWritercize! 
Join in and spread the word to friends and family!
writercize: Put two people who you would not expect to see together in a room and see what happens. Write about where they are, their dialogue and body language.

(examples: P Diddy and the Pope, Newt Gingrich and RuPaul, Lady Gaga and Mother Theresa, Andy Warhol and Betty Crocker)

To enter the competition, leave your entry as a comment below. Be sure to include your Twitter handle and link to your blog or website. Tweet and Facebook fellow entries using the hashtag #WeekendWritercize.

Since this blog is used by teachers and students, I kindly request that you abstain from profanity and gratuitous violence. (In other words, keep it PG-13.) If your story can't be told without, just provide a link to your post on your own website along with a disclaimer.

Competition closes at 11:59 p.m. Sunday night (Pacific time) - no entries accepted after that. Winner announced Monday.

This week's winner and honorable mention(s) will receive a #WeekendWritercize Winner badge to proudly display on their website.

Thanks and good luck!


  1. Bless Thy Buttocks: Part 1:


    The flight attendant announced that seatbelts could now be removed. Paris Hilton never wore seatbelts; they crumpled her outfits. There was also the issue of who'd used the seatbelt before her. The staff on these common luxury air-crafts probably never thought to clean the seatbelts.

    She regretted loaning her private jet to Britney Spears this weekend. “Poor Britney, having her Father control her finances,” she'd told herself at the time, awash with sympathy, “why do tragic things always happen to good, decent people?”

    François, her PA, hurriedly knelt by her side, flushed with excitement. “Ooh. Emm. Gee, Parr! You'll never guess who's travelling in the next suite!” He grabbed her skeletal arms, blinking so hard his false eyelashes were threatening to dislodge.

    Paris bristled. She hated other celebrities sharing air travel with her; stealing her publicity. She thought of Britney luxuriating in her private jet and resolved never to be selfless again.

    Feigning disinterest, she examined her polished nails. “Who is it?”

    Please don't let it be Kim Kardashian.

    François placed one hand over his chest and gave a slight bow “It's... The Dalai Lama.”

    Her entourage gasped and squealed with delight.

    “The who?” Paris's delicate eyebrows tried to furrow, but the botox prevented movement. “Isn't that a statue in India?”

    He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head “No, Dahling... The Dalai Lama!! He's, like, some kind of Chinese God!”

    Ruby, her make up artist, knelt next to François and whispered “I heard he blessed Jennifer Lopez's ass.”

    François nodded “I also heard he blessed Lindsay Lohan, via Skype, the day before she was due to start her jail sentence. And what happens? She doesn't have to go into that stinky prison!”

    “Eww!” squealed Paris and Ruby, simultaneously.

    Meredith, Paris's financial advisor, turned in her seat to face them. With a sigh, she pushed her glasses down her nose to look at the trio of twits. “You Americans are hilarious” she said, in her crisp, English accent. “The Dalai Lama is the exiled spiritual leader of Tibet. He enlightens through peace, harmony and compassion, not by pandering to celebrities!” She laughed into their vacant stares. “But, please, do ignore his quest for Tibet's independence from China; Jennifer Lopez's arse cheeks are far more important!”

    Paris scowled at Meredith. She would try and change Daddy's mind about firing her when she got back.

    “Never mind Mere-bitch,” François hissed, “I happen to know 100% that he performs miracles. There's absolutely nothing he cannot do. Face it honey,” he placed a hand on his hip, “do you think we'd even know who he was if he couldn't?”

    Her glacial eyes bore through his, contemplating what this opportunity could mean for her; how it could impact her life.

    Meredith chuckled. “What can she possibly wish for that she hasn't already got?” As she turned back in her seat, she muttered “A brain cell, perhaps?” and buried her face The Financial Times.

    Paris had an epiphany. She wanted eternal youth. “I want to meet him,” she announced, “set it up. Now!”

  2. Bless Thy Buttocks: Part 2.


    Dismissing everyone with her arm, she reclined in her plush chair, with her gel eye mask on. No more surgery. No more needles. No more hiding out in hotel rooms until the swelling subsides. “It's gonna be so hot!”

    Before long, her entourage had pulled the desired strings and she found herself sauntering through a mass of smartly dressed businessmen. A small, bald-headed man sat at the helm of the suite, draped in orange and red fabric.

    “Eww... that is, like, sooo gross!” she thought to herself “François and Ruby are liars! How can someone that... ancient looking know anything about eternal youth?”

    “Sit” he beckoned in the chair next to him. Somewhat dejected, she did as instructed, her cold, dead eyes poring over him.

    “You look familiar” she realised. “I know! You were on Masterchef Australia, weren't you? We watched the re-runs in Ibiza last week; it was the only English-speaking TV they had! It was just the worst!”

