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.
Remember to post links to your entries in the comments just in case ping backs don’t work.
This week, we’re playing a game. *muhahahaha* Write your 52 words describing just one emotion, BUT you’re not allowed to use the name of the emotion or tell me what it is. I want to guess.
Now to last week’s ‘choke’ entrants:
Deep winter day.
The wind has been ferocious
“Power out,” she mentions
to the Gods of bad timing.
“I’ll get ‘er,” I say,
over the barrier,
uncover the generator,
switch it on,
adjust the choke,
Pull the cord.
Pull the cord.
Love that gasoline-spewing hum.
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.
The villagers had not received food supplies for the last two weeks. Children were not let out of their homes. Demonetization left people with scarce means, to tap alternate sources.
The issue was larger. National security was at stake. Terrorist supplies had to be choked off, from all villages on the border.
Sacha’s a bit of a joker
Some might say, a provoker
She’s nasty and mean
Giving us prompts so extreme
Maybe, I might have to choke her!
As I love joining in every week
To complete #Writespiration
Must make me a bit of a geek!
Every day he walks his dog
In his mean uncaring way.
He pulls the the lead so tight
He hurts his dog, poor mite.
Today is very foggy
Here he comes with
His poor hard done by doggy.
A wire at the height of the man’s throat
OH! dear will he choke?
A bridge over troubled water.
Or over hardly any water.
A stench so foul from the rotting debris, strewn into the water, pungent enough to make the hardiest human choke.
But not me. This place was perfect.
It smelled glorious to me, the new troll on the block, or under the bridge!
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.
So what if it was old?
It suited her, a reminder of her youth.
No gadgets, no fancy keys, nothing automatic.
She was completely in control, and knew she looked every inch the successful
businesswoman she actually wasn’t.
What let her down was her handbag, hanging from the choke on the dashboard.
Kerry (entered an earlier Writespiration this week, so I thought I’d include her entry) This is the week I got my wrists slapped!
Melinda noted the time. Seven. Late again. She sipped her cranberry juice wishing for an infusion of vodka to brighten the taste. She envied the freedom of the pigeons frolicking outside, longed for careless afternoons of ill-spent youth. Yet stacks of paperwork waited, and her unforgiving boss enjoyed ruining reputations when displeased.
“You need to slow down on this hill.”
“How do I do that?”
“Foot off the gas.”
“Foot on the clutch and gear down.”
“Where is it?”
“On the floor! Beside the brake!”
“MAKE UP YOUR MIND!”
“NO, YOU STALLED IT!”
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.
She looked at her sleeping husband. He doesn’t look peaceful like him at all. She brushed her belly gently and said softly am going to be a mother…can you listen to me…A forgotten face with hazelnut colored eyes flashed in her mind. This was the only dream they, rather, he adores most.
She chokes back the tears
As she chokes on her fears
The love that she felt she forgets
The sun sets in her eyes
Over the lies
There were plenty
At times she believed many
But what she got was empty
What she couldn’t see
She can now see clearly
There was a rose once,
beside the door,
a rose of welcome, they said,
pink and fragrant.
When you left
I watched the bindweed creep
over all we had planted.
White and virginal and so tough
it crept and climbed and tangled
through the rose,
so pink and fragrant,
and choked it.
It’s been a long time since Norma was this mad. Her smile is tight but she is determined to keep it on until she makes it out the door. She only has herself to blame – she should have known Ashley was setting her up. Norma is choked she is feeling this way.
If you pulled it out too far you flooded the carburettor. You had to judge just how far and that depended on the time of year. Winter needed more than summer. Our old car had a mind of its own. But we loved it. Mum called it Blossom, it never failed us.
Minds like motorways
Choked by persistent traffic
Always under stress
Thoughts jostle for position
The destination unknown
Life is the fuel
Squandered on frantic motion
Too far and too fast
The rose does not think
Held lightly in silent earth
She shows us beauty
He’d seen it online, other boys making it look easy. Just take the rope, loop it, and swing out.
He stood at the edge of the drop, rope rough in his hand, camera on.
He could do this, he thought, looping the rope. He swung out.
The rope slipped.
Rich choked on his tea.
“I’m sorry mate, I can’t believe it…the neighbour?” Arthur leaned over and patted his back
“What?” Rich spluttered
“Your wife…she just left…with Fred.”
“Just now. Weren’t you listening?”
“What caused that reaction then?”
Rich showed him the paper, “Rovers beat City.”
Olive Mackeson had died choking on a cheese and sweet pickle sandwich, shortly after pulling out the choke on the dashboard of her car, as her foot slipped off the clutch, forcing the car into the path of an oncoming truck.
Registration number of the car – K, one, one, L, M, E
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