This year there will be 52 challenges over 52 weeks and your challenge is to write your story using the theme/prompt and write it in just 52 words…. EXACTLY, no more, no less.

The art of being concise is nothing if not a muscle flexing ‘write’ bicep curling device. But I wanted to add to that challenge which is why, you have to be exact too. Because there are 52 challenges over the year, THAT’s I want you to write your entries in EXACTLY 52 words.

Each week I will give you a prompt of some variety and then you submit your entries and I post them the following week with the new prompt. You’ll have until Sunday to enter each week.

This year, I am trying to cut back the time I spend blogging to make sure I give as much time as I can to writing books. So I wanted to let y’all know, that I will read every single entry, but I may not comment on each one.

So without further ado, the first writespiration of 2017, 52 words exactly and you need to include the phrase…

The timer started

Somewhere in your 52 words.

Good luck.

The post Writespiration #97 52 Weeks in 52 Words – Week 1 appeared first on Sacha Black.

This week I’ve been thinking about the past and how things have affected my life. I often joke about having a cold lump of coal for a heart, or about the fact I am dead inside. It’s a joke. Sort of. I like the humour of it.

But actually there’s some truth to it. We go through life, and the tiniest of things affect us. A moment, a fleeting comment, ill chosen words or a look of love you’ll never see again.

Sometimes these moments hurt us, others they heal us. Whether positive or negative, all of them deeply affect us. They leave us with burnt edges. Tiny scars that paint our souls with memories.

That’s what I want you to write about this week. Burnt edges. Maybe it’s the edges of paper, or burnt memories. Whatever you choose, include burnt edges somewhere in your piece. Write no more than 200 words.

If you want to join in, post your flash in the comments or in a post on your blog and link back here. You have until 12th June. Please note I am extremely slow at responding to comments at the moment. I moderate everything and I do read everything, but expect a delay.

Here’s mine. An excerpt from chapter 8 of my novel, Keepers:

I was alone. The gulf of tears pressing against my eyelids flooded my cheeks. Huge sobs mechanically rocked my shoulders and the gaping void in my chest filled with a darkness that seared like the heat of the sun. I stood up and launched angry balls of fire into the air. I screamed at the thick black clouds until my voice was hoarse and my nose was full of acrid smoke. When my scream finally ran dry I shot as many bolts of lightening into the air as I could. The edges of the clouds burnt black. I fired dozens more into the air, hoping one would tear the sky in two and make my pain rain down on the city.

Something fluffy rubbed against my legs. I glanced down. Cat-Nye was hopping between my shins. The sight of her drained the fight out of me and I collapsed on the rooftop sofa.

“How could they, Nyx? How could they just die?”

Now to last time and the Blowtorch flash in a flash.

DAON in first:

Edith clapped her hands in delight.
Blowtorch, her favourite part of cake decorating. It was cold outside and the snow had set into an icy wonderland. She went outside, naked, with no shoes.
Carefully she activated the blowtorch and wrote her name in the snow. Edith was here once, but when the snow melts, we will not know this fact.

Debby up next with this:

“Several tedious months went by. She had left her manuscript for so long, she no longer had the energy to go back to completing her book. While gazing over the many pages of scribbled words and trying to make sense of them, she decided it was easier to grab the blowtorch and pretend she’d never attempted to write anything.”

FloridaBorne with a rather gory ending :p

“I have one life to live,” I told Dr. Johnly.
“Not really,” She said, looking at her nails as if she were bored with it all.
“Why would you say that?”
“I can tell you for a fact that once you’re here, you’re stuck here until you make right what you did wrong.”
“But I believe in heaven and hell.”
“I left 2 husbands, giving both 2 children each that were raised in private boarding schools. I used my 4 children to take as much from my husbands as possible and lived in the house of my dreams. I believed that once I died, that was it.”
A nurse ran into my room, wide eyed, standing next to the doctor.
“Dr. Johnly was…it was so horrible,” She said, her hands trembling. “One of her ex’s just dispatched her with a blowtorch! Mr Gonzalez…Mr. Gonzalez. Code blue…”

Ritu in next with a hilarious twist

Pulling the ramekins out of the oven, I was really pleased with the results.

Dave loved Crème Brulee and I was determined to make this meal the best thing he had ever eaten. Never having made this before, I was following the instructions to the letter.

