GenCon was amazing! (For those who don't know, GenCon is a gaming conference - board games, RPGs, deck building games, a few video games even, and all the geek merchandise to go with it (not to mention cosplay) - which also has a Writing Symposium.) I spent the last few days learning from Pat Rothfuss, Terry Brooks, Erin M. Evans, Dan Wells, Howard Taylor, Kameron Hurley, Elizabeth Bear, Sam Sykes, Chuck Wendig, Tracy Hickman, Scott Lynch, Michael R. Underwood, Maxwell Alexander Drake, Dylan Birtolo, Jaym Gates, and SO MANY MORE!!! Plus, I got to play some games that were so fun (Mysterium and Barony are both coming out soon from Asmodee and Caverna from Mayfair were all really fun!)
Anyway, my brain is full and I have some editing to do, and you don't want to hear me rambling on about my weekend anyway, so go check out this week's prompt and write something amazing!
If you haven't read the full version of the rules, go here. Otherwise, here's the short version:
Rules:
1. Start with the given first sentence.
2. Up to 500 words
3. Keep it clean (nothing rated R or above)
4. Optional Special Challenge
5. Stories submitted must be your own work, using characters and worlds that you have created. Sorry, no fanfiction.
6. Include: Twitter/email, word count, Special Challenge accepted
7. The challenge is open for 24 hours on Tuesday EST
Oh, and feel free to change pronouns, punctuation, tense, and anything in brackets to fit the story/pov/tone. I'm not going to be TOO picky... Our judge however...
Our Judge today is Audrey Weinberg. Read her winning tale from last week here! Find her on twitter here. Audrey (Gran) Weinberg was born in Los Angeles just a few months before JFK was shot, but she swears she didn't do it. After years of living in different countries, and having experienced both much love and great loss, Audrey is now gratefully leading a "pretty mundane existence" with her sweet boyfriend and 2 pretty amazing teenage children just outside of Amsterdam.
Audrey has published 2 short stories and is currently figuring out how to edit her first novel. She co-authors the Studyleaks blog (studyleaks.blogspot.nl) together with a group of her students under the pen name 'Study Leaks Amsterdam.'
Your first sentence for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #3-5 is:
He watched with [bated breath] as she took the first [bite].
Your SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge is:
Include an ingredient you've never cooked with before as well as a garden tool!
AAAAAAAND WE'RE OFF!!!
Inheritance
ReplyDelete@MadilynQuinn
Words: 384
Challenge: accepted
He watched with anxiety plaguing him as she took the first bite. Her ivory-tinged lips pulled into a faint smile and her eyes closed. The delight was clear as she swallowed a mouthful of the roasted duck.
Despite the situation, he couldn’t help but notice how similar the Queen’s expression was to her daughter’s. He clasped his sweaty hands behind his back, waiting. He needed to get out of the room, but hadn’t yet been dismissed.
The Queen cut and ate dainty slices.
Hopefully, she’d be dead soon.
Nudging the shreds of truffle to the side of the plate, she started in on the potatoes and gave her handmaiden a nod who in turn gave him a nod.
Dismissed, finally.
As calm as he as manageable, he slipped from the room. Light poured into the grand hallway from the right hand windows and he gave a duo of noble girls a nod that was replied with giggles. He fumbled the antidote out from an inner pocket of his jacket once they passed and swallowed the bitter mixture down. The panicked thoughts tearing through his head slowed.
A bounce to his step, he headed to their usual spot.
Evening light glistened off the just watered garden. Trees towered up, forming a maze. He knew which paths to take and let out a sigh as the soft floral scents caressed him. At the middle of the maze, seated on a stone bench, Princess Lynne waited.
The sunset made her hair glow like fire and she sent him an expectant look. “Is it done?”
A tremor went through him at the sound of her voice and he nodded. “It is.” He wondered how it will feel to be king – to love her openly.
Lynne stood and wrapped him in a hug. She’s warm against him and he felt the hard metal of the ring, he spent weeks crafting in secret, hanging between her breasts.
Soon, the Queen would be dead and they would wed.
A bell disrupted their quiet moment, tolling furiously.
