This week on Romance Writers Weekly – it's Flash Fiction Challenge time! If you joined me from CL Marcolini, welcome! Flash fiction is when you are presented with a scenario and simply sit down and write, as quickly as you can, whatever comes to mind. It's a great way to get the creative juices going. Here's the scenario we've been given this week: Your character just washed up on the shore of a deserted tropical island. How did they get there? What happens next? Here's my contribution: Be careful what you wish for, Amanda thought as she lay, panting, on the white sand beach. Waves lapped around her hips. She'd barely had enough energy to crawl this far. Any further exploration of this tiny island was going to have to wait until she'd recovered from her desperate swim. All she'd wanted to do was flee the mayhem that was a Mexican resort during Spring Break. Crowded with sun-burned tourists, iPhone addicted twenty-somethings and wedding-party tensions, it had been far from the peaceful, serene setting she'd seen in the brochure. Day One hadn't been that bad. She'd been so happy to escape the Northern British Columbian winter, still dragging on with sleet and snow, that she'd actually smiled--smiled—at the chaos around her. By the end of Day Two, the novelty had worn off, and only the flirtatious greeting of the magazine-handsome lifeguard had kept it from being a total write off. Day Three, despite seeking out a sun chair as far away from the half-hysterical games organizers and popular poolside as she could get, she'd begun regretting her choice of resort. She'd noticed the island the first day, of course. It floated on the surface of the cerulean water, sometimes seeming so close she could touch it. In three days of watching, she had yet to see one person set foot on it. It was the island of her dreams, and she wasn't going to waste another day of her vacation staring longingly at it. Sucking back the last of her Pina Colada (her new favourite breakfast drink) she strode determinedly into the water. She wasn't an Olympic-level swimmer, but considered herself competent in the water. If she took it easy, there should be no reason she couldn't get to the island in a few minutes. The water was calm, low, rolling swells lifting her gently up and down as she settled into a smooth breaststroke. The first few minutes were lovely. The insistently cheerful dance music blaring from the loudspeakers by the pool faded away, and all she could hear was the swish of the water slipping past her shoulders. It was pure bliss. The odd thing was, though, that the island didn't seem to be getting any closer. From shore, it had looked barely two or three hundred metres out. But she'd been swimming for long enough that her muscles were started to feel it and she was nowhere near stepping on its isolated shores. She stopped for a moment to tread water and look behind her. Well, I have to be getting somewhere. The hotel is definitely father away. With renewed determination she set out again. The island slowly grew larger, and the hotel smaller. Now she was past the point of no return. She had no choice but keep on going. She began to serious wonder if she might drown. Wouldn't that be ironic, she thought wildly, if I die because I wanted to be alone for a few minutes. The island was finally close enough she attempted to touch bottom. No luck. She relaxed only for an instant and her head dipped beneath the waves. Sputtering, she broke through and struggled on, her movements uncoordinated and thick. When she next attempted to touch bottom, she could feel the sand brush under her toes, but couldn't support herself. A few more thrashing strokes and she'd knew she'd live. But by then she was so exhausted the easy pull of the waves as they rolled back from shore knocked her to her knees, and she crawled the last few feet until she was safe. She rolled to her back and stared up at the cloudless sky. Well, that was one of the stupidest things you've ever done. And how the hell am I going to get back? The roar of a jet ski intruded into her self-recrimination. Raising herself on her elbows, she saw one of the resorts machines flying towards her. Standing at the controls was the sexy lifeguard, bronzed skin gleaming with spray, inky-black hair whipping about his head, white teeth gleaming. Perfect, Amanda thought. I think I'd rather drown. I'd love to hear what you think about my story! Be sure to leave a comment, and then hop over to A.S. Fenichel http://asfenichel.com/blog and see what she's dreamt up for you!
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This week on Romance Writers Weekly, enjoy some Flash Fiction! For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it's a writing exercise where you are given a prompt of some kind and need to write as quickly as you can, without really thinking about it, and just see what happens. This prompt was set by A. S. Fenichel:
This week on Romance Writers Weekly, S. C. Mitchell has set us a Flash Fiction Challenge: Give us a romantic scene to set the mood for Valentines Day. Before I give you my scene, I have to confess something. Mr. C and I don't "do" Valentine's Day. We don't exchange cards or give gifts or go out for dinner. It's something we decided a long time ago in our marriage, and it works for us. But that's not to say we aren't romantic at other times of the year. As our kids get older and leave home, it's actually easier to find time for romance, for connecting with each other again. We love camping, and while times at the lake with the children are some of our best family memories, there is something to be said for the two of us heading off on our own. That being said, what I've written below isn't really fiction. We've had days like these. But here's my scene: We spend the day in our boat, puttering around to different bays and backwaters, anchoring when we feel like it to take a swim in the clear, peat-coloured waters. The sun warms my skin with a gentle caress, and the rocking motion caused as other boaters skim by us is soothing. In the prow of our boat is a wide bench and I lay there, pretending to read but really just soaking in the view, the serenity, the very air. When the sun begins its descent behind the mountains, my husband steers us back to the dock. It's a short walk to our trailer, set up in a clearing among the trees. On our way we pass other campers—a group of young men in tents, harried parents with young children drunk on freedom, a rental motorhome with its tourists shut up tight behind closed doors. The steaks have been marinating all day. I slice onions, green peppers and mushrooms and wrap potatoes in aluminum foil. My husband gets the fire going and pours us each a glass of wine. We're in absolutely no hurry, even though we are both starving after our day in the fresh air. When the potatoes are just right, he fries up the vegetables, then slides the steaks onto the grill over the dancing flames. The sizzle and snap makes my mouth water. We eat off plates on our knees sitting beside the fire, with a second glass of wine to complement the meal. The light is finally starting to fade on this long summer's night. We will clear up our dinner together, play a few games of crib, and then snuggle together in our comfortable bed. It may not be lobster and roses, champagne and candlelight. But to me, time like this, time spent together with no distractions, no interruptions, in conversation or in silence, is the most romantic of all. I love to hear what you think of my little scene above. Are you a outdoorsy person? Or would you prefer a more urban experience? Let me know. And then, be sure to hope on to A.S. Fenichel whose next on the blog hop! It's time for Flash Fiction on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop!