Now, what was next? Sprinkle sugar, ok.

Then using your blowtorch, caramelise the sugar.

Blowtorch?! No one told me I needed a blowtorch?!

“Mum! Dad! Have you got a blowtorch?”

“Yes love,” Dad answered, “it’s in the shed, I’ll just go get it.”

Moments later, Dad arrived with his protective mask and an industrial blowtorch. “Right love, what needs welding?”

Allie next with a romantic piece

I pulled the visor down and the world grew a little darker as I fired up the torch. Brilliant white light sparked as the iron before me melted into form. I pulled away, satisfied. Cold bars which had once kept loved once apart were now tightly entwined into a heart that would be later positioned in the center of the park; a place where love meets eternal.

Lee Juana Wilson  in next

When I think about Joe, all I remember is everyone saying, “he’s the master of the blowtorch.” I was impressed the first time I heard it. Oh, he’s mastered a skill. That is awesome. I don’t know many people that have “mastered” a skill. The next couple of times I heard it, I realized that I don’t even know what he uses blowtorch a for. The more and more I heard it, I learned Joe had not mastered or even become an apprentice at anything else.

Next in Jane all about mens stuff…

It looks a bit like an oil can. Not that I’ve ever taken much notice of what George knackles away at in his shed. Men’s stuff. He’d have put a lock on the door if he’d ever dreamed I’d come in here and disturb him. Well, first time for everything. He’s left bits of metal lying everywhere—on his workbench, on the floor. You can’t see to tell the truth in here for the filth over the window. A bit of a tidy up won’t go amiss either. I pick up the battered can thing. It’s warm as if he’s just been using it. Wonder what it does? I turn it to look down the spout thing and press on the—

Next up Nortina joins in with this piece

My neighbor sets his trash pile ablaze with a blowtorch.

Because it’s Friday.

And he missed the garbage truck this morning.

“He’s mad!” my mother shouts. She yanks the curtains closed. Rushes to the kitchen to prepare dinner. “That’s how forest fires start.” She slices peppers and onions on the cutting board and rakes them into the sizzling pan on the stove.

I peek out the window one last time, watch the wind blow the debris in his yard east — toward our house.

Last but by no means least, Helen with a last line to die for

Like a shrieking, nasty, blowtorch, she was. Hot breath, foul scented, spraying in my face. I longed to turn my head away, but I couldn’t. Instead I had to just take it.

Bitch.

The fire of her obvious hate burned me, flecks of it hitting my face as she screamed out her rage, taking out her jealousy.

Like I didn’t have a say. Like I was somehow to blame.

I closed my eyes, and she slapped me. I struggled against the bindings, wanting to scratch, to hit, to fight her. To take back what was mine.

To get away from her flames.

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The post Writespiration #90 Burnt Edges appeared first on Sacha Black.

Here’s mine:

I knew, because the door was open. She always left the door open. Tempting any one who dared, to enter her lair. The glow of her signature rouge emanated from under the belly of the door.

I touched my fingertip to my mouth. She’d smothered that red  across my lips two nights ago.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, knowing she’d fallen off the wagon. Knowing I wouldn’t want to see what was inside.

My heart thudded against my ribs. As I surveyed the room a straight jacket of panic crushed the air out of my lungs. Why did this feel familiar?

I slammed my eyes shut. I couldn’t look anymore.

But images still flashed through my mind. The bed. The floor. The red.

Blood. Everywhere. White sheets and walls splattered with the artwork of a murderer.

I crumbled to my knees. My hands falling into something wet. I squeezed my eyelids harder. I didn’t want to look. Bile clawed at my throat and I heaved into the air.

I swallowed hard when the wretch ing stopped. I’d  believed everything she’d said. I’d let myself fall into her arms while she told me how beautiful I was and that my kind of beauty should last forever.

I shuddered. Ice collecting on my spine. 

She was here.

I blinked. Fixing my state on the room. Only this time, when I gazed at the red ocean covering the furniture, a strange ache gnawed at my insides and the room no longer smelt acidic. It smelt like dinner.

I touched my lip again, memories oozing into my thoughts. My fingers slipped to my neck.

It had never been lipstick.

