2017 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.
After having my wrists slapped last week for the intense challenge difficulty, I decided to ease off this week! Use the following theme:
Use the following theme:
That moment you see your ex with their hot new bit and you look like a turd.
Now to last week’s entries
“What the feck?”
“Birdstrike. Hurry. Ma’ll kill us if we’re not in time fer dinner.”
“Shite! We’re out of juice!”
“We can sleep in a haystack.”
“Not with your farting and snoring and belching.”
“Don’t fecking snore!”
“Fancy roadkill roast pigeon?”
“Snore like a fecking train, so yer do.”
Sharon (an entry for the first 52 word writespiration)
I stepped outside, my eyes wandered upward to the beautiful black canvas dotted with glimmering lights. Absolute peace!
My shoulders slide, relaxing into my body. I stepped back toward the door, my inner child pleading, “just a few more minutes”. Inside, my shoulders already creeping up, I sit down. The timer started.
“Hey, Pru, nice landing on that smokestack.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“Pru, I’m no sir. Its me. Penelope.”
“Penny. Its been forever. You look well.”
“Thanks. Been drinking some fine Kickapoo juice. You should try it.”
“Maybe I will. Someday.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard that before. You’re still on Pigeon time, eh!”
The odds were stacked against him.
He knew the patterns, the signs, and, when it was time, he spread his wings and fell; dive-bombing downward.
Moments later, the stall owner returned to find his jug was no longer full of his famous grape juice, but full of a wobbly, hiccuping pigeon instead.
It was time to make the pigeon juice and stack the crow nuggets in the back of the van with the stuffed sea gulls. The buffet was due to begin at noon, and I had at least an hour’s drive ahead of me. These themed lunch parties were getting weirder and weirder.
The new bar opened to mixed reviews.
The management had bragged they could juice anything.
Some said it was a gimmick, others just a ruse to stack ’em in.
Time would tell if it took off.
No-one noticed the pigeon fly into the kitchen and fall into the blender.
The Wake Up Cure
I wasn’t getting to my meeting on time. Overcome with tiredness, I raced to the cafe for an espresso. En route, a bastard pigeon nose-dived my windscreen., in an effort not to stack my car, I braked hard. So…wide awake now!…but how do you remove pigeon juice from windscreens?
Tourist. I curled my lip. ‘Don’t waste my time.’
I returned to thumbing through the stack of receipts, hoping he’d take the hint.
But he didn’t leave. ‘Pijon Jus?’
‘Of course sir, why didn’t you say so?’ I reached for our most expensive bottle of wine, and uncorked it.
Break time was over. Tossing the last of my juice, I made my way to the server stacks, marveling as always at how much data could be housed within such a small space. A coo caught my ear. A pigeon roosted on the main power switch. It shifted. Squatted. I gulped. No!
The pigeons were having some fun
Their flirting had only begun
Every movement in time
Lovebirds so sublime
The best-looking couple bar none
They couldn’t tear themselves loose
So full were they of love juice
There was no turning back
Love on a high chimney stack
An original way to seduce
The news-vendor sipped his juice, observing the pigeon perched on the stack of papers at his side. It stepped from foot to foot, as if wiping off glue. As he stood to shoo it away, it took flight, leaving a hole in the paper. Underneath, he saw the words time to fly.
Jessie hated pigeons. As a kid, she loved them. Now, a maintenance contractor, she fought a constant battle to keep them away from her buildings. In her free time, she devised ways to kill them. Today she’d brought an industrial sized liquidiser: first she’d catch them, then stack, then juice the brutes.
As the pancakes rose higher six-year-old Pigeon drooled, forgetting the school bullies. Mum poured soothing golden syrup over the stack, and a good sprinkling of crunchy sugar. Told him to eat up.
Each birthday another stone showed on the scales.
At nineteen he saw Harry – and fell in love.
Time to diet.
I look up and see a pigeon almost smugly, smile down at me.
No time for changing.
A stack of work waits on my desk alongside a presentation, promotion resting on the outcome.
No, I need to change. Just call to say I’ll be late.
Jeez! Phone out of juice too!
Their time had come.
Poor things. The odds had been stacked against them. They had no chance, but revenge was sweet.
As the group of pigeons prepared to feast, the first sunset of this new world was spectacular.
Human juice would at last flow. The eyes were the first to be pecked.
Some people think they can conquer time.
The odds are stacked against them.
However hard they struggle, their juice will run out,
Because time’s like a homing pigeon.
It can fly long distances, but there’s no escape.
In the end we always come back home, to our safe place.
Not everyone welcomed the new drinking establishment on the street. Thought it wouldn’t stack up. What did the young ones know? It was time to see some tradition coming back to the neighbourhood. The funky name was a ruse. The Juice Pigeon Pub had become the hot spot for the old timers.
Mother chose a magazine from the stack. She flipped pages and sipped her juice. My tail twitched uncontrollably. The pigeon stared at me. I remained calm. I couldn’t get to him this time with the window closed between us. “I only want to talk!” I meowed and my claws popped out involuntarily.
It made him jump when it swooped down, and through his attempt to swat it away he’d forgotten the open juice carton on the bench next to him.
He wouldn’t have time to change his trousers; the day was already stacked against him.
At least my ice cream is intact.
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