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 is a rather significant week for me so let’s theme the writespiration accordingly. This week, your prompt is:
The Big Birthday
Now to last week’s entries and describing an emotion without using the word.
Pallid hands grasping
Hot breath and a leering smile
Looming over me
In certain knowledge of pain
Rigid muscles locked
Silent screams muffled
Echoing through every nerve
As he advances
Unable to flee
Submission the only choice
I am powerless
Numb and reliving
A lifetime of emotion
In the dentist’s chair
Each second passing feels like an hour.
My stomach is twisting up in knots.
My fists clench and loosen, then clench again.
Unknowingly I begin to nibble at the dry skin on my lips.
Looking up at the clock, I almost gasp.
I pick up the phone and hit ‘call’.
Title: How d’ya think I feel?
For fifteen years I’ve been saying, ‘I’ll get that… I’ll do that…’ My way to tell her I love her. Turns out she has someone else’s husband saying the same thing.
I’d really like to knock on his door and say…
‘Hey, Mister? Can I have my wife back, please!’
I want to look, but can’t.
I want to know, yet don’t.
I want to smile and daren’t.
So many people, but I seek out just one.
Everyone knows, nodding heads, sideways glances, pointy fingers.
Heat starts in my belly, working its way up my body.
That telltale flush gives me away.
What did I do to deserve this? How could the project I was handling be given to someone else? I have handled it, in the initial difficult stages, when nobody knew anything on the subject. And this guy comes with no qualification or experience, other than his affiliation to a certain group….
Heaps and toppling towers of chocolates… Every sort of homemade cake, shovelled into every kind of mouth. All this visible through the shop window, opposite. Seb tried not to look, burrowing deeper into his filthy sleeping-bag.
He couldn’t avoid the fragrances though: coffee, and hot bread – brioche; sourdough; focaccia; bagels and fougasse.
A hairline fissure crackled the length of her chest wall, the muffled thumping matching the drums, beat for beat. She watched his raised arms envelop the petite blonde, drawing her to him – his vintage move.
A public humiliation?
She turned away, smiled, let out a slow breath and began to plan.
Kerry joined in from last week’s game for Choke
“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.”
She took a deep breath, filling her mind with the calming waters of the beach.
She exhaled slowly, trying to slow her heart’s rapid beating.
Deep breath in, thinking of sunshine—yeah, this wasn’t working. Her hands closed into fists and her eyes flashed.
Time for Plan B: Revenge.
Sangbad has written a beautiful longer piece, so I am linking to it so that you can see the full entry.
Sarah has posted THREE writespirations which I seem to keep missing the links from, ANNOYING. Anyway, she’s super talented, so go check her out.
Geoff lost his mind, and cheated with the word count although he nailed the emotion.
chocolate chocolate choc’late CHOCOLATE choc choc choc choc choc chocolate choc nom nom nom nom nom nom nom choc sweet cramps I need to throw there chocolate chocolate never enough chocolate chocolate water water water water nom nom nom nom NOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM chocloate I feel sick OH God GODDDDDDDDDD chocooooooooooooooooo tooooooo latttttttttttteeeeeeeee my heart I’m dead…….
She pours oil
into a fancy bottle
tiny golden drops
rise to the surface
like fish coming to feed
and all at once she hears
ancient church bells peal
inviting the pebbled path
and its people
up to the duomo
and frogs caught
in coffee tins:
Damn this is not how it should be
It’s wrong I am not playing
I’m sure I could do it you see.
Everyone else managed to do it but me
Well I could kick myself or even you
I don’t think it is fair
I wish there was something I could do
My heartbeat starts to race
Whenever I look in his face
But the stirring in my loin
When I look at his groin
Really steps up the pace.
Oooh, my stomach is churning
So overcome with this yearning
I’m starting to drool
Trying to keep myself cool
A fire is continually burning
Aching, pounding, twitting heart. Pulsing in my ears.
Breath, breath, breath, breath. Feel the falling tears.
Grab the counter, hold it tight, try to pull air in
Crumple, tired, to the floor, before it starts again.
Pick yourself up, aching, sighing, bruised inside your chest
Clenching heart relaxes, now time to rest.
“Give me your hand!”
“Just give it to me.”
“Fine. And remember, eyes closed tight as a clam. What’s your finger touching?”
“It’s sharp. Cold. What is it?”
“I’m asking the question.”
“Not even close.”
“Okay. Animal, vegetable or mineral?”
“All three, I’d say.”
At rest, eyes closed. A sensation tingles through the orb surrounding the thought. Light years away for a moment. Within the grasp of reality. Sliced and diced to extravagance. Making way to the next level. Accomplishments checked from the long list of needs, but mostly wants. The ultimate hurdle crested. Completion. Rest.
Sometimes I bubble under the surface, just waiting.
Sometimes I cannot be contained, and erupt with no warning.
Clenched fists and tight jaws, brows pulled down and together.
Adrenaline making you shake.
Raised voices and words that are spoken out of turn to inflict damage.
Clearing the air or destroying wonderful things.
I’ve started two novels in Spanish, but they’re on the shelf. I’m preparing my Victorian trilogy for a box set, and I’m writing a prequel and a sequel. I’m busy with a contemporary psychological thriller I’m plotting, and I’m seriously thinking of finishing the novel my sister had started when she died.
A hum pulsates through my chest as tiny straps draw closer, tightening, squeezing, shortening my breath. The weight, unbearable, presses deeper into my lungs releasing a keening wail. My knees pull reflexively upward curling tightly into a place of safety. Gently rocking, the sensation eases. The tension drifts slowly outward. It’s done.
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