Monday, December 7, 2015


Welcome! Welcome! We're so glad you've joined us today for the fun. I'm getting this posted late and I have a sick kiddo, so this will be even more brief than usual. Go ahead and read the prompt and write something amazing!

If you haven't read the full version of the rules, go here. Otherwise, here's the short version:

1. Start with the given first sentence. (Allowable alterations listed below)
2. Up to 500 words (exclusive of title)
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
8. Only one entry judged per round. If you write/post more than one story, you need to indicate which you would like judged. If you fail to indicate, it will be the first one posted.
9. Winner judges next round.

Oh, and feel free to change pronounspunctuationtense, 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 D.E. Park. Read his winning tale from last time here! Dave (D. E. Park) spends his spare time writing flash and micro fiction, and just attempting to get enough sleep. He’s a first-generation computer nerd (older than the internet), a lifetime devourer of SF&F (loser geek), even a comic book fan (three strikes!). He actually hasn’t been actively writing for very long (you can't tell?) He lives in Chicagoland with his wife Annie. Follow him @parkinkspot and check out his writing blog at

 Your first sentence for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #3-23 is:

credit: Gregory Carrico
[Tabbi] had never touched anything as [soft] as the [rabbit] she held in her lap.

 Your SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge is:

Include at least two embarrassing anecdotes related by your character(s).



  1. Bill @bsbowens
    391 words
    challenge accepted

    "Tabbi's First"

    Tabbi had never touched anything as cold as the body she held in her lap. A tiny part of her brain knew that it was only as cool as the rest of the room, no worse than if she'd picked up the vase on the table by the window. The overwhelming impulse of her senses was to contrast the current state with the living warmth that it had previously posessed.

    "You have to let him go, honey." The voice of her mother came from the middle distance, outside the circle of emotions but well within the room where they had found him. She had seen death before, likely as a much younger girl than Tabbi was, never losing her empathy yet learning to avoid the worst effects of the experience. But having begun that process so long ago, she would no longer have the memory of this first time.

    There might be a hand on her shoulder now, it was something a mother would do, perhaps even someone kneeling next to her on the floor. Everything beyond the circle was blurred by its swirl, indistinct and wavering.

    She hadn't worked out names for her feelings yet. Perhaps the confusion was caused by the unusual mixture, a different recipe than she'd known in the past. When guilt mixed with relief, it wasn't the same as how she had felt when she left her baby sister alone in the kitchen and the tot had tipped out of the chair, pulling her back with screams. That cold ache of despair in her abdomen wasn't unlike the feeling of watching her father leave for the last time, except that those memories were sieved through a fine mesh of the days that he had come home in one of his moods and she'd hid, sometimes all night, sometimes until she'd wet herself because she didn't dare come out of the closet.

    A part of her became aware that she was rocking back and forth, somehow it seemed to help. A noise was in her ears, so sad and lost, perhaps coming from deep in her own throat. The hand had left her shoulder some time before and was once again outside the circle, and now the room was empty but for her and the remnant she held; tiny, still, and so very cold in her lap.

  2. A World Away

    397 words


    Lillian had never touched anything as soft as the pelt she held in her lap. Her fingers wove themselves between its downy tresses; delicate, ethereal almost, it was a true prize, her prize. She hugged it closer, savouring her victory. She had proved them wrong.

    The thought flashed through her mind that the others might try to take it from her. They had done it before and she had been sent away. It had taken a long time, many years of confused days and endless nights before she had been allowed back again. She had endured the meaningless drivel of therapy, sat quietly acquiescent as they had probed and prodded the darkest recesses of her mind and submitted to interminable examinations. Then they had all nodded with self-satisfied smugness and declared her cured. She had been allowed to go home.

    Home consisted of her mother and father and two sisters, one older, one younger. Lillian was the middle child, forever overlooked, forever invisible. Her parents had seen her that evening however, had opened their eyes for the first time. And Lillian had made sure they would never ignore her again.

    Yet her scissors had remained still. Her father’s pelt had been much too sparse whilst her mother’s had been much too grey.

    Marianne, her older sister, had come home late … as usual. Had complained about the mess … as usual. But she had stopped complaining now.

    Her pelt had been much too wiry.

    Grace had crept out of bed just as Lillian had finished putting the house to rights. Her younger sister had hidden behind a cupboard at the top of the stairs but the moonlight had pierced the gloom and pointed out her hiding place.

    Lillian had held her close, comforting the trembling girl, stroking her silken hair until the shaking had stopped and she lay silent. Grace’s pelt had been just right and so Lilian had taken it for herself.

    She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, slipping the scalped tresses over the bareness of her own skull. Now the moon danced upon her profile, gifting her a dazzling silver crown in its reflective beams.

    She heard the front door slam. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. Voices shouting. Yelling. Sounds a world away. It was no matter. They could not touch her. She stroked her hair and smiled. At last she was beautiful.