The smooth curve to her voice wrapped around me, and told me she was smiling. Of course she was. She’d won. I looked at the bed, the shadow of a body still imprinted in the blood. My blood. My body.

“I told you, your beauty should live forever,” she said, draping her arms around my neck. Her breathe stank like metal but it made saliva pool in my mouth.

“Hungry?”

I was. I really was.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration and drowning.

Helen joined in with a gorgeous piece of flash

She gasped for air, her hands clutching and sliding on skin as she fell. Her eyes closed as she sank down, softness and warmth all around. She managed another breath, her senses reeling, consciousness receding as things went dark and all that was left was sensation. There was no more air, her body buffeted, prey to forces beyond her control. She could not cry out, her mouth sealed, stars bursting behind her closed eyelids.
Then light returned and with it breath and she was cold all over. Trembling, she reached out her arms, wanting oblivion.
It came with another kiss and she was gone, drowning once more.

***

Geoffle has a killer entry this week, with a killer ending!

It was the fourth pint when Derrick understood, for the first time, the reason why it was called drowning your sorrows. As he stared at the glass of lager he imagined he saw Colette reflected in the surface, tears on her cheeks as she covered her mouth with her hand to hide the horror of what she had just witnessed. It was his life flashing before him – that’s what happened when you went down for the third time, wasn’t it? It was that fateful moment when she realised the truth. He studied the face of the only women he had ever loved. How could the surface of frothy beer be so life-like? How…? Derrick’s head jerked back as Colette’s fist met his temple. On the floor he winced as her stiletto pierced his aorta. ‘You lying fucker,’ were the last words he heard as the blood entered his lungs, drowning him far more effectively than any amount of shit beer.

***

Next, Sarah, with one hell of an ending, and I don’t know about you, but I’m desperate to know what happens next.

Lady of the Lake by Sarah Brentyn

At the end of the dock, Phoebe dipped her toe in the lake. Her grip on the post so tight, it left indentations in her palms. She watched the still water. No girls floated by in bikinis, sunning themselves. No guys ran down the dock and jumped high in the air shouting “cannonball!” No children sat in the sand, slathered with sunscreen, digging with plastic shovels.

Not today.

Everyone was out walking, searching, calling. Looking for Phoebe’s sister, Kaia. They wouldn’t find her. She was gone. Drowned. Of this, Phoebe was certain. She hadn’t let go until Kaia sank.

***

Hugh’s up next with this cracker of a piece with an awesome ending.

Alan was drowning. He was drowning fast and there was nothing anybody could do about it.
The moment the water first hit his lips he could feel the drowning sensation all over his body. Panic set in and nothing he could do would stop him from drowning. Not even the call from his wife mattered!

“ALAN!”

He put his glass of water down as soon as he heard his wife slam the front door.

“YES!” he screamed at the top of his voice.

The writers block had finally given way and he was drowning in words again.

***

Jane now with a stunningly vivid piece that leaves you wanting so so much more, check it out here.

He didn’t know she was watching him. She’d have died if he’d turned and seen how her eyes were running all over his swimmer’s body, lapping at the muscles sliding beneath his white skin like a cat at a saucer of milk. He raised his arms, flexed his knees and plunged, powerful and graceful as a big cat, a cat with no fear of water. The waves broke and closed over his head, his white body sliding beneath the green with scarcely a splash.

She let out her breath slowly; afraid the slight ripple of the air might dispel the magic. She watched the ocean, the oil-smooth surface, for his reappearance. The shouts and laughter of the other bathers on the family beach further along the coast barely reached her consciousness. Rocks. A sliver, a crescent moon of silver sand. Ocean. And him, the boy with a shock of jet black hair and skin white as milk, swimming through the darkness, easy as a seal.

The breeze lifted a lock of her hair and flipped it into her eyes. She shook it back and peered intently at the empty waves. She was holding her breath again, and anxiety nestled in the pit of her stomach. The sun had shifted, she was sure. How long was it? Far too long. He must have had an accident, a malaise. She should get help.

She leapt to her feet, scattering sand; ran to the water’s edge. Foam fizzed about her toes. She raised a hand to shield the sun from her eyes and scanned the water, further and further, impossibly far out towards the shining horizon. Breath came short and sharp, in little staccato bursts. She saw him at last, far, far away, a round black point amid the wave glitter. Her heart leapt and settled back with relief, pounding in her ears. But the bobbing head was joined by another, and another. Not human then. Seals.