He detached, heart galloping, and turned toward the castle just visible through the tree’s canopy. “Should I go?”
“Yes, you should.”
There was something off about her voice and he turned, greeted with the sharp sting of a spade swung with force at his face.
I accidentally submitted my unedited version! Do you mind deleting it so I can repost??
DeleteHi Madlyn! Just post your new one and write "edited version" and I'll disregard the other one :)
DeleteOk, thank you! It's just minor changes, but enough to bother me :(
Delete@OpheliaLeong
ReplyDeleteWord count: 496
Special Challenge Accepted! :)
Persimmon Pie
He watched with anticipation as she took the first bite. Abigail fought the urge to wince; the tabasco sauce she had given him had been much too strong. Thank goodness he didn’t know that; she’d told him it was strawberry syrup. She finished the bite smoothly, and took a lengthy drink of water.
“So, how was it? Did it taste alright?”
Abigail looked up from her glass. Mark’s tall frame filled her cozy kitchen and he had to keep his head low in case he bumped into her hanging herb garden. His green eyes were filled with anxiety. Abigail moved slowly, like a praying mantis in a garden, hoping to keep his gaze fixed on her.
“I thought the persimmons were soft and the crust was cooked perfectly; it literally melted on my tongue. But…” she drew the word out like a string of taffy.
Mark’s shoulders slumped. “What this time?”
She pointed to the seemingly innocuous pie that lay on the counter. “There is something spicy about this pie. Maybe one of those persimmons was bad or a pepper found its way inside. Seriously, my mouth was on fire.”
“I worked so hard on this one,” Mark answered dejectedly, slouching close to Abigail. She reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling his strong muscles under her fingers.
“You are so close, Mark. This pie will be perfect for your mother’s birthday party, just as soon as you get it right. I must say, I loved that crust.”
“Do you really think one of the persimmons I used was bad? Persimmons are her favorite, and since it’s her birthday…”
“Don’t worry. If it was, then you’ve used it up and can go get more. Before you go, let me get you something else that’ll be sure to make your next pie the one.”
“Wow, Abigail, thank you so much for being so helpful. You’re the best neighbor I’ve ever had,” Mark said as he smiled at her, unleashing his dimples.
Abigail leaned into his side. “Of course, anything for you, Mark. Be sure to bring it over here so I can taste it when it’s done.”
“You bet!” he exclaimed. He took the pie from the counter and went over to the door. Abigail looked up; the skylight was warming up her herbs. She pulled the rope pulley and the herbs came down from where they were hanging. Grabbing a pair of pink herb snippers, she cut off a sprig of dill and tied a ribbon around it. After hoisting the herbs back up, she handed the dill to Mark, looking deeply into his green eyes.
“Here is a sweet herb that will tie all the flavors of that pie together. If it doesn’t work, I can give you something else.”
“Gee Abigail, you’ve been sharing so much with me and helping me with this cooking thing. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime neighbor,” Abigail replied, smiling suggestively. “I’m always here for you.”
What's For Dinner?
ReplyDelete498 words, challenge accepted
@ParkInkSpot (Dave)
And 'comment as' is being wonky, pardon if I'm posting 15 times or something.
---------------------
"What's For Dinner?"
Word Count: 498
Special Challenge Accepted
@parkinkspot (Dave)
--------
He watched with anxiety as she took the first nibble. When nothing usual happened, he felt much of the tension draining away.
“Tastes better than I thought it would,” she eventually responded. “No unusual urges, no fangs or blood lust. Sorry Dave, don’t think your theory holds up.”
***
“The creature slumps on the hilltop, hunched over like it’s suffering a degenerative spinal condition. Maybe it is, given the condition of the rest of the body. It turns to sniff the breeze, and those yellow pulsing orbs lock with my eyes. Its upper lip curls and it growls aggressively at me through bared fangs dripping gore. Antlers tilt back, nose raised to the sky, it howls a hunter’s fury and gallops down the hill toward me.
“The forelimbs are twice as long as its hind legs and they end in massive rending claws. The rotting flesh of its barrel chest exposes internal organs. The hind legs are deer-like, knee bending backwards, ending not in hooves but in almost human feet covered in pitch-dark fur.