    The Dalai Lama nodded sagely.

    “I'm throwing a dinner party tomorrow night, for some very important people. Would you suggest I tell the caterers to make the Veal? Or the Foie Gras?”

    François squealed and eye-balled her meaningfully. “His Holiness doesn't believe in eating meat, Paris, just like you, remember?”

    Paris seized up “Of course," she lied, "the meat is not for me! I have to think of the needs of others.” She attempted to look noble.

    “I am not vegetarian,” he said “however, I applaud your decision not to eat meat: Be kind, whenever possible. It's always possible.”

    “That's sexy.” Images of Jennifer Lopez's buttocks floated in her mind. “So," she yawned, stretching then folding her bony arms, "can you bless me with eternal youth?”

    His entourage tittered, and François blushed. Paris gazed at the bald-headed man unashamedly.

    “What makes you crave eternal youth, my dear?”

    Without a second thought, she replied “It would make me happy. That's why!”

    He looked down for some time. She was starting to think he'd fallen asleep, until he faced her and said “Happiness is something not ready-made. It comes from your own actions.”

    She clenched her tiny fists, her thin nostrils flaring. “Are you saying you won't help me?”

    “If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.”

    “What-EVER, old man,” she stood up in a huff, “let me help you then: red is sooo not your colour!” She stormed out of the suite. “And get a facial!”

    The Dalia Lama looked at a mortified François, with an amused glint in his eye. “Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.”

  3. Christopher H Mitchell

    The bar was nearly empty. Harry was relaxing after his concert with Tom and Steve. The conversation went through who missed chords and what cues were dropped and ways to fix it for the next show. Voices rose and fell. Laughter broke out when a failing of their tour manager was mention. The brothers have been here so many times. Nothing was ever taken personally. It was just what it was.

    A breath of air came in at sat at the bar. Beer magically appeared in front of the bearded figure and he raised the glass to his lips. The barmaid nodded and disappeared to the back room. Turning on his stool, he called out in a slightly Cockney accent; "Mr Chapin."

    Harry looked up with a look of annoyance. Tom and Steve's eye grew wide when they realized they were looking in to the past. The man was shorter than average. He had doffed his hat, his hair displaced by wind.

    "I want to say, Sir, I find your stories most enlightening and thoughtful. I thought it would be it would be good to make your acquaintance. My name is Charles." He held out his hand.

    The smirk that Harry was known for spread across his face. He took the hand and squeezed it. It was surprisingly warm for a dead man.

    "Glad to meet you,too Mr. Dickens. I have to admit to reading and stealing your material over the years"

    Harry helped Dickens off with his coat and offered him a seat at his table. When they had all sat, Tom spoke up:

    "I had always wondered about the dreams of the past, present and future. How did you come up with that?"

    Charles shrugged. "Can't really say. I was thinking about an old miser down the way who was all alone. I always wondered how it could have been different for him. Kind of like some of your characters."

    Harry took that as a compliment. They were kindred souls. And now in the after hours, it looks as if he may have another story to tell after all.

  4. @MadlabPost

    Ok, so this weekend writercize was pretty hard. After going through several pairings with different people, I realized that many of my setups would be too much for the PG-13 limitation because the people are kind of raunchy. So, without further ado...here is my family-friendly entry:

    The cold winter air becomes a distant memory to several caffiene fulled mothers, mingling inside Trump Plaza hotel's Penthouse Suite. Amy Chua finishes her cup of tea seconds before the casting director for CBS's one-hour special 'Education Reform: A Roundtable with Obama' welcomes audition number 44 into a separate room. Having the 53th place in line to meet with the show's producers makes Amy wonder if she can still beat the afternoon rush and avoid a parking ticket. Disappointment settles in as Amy beats herself up for not being the first woman in line at the hotel this morning. She becomes further aggavated after noticing Jada Pinkett-Smith sitting only a few seats away.....with a visitor badge that says No. 45.

    Maybe this is a blessing in disguise, Amy thinks. She graciously puts her tea cup in the kitchen approaches Jada with her master plan. Amy wastes no time in cutting to the chase. "Excuse me, may we trade badges? I have an important speech to deliver this afternoon at Harvard University and do not want to be late." Jada sympathizes with Amy's circumstances but refuses to honor her request. "I understand but my daughter's recording studio session is this afternoon as well and I need to make sure she get's there on time before helping my son go over his lines for a role on 'One Life to Live' so I'm sorry but I'll stick with my badge."