Marc Stevens has set the challenge: Planes, trains, and automobiles (or even boats)—give us a quick scene set on/in a moving vehicle. If you joined me from A.S. Fenichel's blog, welcome! Well, this is really a wide open writing prompt. Sexy, funny, sad – what should I write? (Please pause for a moment here as I ponder where to start). Okay—here goes! Her paddle dipped into the stillness of the water, spreading ripples out and out and out. Drops flicked off the blade as she brought it forward, the wet wood catching the dawning light in crystalline flashes. The water beneath her was a rich, peaty brown, about ten feet deep but so clear she could see the pebbled bottom of the lake. A kingfisher darted by, rising and falling in its distinctive flight. It landed on the dead branch of a willow overhanging the shoreline, and she saw the silvery flash of the minnow struggling in its beak. The chill breeze nipped at her fingers like a playful puppy. The tips of her ears felt the coming autumn, too, and she made a note to wear a toque tomorrow. The changing of the seasons wasn't only evident in the wind—the poplar and aspen and birch were all sporting yellow and orange leaves amid the stubborn green. It wouldn't be long before she'd have to break through a thin layer of ice at the water's edge before she launched her canoe in the morning. And not long after that the water would close up completely, and she'd have to take the long hike around the lake to get her supplies until the ice was safe enough to travel across. She rounded the point and saw her destination ahead of her. Squat and compact, the cabin had stood for decades, used by a succession of city-dwellers as a rough and rustic weekend hideaway. It no longer stood empty for days on end, not since she'd bought it. Now it was her retreat, her refuge. Her paddled dipped again into the silent water, each motion bringing her closer to home. I'd love to hear what you think! Be sure to leave a comment, then hop on over to Lyra Parish and she what she was inspired to write. This week's blog topic comes from A.S. Fenichel:
If you live in the U.S., how did you spend July 4? Tell us about your Independence Day weekend. Now make up a story about how you wish you'd spent it. It can be as long or as short as you want, but make us wish we'd been there too. If you've joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome! I hope you enjoyed her story. As a proud Canadian, I've taken license with Andrea's topic, and switched it to July 1, which is Canada Day. After all, both holidays are on the same weekend! I actually spent the day quietly. I went golfing in the morning with my husband and my Mom and Dad. The weather was rainy to start but cleared up for most of the day – until dinner time, of course, when we decided to have a barbeque and it poured while we were cooking. Lucky we have a covered patio! Then we listened to the fireworks from a nearby park that night. The second part of Andrea's challenge is to write a story about how I wished I'd spent the day. This is tricky because I really enjoyed my day exactly as it was. But here's a short imagined memory of what it could have been… The park is filled with people of all shapes and sizes, ages and attitudes, colours and creeds. The scent of souvlaki, curry, bacon and candy floss fills my nose. A small hand grabs mine. "Can I have a snowcone? I want a purple one!" I look down at my daughter. "It's not exactly snowcone weather, is it?" The July long weekend in Northern BC is often cool and rainy, and today it's holding true to form. We're wearing shorts but have windbreakers over our shirts to block the chilly breeze. "I'm not cold. Can I?" "Sure." We head for the snowcone cart. On our way we pass a booth where a tiny, pale skinned girl with blonde eyelashes and rose petal cheeks sits patiently while a member of the Sikh community wraps a bright pink turban over her sunshine hair. In another an informal Taekwondo lesson rings with gleeful laughter and happy shouts. The sun sets late this far north, and my daughter's eyes are already drooping with fatigue by the time it's dark enough for the fireworks. I cuddle her in my lap as we sit on the blanket spread onto the fresh grass, leaning back on my hands so we can watch the kaleidoscope of colours sparkling and bursting across the sky. I'd love to hear what you think. Leave a comment below! My fellow Canadian (although she's leaving in California now!) Jenna Da Sie is up next. I wonder what she wrote about? Check it out here! Today on the Romance Writers Weekly blog hop, Tracey Gee challenged us to write a Flash Fiction. No set length, but we must include the following: Kevlar, elbow(s), pinking shears, and a copy of The Great Gatsby. For bonus points, we're supposed to intro it with a haiku or limerick (as you can tell, I skipped that part). What did you think of Leslie Hachtel's post this week? If you missed it, be sure to hop all around the blog to get to her! Okay, here goes my contribution: Christine sat surrounded by shreds of paper. If she'd been in a better mood, she might have likened it to snowflakes or flower petals. But at this moment, it reminded her more of shrapnel from a road-side bomb. A Kevlar vest might have protected her from that, while nothing was stopping the static-y bits and pieces from adhering to her sweater, her jeans, her hair and even her elbows. I'd love to hear what you think! Let me know in the comments. then be sure to hop on forward to Dani Jace and see what she's done!