She ran along the strand, slipping on half-concealed rocks, splashing through the shallow water, yelling when she was within earshot of the coast guard.

“Up at the cove, you say? A black-headed boy, skin the colour of new milk?” The coastguard shook his head. “He’ll not be back before morning.”

“But—”

“Don’t you worry about him. He’s safe where he is.”

In bewilderment, she watched as the seals played, rolling and diving, and the sun sank slow and red. She half-knew what the coast guard meant. Knew what she wanted to understand at least. The breeze blew colder now and whined about the rocks with a different voice. She shivered in her cotton jumper, but she would wait until the morning. Just to see, to know for sure.

***

Next, Ali, with a sneaky peak from her first novel Conor Kelly and The Four Treasures of Eirean (The Tir Na Nog Trilogy Book 1)

Conor felt himself flying backwards through the air, much as his wheelchair had done before him. He landed with a loud splash somewhere in the middle of the lake. The coldness of the water forced him to exhale. He felt the water close over his head, as he plummeted down, down through the icy water. He looked up, and saw the surface way above him.
How can this tiny patch of water be so deep?
When he looked down, all he saw was a black void. No sign of the bottom.
Is this how my life is supposed to end?
The pressure was building up in his lungs. He needed air. In a few seconds, he would have to take a breath, it was a reflex he knew he couldn’t override. But he was afraid.
Will it hurt to breathe in water?
Then he remembered a promise made to him in a dream, and he felt the warm tingling rush of magic inside.
Lugh, are you here? I have come to join you.
“I am always here for you, Conor,” replied Lugh, swimming along beside him and smiling. The silvery whiteness of his hair lit up the gloom of the water.
“Have courage, it’s not much further.”
I can’t hold on any longer. I have to breathe.
“Not just yet. We are very nearly there.”
Conor felt his feet scrape the bottom, his body landing gently on the lake floor.
“Take it!” said Lugh urgently.
What?
“Reach out with your hands. It’s your only chance.”
Conor scrabbled around in the silt. His hands closed around something hard, narrow and flat.
Is this it?
“Yes. Take it, and all will be well.”
Conor grasped the object and tugged feebly to dislodge it from the sucking mud of the lake bed, but it was too late.
He opened his mouth and took in a big gulp.
Much like his first ever breath, the pain and the shock of it convulsed his body. As his consciousness drifted away he was vaguely aware of someone, or something, pulling him by the hair. Far away, someone was saying his name.
Then there was nothing.

***

Last, but by no means least, Kim, with this atmospheric piece, that leaves you wondering. Catch it here.

A gush of steam from the coffee machine startled me out of my thoughts. Perched on a high stool in The King of Hearts, a lukewarm mocha on the ledge in front of me, I stared out of the window, waiting for Rosemary, a girl I had met at university ten years ago. In the background, the hum of voices: a mishmash of customers, staff and snatches of popular songs from the radio. On the opposite side of the road was Fye Bridge, which I recognised from a ghost walk:  the bridge where they used to duck witches.

I checked my mobile for texts and the time. Rosemary was fifteen minutes late, true to her nickname from our uni days – the late Rosemary.  It didn’t matter. I was on a week’s break and had plenty of time. Rosemary, on the other hand, could only manage forty minutes for lunch. That was okay too, as we had planned a film and a meal for the end of the week, before I returned to London.

A gurgle from my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten. My sudden appetite was whetted by the aroma of home-made French onion soup and toasted sandwiches, and I twisted on my stool to catch the attention of a member of staff. The place was empty.  No customers, nobody behind the counter – and a chilling silence.

Turning back to the window, I was confronted by a mass of faces pressing against the glass. I spotted the woman who served my mocha, and an elderly man who had been reading a newspaper in the far corner when I first entered. Their faces were distorted with hatred and fear, all eyes on me. I pulled on my jacket against the sudden chill. A tall man in a long cloak and a black hat stood inside the door, staring at me.

I squirmed on my stool. I felt numb. My heartbeat quickened. There was a strange buzz in my ears and, although I could see their mouths opening and closing, I could not hear the crowd. I figured out the words from the shape of their lips, ‘Witch! Witch! Sink or swim!’