“This twisted, distorted zombie-elk-thing is galloping down the hill at enormous speed. It leaps in the air, I cover my eyes, and I wake up screaming in terror. Worst of all, I awaken with an unnatural hunger, an insatiable desire that must be fulfilled.”
Rebecca leaned back, letting Dave’s breathing calm and return to normal before flipping on the desk lamp.
“What sort of hunger, Dave?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“It seems to be at the center of this dream that’s haunting you.”
“It’s taboo. And it’s illegal.”
“What is?”
Dave said nothing, and just clenched his jaw. Rebecca tried another angle.
“You say this thing in your dream has a name, Dave? What’s it called?”
Dave murmured something, too low to hear.
“What?”
“It’s a Wendigo damn it!”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what that is.”
Dave talked to the carpet. “Wendigo. It’s an Algonquin curse, a half-beast creature. A malevolent spirit possesses a specific type of person and causes a physical transformation. It’s always a guilty person, the very worst sort of criminal.”
Rebecca scrawled a note on her pad, giving Dave time to work up to it.
“Wendigoes only possess cannibals”
***
“Here we are, Dave. I’ve shared dinner with you, and you can see no one is transforming into a malevolent creature. No insatiable hunger, no desire to run Mr. Simon upstairs through a wood chipper, right?”
“Guess not.”
“The Wendigo psychosis is a myth. There aren’t any cannibalistic nightmares roaming the back woods, and you don’t need to feel guilty about whatever you had for dinner last week. Human flesh was just what you were expecting, not any part of the actual dishes. You aren’t a cannibal or any mythic demon-monster. You’re just Dave.”
After seeing Dave off for the evening, Rebecca looked in the mirror, and saw the shadow of antlers.
“Maybe you were onto something,” she growled. “Now, about tasty Mr. Simon…”
Choices
ReplyDelete500 words
@CharlesWShort
Challenge accepted
He watched with desperate fear as she took the first step.
They had been hearing the gunfire and explosions for about an hour. At first they wondered what it could be, but not expecting the spreading catastrophe, they returned to their dinner preparations.
He was trying a new recipe with kosher beef and lentils. It would cook slowly, but that would just give them more time to talk. He could impress her with his studies.
Yet the normal quiet of night never returned, and the ruckus grew closer. Watching from the fire escape they could see flames dotting the cityscape. The city streets were birthing a holocaust, and the pangs were intensifying, drawing closer.
They called down to the street level to ask what was going on. The report shouted back up shattered their dreams. Houses of worship, places of prayer, were being burned by angry crowds. They knew public sentiment had grown bitter, but they hadn’t expected this wave of violence to sweep through the streets and lives.
He didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t know what to do. Surely she must feel like her whole world was collapsing. She must want to run home to see if her parents and siblings were safe.
She would be running into the battle. He wanted to protect her.
Her indomitable spirit would never hide from the fight. He knew this, and her eyes confirmed it.
Neither of them could find words to speak. Two hearts had dreamed of a shared faith, a family together, and a future. Now silently each realized their dreams were burning, fueled by public hate and misunderstanding.
History repeats itself, he thought, it happened in the ancient world when Caesars felt threatened by faith. It happened in Germany on November 9, 1938. More recently it happened all across the Middle East as a war of forced conversions swept away all opposing views. These were the events that tested the reality of what you say you believe.
She took another step backward towards the door. He reached out for her instinctively, but she didn’t respond, she turned and ran out the door.
He had never felt so helpless. He had never felt so small. He could guess that fires were killing hundreds maybe thousands. He knew that bullets are not redirected by truth or good intentions. But mostly he felt small because he was still there while she had gone.
It had happened before, of course it would happen again. Why did everyone assume we were saqfe?
He remembered the stove and turned it off.
He wanted to protect her. But she had gone, and he had stayed. He felt so small.
He had no weapon, he was ill equipped to be her protector. Still, it was the moment to make a choice.
He took off in a sprint, caught up with her, and took her by the hand to lead her home. Whatever happened to her, it would have to happen to him too.