This week we are small but mighty group, carrying on the Romance Writers Weekly traditional Tuesday hop! Fiona Riplee set this challeng: Your setting: woods, 3 AM. Write a Flash Fiction of 500 words or less that includes the words bubbles, mindful, and deep. If you joined me from Tracey Gee - wasn’t that interesting? Here’s my take: She loved camping. Love the solitude, the silence of the woods, the snap of a campfire, the utter restfulness of disconnecting from a wired world. What do you think? I loved to read your comments. Then be sure to move on to Carolyn Spear as she’s next on the hop!
We here at RWW love flash fiction! This week, Fiona Riplee has set the following challenge: Write a flash fiction of 250 words or less about a long lost love. Include the words: hammer, chisel, and coping saw. If you joined me from Dani Jace welcome! Before I could get started, I had to look up what the hell a coping saw was. After that – this is what you get! I’d love to hear your comments. And don’t forget to hop on over to Raine Balkera to get her take on this challenge!
Fiona Riplee is the instigator for this week’s blog. Her challenge: Write a Flash Fiction that's 500 words or less with the following items: an empty parking lot, an abandoned SUV & a chihuahua sitting in the driver's seat. What did you think of Leslie Hachtel's contribution? I’d love to hear what you think of mine. I might have cheated a bit (it's longer than 500 words) but I got on a roll. Be sure to leave a comment! Naomi hated dogs. She knew that made her a bad, bad person in the eyes of many people, but it was the truth. She didn’t mind puppies, in the way she didn’t mind babies – to admire from a far, with a bone deep gladness they weren’t her responsibility. And a well-trained, quiet dog walking with its owner on a leash – she could handle that kind of dog, too. Now it’s on to Veronica Forand to see what she’s come up with. Have fun!
In the spirit of the season, Jo Richardson has challenged us to tell her a spooky story – real or not real, doesn’t matter, in 300 words or less. If you joined me from Gemma Brocato, welcome. (And if you thought what she wrote today was scary, make sure you come back tomorrow. Gemma will be visiting my blog and talking about all the things she didn't know about being a published author. It will make your blood run cold! And then on Thursday, you can have a chance to win a copy of my book Chef d'Amour, on Gemma's site!)
I have to admit, I'm a wimp when it comes to scary stuff. I don't like horror movies, need to read spooky stories with all the lights on, and in general don't enjoy being frightened. I can still remember having to read “The Cask of Amontillado” for school and being petrified. So this was something of a challenge for me. But let's give it a go... We moved to Elm Street a couple weeks before Halloween. I fully intended to spend the night reading in my room. My mother had other plans. “You can use this.” She pulled a frilly yellow dress out of a cardboard box—one of the many in the basement waiting to be unpacked. “I don't want to.” At ten, I was too old to be a princesses. “I won't have you moping in your room all evening.” She flicked out the material, spangles and sparkles glittering. Before I knew it, I was out the door, clutching a pillowcase. “Have fun!” my mother carolled from the porch. I stood on the sidewalk, humiliated and angry. Groups of kids swirled past me as if I wasn't there, laughing and talking like the best friends they were. I had never felt so alone. “Do you want to trick-or-treat with me?” Standing next to me was a girl my age. Her costume was simple—an old-fashioned, high waisted dress, her hair done in ringlets. She carried a basket. I thought she might be Little Bo-Peep. “Me?” “Who else, silly?” She smiled, a dimple denting her cheek. “Let's start there.” She headed for the house next door. We laughed and talked our way from house to house. By the time we circled the block, I was thrilled, excited—happy for the first time since we'd moved. “I had fun tonight. Goodbye.” She skipped away, disappearing into the dark at the end of the street. My mother greeted me at the door. “So, how was it?” “Okay, I guess,” I answered grudgingly. “I met a girl.” “Oh, sweetie, don't worry.” Mom hugged me tight. “You'll make new friends soon. You don't have to make things up to try and feel better.” “I'm not making things up.” I pushed out of her embrace. “We did the whole block together.” My mother shook her head. “I was watching you. You walked around the block. But you were alone the whole time.” Want more chills and thrills? Head to Fiona Riplee next! And remember, come back tomorrow to find out more about Gemma Brocato's new release, Exposed to Passion! |