The dark figure shifted from the threshold of the café until he stood beside me, digging his steely fingers into my upper arm.

‘It is useless to struggle. You must come with me.’

My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. Words congealed in my throat.  I tried to resist but I was dragged out of the door and onto the bridge. No cars or buses. No hum of distant traffic. Just the menacing mob filling the bridge and spilling onto the river banks.

As rough hands pushed me onto a wooden contraption – a ducking stool – I peered down at the murky water below me. It looked deeper than I remembered. I felt the burn of stiff rope pulled tightly around my wrists and ankles, a twist of trepidation in my gut as I was lowered into the river. The undercurrent dragged at my jacket and droplets ran from my hair and eyelashes. I rose to the surface and was ducked again. And then, from out of nowhere, a hand gripped mine and pulled. Above me, the crowd erupted: ‘The witch has a familiar!’

Through the water I could just make out a face. It was Rosemary’s, a small crowd of customers and café staff behind her. I emerged from the water like a half-drowned cat. The woman who had served my mocha came forward with a blanket, which she wrapped around me, and Rosemary gently guided me back into the warmth.

The post #Writespiration 74 The Red Lipstick appeared first on Sacha Black.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked you to write the best worst opening line you could think of. Well now I am asking you to write the best WORST ending you can come up with. Once again, there will be a winner and runner up and if we get some funny entries I may just pick a comedic winner too!

What do I mean by worst? 1. Write it badly, break rules, make sentences long and arduous use adverbs… whatever you like, but do your worst, it needs to be so bad, its stinks. 2. Make the story ending stink too, what’s the worst ending to a story you can think of? Write that! Heres mine: I sat at the table in the kitchen and ate the cereal my brother had given me for dinner with the red spoon I liked. I was glad mum wouldn’t shout at me or ground me or take my pocket money away now that I had found the toy I lost the other week when I was in the park, yes, I was glad everything was sorted now.  THE END. Terrible wasn’t it?! Your turn! Now to last weeks writespiration. Just one entry last week, from Hugh, with a seriously chilling tale about crossroads: “Just do as the dam Sat Nav tells you Colin, and turn right. How many time I have got to tell you, just do as it says.” Colin looked at the crossroads ahead of him. Sheila had done nothing but nag him for the last 44 years. Yes, they were lost but he was sure the right turn was the correct one to take. “Are you sure dear? I’m pretty sure if we turn left–” “JUST TAKE THE RIGHT TURN COLIN!” Colin took the right turn as both the Sat Nav and Sheila told him. They found Sheila’s body, and what remained of the car, at the bottom of the cliffs the following morning. Colin’s body was never found.

***

The post Writespiration #45 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Life’s a funny old thing, so often we go through difficult times and have to make hard choices. Sometimes we lose friends, loved ones, gain new ones, have children. We travel and feel moved to change our entire lives. We give up careers and start again. I’ve seen my fair share of cross roads probably the most significant was being told if I waited to have kids, it might be too late.

My choice?

Turn left – be young free and have money, travel.

or

Turn right – fork out thousands for fertility treatment and suffer losses and emotional torment.

I turned right. It was the right decision, but when you’re faced with a cross roads the decision isn’t always obvious.

This week, the writespiration is all about Cross Roads. Maybe your character is physically at a cross road, maybe they have a choice to make. If you fancy joining in, jot a few words or a short story and I will publish it with next weeks post.

Here’s mine:

He was trembling.

“You’re pathetic,” I growled.

His incessant twitching was irritating. The tap, tap, tap, of the tightly wound knot rattled against the chair I’d tied him to. It was giving me a headache.

I put the cold barrel of the magnum against my temple hoping the cool metal would ease the ache and pulled another dining room chair out. I sat down in front of him. 

“You got a choice, Marty.”

Sweat dripped off his face and crawled across his shirt. I pointed the gun at his chest, rubbing the barrel into the sweat.

“Get a grip of your self…” I dug the gun into his chest a few times. Each time, he wince harder. 

“Baby… honey… You don’t have t..”

I slid my finger over the hammer and pulled it down till it clicked. 

“Did I say you could talk?”

He pulled his lips tight and shook his head.

“You had twenty years of marriage to talk, Marty. Now it’s my turn.”