He watched with barely disguised contempt as she took the first dose of poison. They were all going to do it, each of them. But he would hold out the longest. Not because of hope. Because he was stubborn. He’d decide when it was his turn to die. If the rest of the sheep wanted to get it out of the way, good riddance.
ReplyDeleteMolly’s death was painful, as they all knew it would be. She embarrassed herself with her crying and wailing and the final betrayal of her body’s decency. He wouldn’t let the rest of them see him like that. Not him.
Sam went next, because Sam always went second. He never did anything scary or hard first, but that just made him a coward. He tried to take an extra-large dose, hoping it would kill him quicker, but the system wouldn’t let him. His death was more pathetic than Molly’s, and he cried the entire time.
Then Tammy. Then Allison. Then Kyle. Kyle was more stoic than the rest, but everyone knew he would be. He’d once dropped a sledgehammer on his toe and only muttered curses under his breath. He didn’t even cry when they cut the darned thing off.
And then at last there was one. He looked at his dead colleagues? Comrades? Companions? Not friends – he held them too far in contempt. Collateral damage. That was the better term. He looked at his collateral damage and spat. First on Molly. Then Tammy, just to anger Sam in the afterlife, if there was one. Kyle he kicked until his body made a sound like a scream. Allison he ignored, like he always had.
Then he took his poison and died too. There was no record of how he died. Just the way he wanted it.
300 words
@drmagoo
Freedom from Food
ReplyDelete@talithaarise
Word Count: 438
Special Challenge: Accepted
I watched with baited breath as he took the first bite. I could count my heartbeats as he rolled it on his tongue, looked into my tense eyes, and smiled.
“I like it, babe.”
A sigh exploded from my lips as a smile crept up my face. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think you should use this one.”
Finally. I’d been toying with food blogging for months, but after Tom’s surgery, things were really tight. It had been hard to get the ingredients I needed to have something more than baked chicken and crispy rice treats as my main events. And while I had no personal vendetta against such fare, I was fearfully aware of the thousands of competitors each recipe would have. So I started foraging to supplement our garden offerings in the hopes that I could create that angle that would have people begging for my entries. At least once a week, I traipsed out with my trowel, shears, and colander, looking for exotic ingredients.
Most recipes had been a bust. The wild carrot and kohlrabi au gratin was stronger than titanium. The poor cheese was taken hostage by the powerful flavor of our garden’s alien plant.
Then, I’d harvested the dandelion leaves too late, and my dandelion, beet and wild cherry salad was like to smack your momma from across the room.
My chestnut and sumac stuffing was close, but drying and grinding the sumac was such a pain in the hindquarters that I decided it wasn’t worth the effort to try to perfect.
But this. I’d been avoiding Chicken of the Woods for months, terrified that I might poison the world by choosing the wrong fungus friend. But we were running out of savings and my minimum wage job wasn’t exactly gourmand construction material. So, triple-checking my facts, I scrounged the woods to make this dish.
And it worked. I nearly cried. Every day my job became harder to bear. Screaming adults and violent children invaded my heart and my imagination, sucking every positive thought through their vortexes and spitting it out shattered. Week after week, I barely trudged out of the white dungeon to enter the forest where freedom fantasies collided with foodie dreams. It was hard work, and most people laughed at my efforts. There were days when I believed I’d never see the end of that long white hallway.
Tom’s voice carried over my reverie. “It’ll still take time, babe. You’ve gotta have advertisers. And you’ll probably need to bake some real chicken.”
“Yeah, I know.” A deep breath and a barely contained smile danced around my nodding head. “But it’s a start.”
So, it's probably too late to do this, but I should have mentioned that I've never cooked with wild carrots, wild cherries, chestnuts OR chicken of the woods. :)
Delete"edited version"
ReplyDeleteInheritance
@MadilynQuinn
Words: 384
Challenge: accepted
He watched with anxiety plaguing him as she took the first bite. Her ivory-tinged lips pulled into a faint smile and her eyes closed. The delight was clear as she swallowed a mouthful of the roasted duck.
Despite the situation, he couldn’t help but notice how similar the Queen’s expression was to her daughter’s. He clasped his sweaty hands behind his back, waiting. He needed to get out of the room, but hadn’t yet been dismissed.
