 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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