Writespiration #104 52 Weeks in 52 Words Week 8

writespiration-20172017 brings 52 challenges over 52 weeks.

Your challenge is to write your story using the weekly theme/prompt and write it in just 52 words…. EXACTLY, no more, no less.

Submit your entries in the comments or on a blog post and I post them the following week with the new prompt. You have until Sunday to enter.

Pingbacks aren’t too reliable at the moment so it’s worth dropping a comment to say you have posted – just in case. 

This week write about:


Now to last week’s entries:


You and I

Sometimes it feels like the ocean between two countries, a vast expanse with an endless horizon.

At other times it feels like the pages of a book, always attached one following the other.

Why is it that the distance between us feels the furthest away when we are in the same room?



Child Rearing in Canada

“Use your noggin, eh,” she would say when I asked her a question. “The distance between your outer left ear and right ear is full of space, time, and memory.”

“But my noggin’s tired,” I would whimper.

“Holy mackerel,” she would yell to the Fish God,” spare me from this dithering trout.



They are newly wed and snuggle every night to sleep.

Time goes by and they realize it’s more comfortable not to snuggle.

The distance between them in bed grows in the same proportion as the problems of the daily life increase.

Soon, the bed will become too small for both of them.



Nothing left to say, our hands lie still on the white tablecloth in the candlelight, where once fingers would have entwined, inextricable as tree roots. Now in the silence of no more words, hands lie idle, our fingers leaving a white space between your warmth and mine, the distance between the stars.



I seek  the wildness of glacial boulders and the crooked country lane. I can’t abide by the measured distance between American teeth. Anything less than an assembly line set is returned to the factory for adjustment. On her deathbed, my mother begged for me, “Her teeth.”  I  lost them forever.



They are all people, who think and talk like me, go through the same trials and tribulations in life. They too, love their dog and hate their boss.

Some entities invented various divides to suit their political purpose. And then, social media to serve a dual purpose — feeding and bridging differences.



The distance between us is vast. The damn pond is deep and a helluva trip. Good thing we have words, computers and a love like no other. It is what it is. Fate you said. Is that what it is? I am lucky to have found you. Love, how good is that?



Do you miss me still
Have you lost the will
To find me anymore.
The moon above us will shine
Our hearts and souls entwine.

I still reach out to you
I know my loss is not new
Yet I shall never give in to
The unkind and mean
The distance between…



The Malteaser Marathon!

One, two, thr… damn, where was three?

Having just got my shopping done before closing time,  and caught the bus by the skin of my teeth, I thought my luck would have changed.

But no, one bag was left on the bus!

I ran… The distance between my Malteasers and me growing…


  1. Power Play

    Deep winter day.
    Chilling darkness.
    The wind has been ferocious
    and then…
    “Power out,” she mentions
    to the Gods of bad timing.
    “I’ll get ‘er,” I say,
    head outdoors,
    over the barrier,
    uncover the generator,
    switch it on,
    adjust the choke,
    Pull the cord.
    Pull the cord.
    Love that gasoline-spewing hum.


  2. The sulphurous stench struck her as she opened the door. Stepping over the flyers, she pressed her face into her sleeve, trying not to choke. A thin finger of moonlight poked through the door and led her eyes to a figure sprawled on the floor. She froze. It seems she had company.

  3. Damn you, Woman! I have a story for Choke. Wish I didn’t, can’t catch up with all this writing!

    Excellent stories here, but my fave was Jack and Jill part 3… what a cracker of a last line!

  4. Just a metaphor, you say, but it’s always a metaphor with you—building worlds with figures of speech—and metaphors are slippery things (“choke” you assure me meaning to cool the fuel, let things breathe, like cars, you say) only next you say, “let’s be friends,” and I know I choked. Again.

  5. Sunspots dance, suspended on invisible strings. Waves of heat rise, enveloping me, suffocating. Heart pounding, I plead with myself, “please let me survive this”. Panic closes in. His arm raised, pistol at the ready. I crouch down, my body positioned to respond. “Don’t choke”, chides my inner voice. PING! And we’re off.

  6. “You need to slow down on this hill.”
    “How do I do that?”
    “Foot off the gas.”
    “Then what?”
    “Foot on the clutch and gear down.”
    “The what?”
    “Where is it?”
    “On the floor! Beside the brake!”
    “NO. CLUTCH!”
    “We stopped.”


  7. Great collection Sacha! Jen reappearred to play this time.

    Jen set the choke tight on the log, chain biting into bark . “Ho!” She ordered the draft horses forward, the log shifting and web of reins pulling taut. Perched on the log, Jen rode the jolts downhill. A few men paused. Logging required attentiveness. Only they watched her, hoping she’d choke.

  8. I thumb-stroke the curve of your shoulder. I am two hand-spans from your throat. Your perfume clogs the air.

    My hand trails across skin to your collar-bone, a pulse beats under my hand, and you sigh my name. The name on the banker’s draft you signed.

    Three minutes squeezing sets me free.

    1. woah! I had to read that a couple times to make sure I’d read what I thought I had! THIS was magnificent, I love that you don’t use the word too and for such a dark story! AWESOME. you’re such an amazing writer Lesley <3 <3 <3

  9. “Sometimes the problem’s something simple.” Tim shoved a long screwdriver into the engine.
    Kate gasped. “What the heck! Can’t fix it, so you stab it!”
    He wiped greasy hands across his butt-cheeks. “Sis, chill.” He turned the key. The engine roared to life. “Needed to open the choke to get more air.”

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