The Queen cut and ate dainty slices.
The hope is that she’ll soon be dead.
Nudging the shreds of truffle to the side of the plate, she started in on the potatoes and gave her handmaiden a nod who in turn gave him a nod.
Dismissed, finally.
As calm as he manageable, he slipped from the room. Light poured into the grand hallway from the right hand windows and he gave a duo of noble girls a nod that was replied with giggles. He fumbled the antidote out from an inner pocket of his jacket once they passed and swallowed the bitter mixture. The panicked thoughts tearing through his head slowed.
A bounce to his step, he headed to their usual spot.
Evening light glistened off the just watered garden. Trees towered up, forming a maze. He knew which paths to take and let out a sigh as the soft floral scents caressed him. At the middle of the maze, seated on a stone bench, Princess Lynne waited.
The sunset made her hair glow like fire and she sent him an expectant look. “Is it done?”
A tremor went through him at the sound of her voice and he nodded. “It is.” He wondered how it will feel to be king – to love her as open as he wished.
Lynne stood and wrapped him in a hug. She’s warm against him and he felt the hard metal of the ring, he spent weeks crafting in secret, hanging between her breasts.
Soon, the Queen would be dead and they would wed.
A bell disrupted their quiet moment, tolling cracking through the dusk.
He detached, heart galloping, and turned toward the castle just visible through the tree’s canopy. “Should I go?”
“Yes, you should.”
Something off about her voice made him turn and he was greeted with the sharp sting of a spade swung with force at his face.
"Usually the Arsenic Works"
ReplyDelete@patrickjstahl
489 words
Special Challenge Accepted
He watched with bated breath as she took the first bite. His heart went cold when she took a second.
“Did you really think that would work?” Molly asked. She smiled up at him, her red-brown eyes locking into his.
Jim shivered. “Think what would work, honey?” He thumbed at the loaded pistol at his belt.
“I really hope you have a back-up plan.” Molly finished her cookie. “Or would you rather I just forgot this happened?” She put one hand on Jim’s shoulder. He squirmed as the skin sizzled beneath his blue oxford shirt.
“What are you?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
Her smile broadened. “I thought you were supposed to be the best hired man in Ohio, dear?” The sizzling gave way to crackling as bone began to burn.
“Usually the arsenic works, on your types.” He drew his pistol and thrust it up under her blouse, to rest at an angle just below her bust.
“Oh, you are quite clever. I spent a fortune on the bulletproof fabric, but the design is my own. I was quite the sewer back in the eighteen—” Bang.
Jim dropped her body carefully down to the floor. He drew a knife from his boot.
“Thirties.”
Jim fell backward, the pain in his shins piercing beyond the adrenaline and low-dose narcotics running through his veins. “Nash, Sal. Now,” he screamed.
Nash turned the corner into the dinette and opened fire with his UMP40. Sal unloaded her revolver on the she-devil’s temple.
Molly grabbed the blade from Jim’s hand, disregarding how it sliced cleanly into hers, and plunged it into his heart. Her wound closed over the blade. She plucked it out with her other hand and threw it spinning into Sal’s right eye.
Nash pressed against his ear-piece. “Jim and Sal are down. It’s gardening time.” He ran backwards to the front door.
Molly dug the bullets out of her flesh where she could. Too deep a cut and the pain would start to get annoying. She waited ten seconds after Nash had slammed the door before rising.
The bullet in her heart made her slightly woozy, but she steadied herself with a few deep breaths as she pulled her “show lasso” from its place on her mantle. She strolled to the door and opened it hard.
Nash stumbled, yet remained on his feet with his sickle in-hand.
Molly broke the loop to her lasso and lit it ablaze. She thwacked it across Nash’s ribs, cackling.
Nash screamed. The whip stuck in his jacket, melting deeper so that it heat up the air within his lungs. He lashed his sickle out past the she-devil’s ear and hooked it back in, slicing her head clean off.
An ambulance siren sounded in the distance. Nash poured a bottle of holy water into his wound and prayed it was for him. “This will be a fun one to explain,” he muttered to himself.