Anyone can join, with a 50-word vignette in the comments. Your vignette does not have to include the prompt term.
"A glove," said Corridon, with intensity, making her blink, and snatched it up with fervor. "A right glove."
"And all we need to do is find its mate," whispered Artos.
Halley opened her mouth and shut it again. It was embroidered, which had to be by hand and not machine.
He perched in the rocky niche, his narrowed eyes peering from his wrinkled face, his hair and beard sparse and tangled, both the color of dishwater. "Super. Ha. You are no more super than the most powerless mortal. Like them, you long only for food, wealth, a mate, fame, glory."