    The heated suite is no match for the fire fueling Amy, who has become furious by Jada's response. "Are you serious? You call THOSE plans, important? I'm helping to mold the future leaders of America and you....you're teaching children to value pure junk and call it 'entertainment', as if the country doesn't have enough of it already." Jada defends her position. "Don't you dare make this about me or my kids. They are happy and more than capable of delivering value to the world through their individual talents. Jaden's last movie grossed over $300 million and got him a Kid's Choice Award" Amy is appalled. "Talent? Give me a break. A Kid's Choice Award does not give you a right to try and steer the direction of Education for millions of Americans. You shouldn't even be here. The last time I checked, The Kid's Choice Awards are no Oscars!"

    The casting director calls "Number 45" before Jada can respond to Amy. Jada picks up her purse and follows the casting director into the next room but not before attempting to make peace with Amy. "Good luck!" Jada says. A confident Amy dismisses Jada's friendly gesture. "I don't need luck. I have enough real skills and experience to make my own!"

  5. @AuroraLee

    X-Files/Buffy Mashup
    The petite red head's eyebrow arched almost all the way to her hairline. "Excuse me?"

    Her blond companion huffed and rolled her eyes before repeating herself. "I'm Buffy. The Vampire Slayer." She waited expectantly but FBI Special Agent Dana Scully still seemed just as clueless as she had when they'd met each other in the dark alley. Scully had been chasing a 'suspect'; Buffy had been toying with the vampire. Well, until the other woman had interrupted her fun. "Oh please. You had to have heard of me. Don't you guys, like, investigate all this hellmouthy stuff?"


    "Doesn't Fox tell you anything?"

    Scully was too shocked that this stranger knew her partner's name – and actually called him 'Fox' – that she could not form an entire sentence. "Ms. Summers, I—"

    "Ew. Buffy. Really. No need for all that formal stuff with me. And can you maybe point that thing somewhere else? I really hate guns."

    Scully blinked once and then looked down at her hands to find them instinctively training her service weapon on the younger woman. She hesitated for a moment but finally holstered it, though she kept her hand on it. If nothing else, the act seemed to bring her voice back.

    "Ms. Summers – Buffy – there's no such thing as vampires. In my work with Mulder I've determined that what we perceive as vampires is simply—"

    "Oh, I perceive vampires all right. I'm very perceivey. Right up until they meet Mr. Pointy. Then I perceive them go poof. They're real and I'm real, even if I wish I was unreal most of the time… or something. Yep, look up 'slayer' in the dictionary and you'll see my picture." Scully raised her eyebrow again. "Okay, well maybe not in the dictionary, but definitely on Wikipedia – or was that Wiccanpedia? I can't remember what Willow said."

    Before Scully could say anything, she heard another voice and it made her jump. She hadn't even heard his footsteps.

    "There you are Scully! Did you get him? Oh hey, you met Buffy!"

  6. Taylor Swift is sitting in the green room, waiting for her guest appearance on Jay Leno. She’s looking prim, if not chaste in an ivory-colored confection with long, lacy sleeves, a high neck, and a full-length skirt, recalling the spirit of the Kansas homestead. It’s the sort of getup that treads a fine line between sincerity and irony, between too-literal costume and clever fashion reference. You could almost say typical Taylor, a girl with a special sort of moxie to wear it without looking like Melissa Sue Anderson from Little House on the Prairie.

    Opposite her sits Rooney Mara, you know the chick who played Lizabeth Salander, from Stieg Larsson’s award winning Millenium series. She’s in black, from head to toe, her Miu Miu nosebleed boots making her look like she was born with these appendages, a smooth line from her bandy legs in skin tight leather pants all the way to the floor.
    Taylor smiles, a dazzling sincere toothy welcome that makes her eyes crinkle. “I’m so nervous,” she says. “I know, I shouldn’t be, I mean this is like my hundredth show, but I can’t help it.” She leans forward invitingly.

    Rooney crosses her leather legs, lowers her head and levels a gaze at Taylor, her black eyeliner making her look dangerous. A deadpan stare, like why are you talking to me? Either she’s in character, Lizabeth, the much maligned butt-kicking man-hating heroine, or she’s hating this blond goddess.

    “Um, I really loved your movie, I so admire the courage of the character you played, the way you nailed it.”

    Rooney just stares at her. You get the feeling she’d love a cigarette. Or is it her Lizabeth character would’d love a cigarette?

    “You uh, I’d love to do something like . . .” Taylor tails off and sits back.

    A woman with a clipboard bustles into the room and smiles at Rooney. “Are you ready?”

    Rooney rises to her feet, totters for a moment on her impossible heels then leans over and with both hands reaches for Taylor’s hand. Her bullet eyes melt and she looks like she might cry. “I just love your moxie.”

  7. See who won here: http://writercize.blogspot.com/2012/01/weekendwritercize-2-winner-catherine.html

    Thanks to everyone for playing!


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