“I’m sorry baby, I didn’t… She didn’t… I won’t do it again, I swear.”

I raised my hand and fired the gun at the wall. The crack thundered across the dining room. The bullet ripped into the glass cabinet. Glass splintered and showered the dining room table I had laid night after night for twenty years. My favourite china set plummeted to the wooden floor  shattering and camouflaged itself in amongst the glass.

“Look what you made me do, Marty,” I said waving the gun at the remains of my dinner set, “that was my best fucking china.”

I stood up. My chest felt tight. Blood rang in my ears. I scanned the dining room with its matching curtains and furniture.

“You took the best years of my life, for what?” I peered at the collection of photo frames filled with nephews and nieces instead of my own children.

“A bunch of whores and prostitutes?”

I shook my head and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I was going to give you a choice. But you know what I realised, Marty?”

His lips flopped open.

“Don’t fucking answer that… I’ll tell you what I realised. You don’t deserve a choice. This is my cross roads.”

I leant into his face, my nose millimetres from his.

“You stink like shit, Marty,” I said wrinkling my nose and trying not to breathe in his sweat.

“I want a divorce… and this…” I said pushing the muzzle of the gun deep into his crotch. He flinched, lip quivering. A wet patch spread across his trousers. I pushed my finger onto his lip, “shh,” the corners of my mouth curled into a toothy grin and I cocked the hammer.

“This is for the for the two decades of tears I shed each and every time you fucked another woman. This is so no one else will ever have to cry for you again.”

I fired.

***

So to last week. I loved last weeks writespiration, so I will endeavour to post it again albeit it with a different word, I think it produced some fascinating entries with wonderful insights into all your minds!

First in with a response to last weeks Writespiration was:

Rachel with this fab entry

There was an eerie silence lingering in the air. Everyone eyeballed each other wondering who was going to be the next to stand up and say something. They were all thinking. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news and played “nose-goes” inside their heads willing someone else to say something.

***

Next Helen with a super eerie entry

Silence. It was all around him. Weighing heavy on his ears, on his time. Time that he scratched out, one by one on the damp bricks, the only indication that it passed the slivers of light through the barred window high above. No one came to see him. No one cared, it seemed, that he still lived.

***

The wonderful Michelle joins us this week and gave an emotional entry

Silence. A beautiful voice, his laughter are forever gone. Lost in silence are the sweet words. “hey, Mum, love you.” The silence is unfathomable. The silence tears at the heart.

***

Geoff gives his best TanGental entry this week :p

Silence is a long way from home, which is a hollow noduled bucket in Minneapolis and rather twee in a woebegone sort of way. Carriage bags have a habit of breaking silcne wit a rustle and a grimace. Shoping with silence is a chore and

***

Hugh follows Geoff with some equally tangential thinking – I just love where these are taking

If silence is golden then why am I not rich and living in outer space where it is silent. I love being silent like in the silent films which I don’t understand because they have no talking in them and are often in black and white and all fuzzy to watch. I wonder if they served popcorn in those days?

***

Jane gives this beautiful entry

Silence. The word sounds so loud when I think about it. Like when you put your head underwater. The sound of water. And the night air when everything else is quiet. Except the silence.

***

Sarah‘s written a cracking entry

Silence. Beeping, hacking, coughing, talking, yelling, beeping. Fleeting moments. Time is gone. Walls close in. Hoping. Waiting. For silence.

***

Foy joined in this week with a wonderful dialogue entry

“Would you shut up already?! I told you we’re not going to the zoo to harass the lions today.
That’s next week.”

***

The post Writespiration #44 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Now, to the winner of the worst possible sentence from last weeks writespiration, and boy did we have some cracking entries. And by cracking, I mean awful!

The winner of the most terrible opening line is………

Jane congratulations Jane, you wrote the most terrible opener, giving everything away and breaking all sorts of rules in the process! Fabulous entry:

‘It was terrible knowing that they were all going to die in a house fire, except for Jill who runs off to South America with the postman who apears in chapter sixteen, that Simon would fail his Oxford first year exams and end up working as a petrol pump attendant until he throws himself off a bridge in chapter twenty one, and that her operation would be a disaster and leave her housebound so when she drops her lighted cigarette onto the sheet she can’t even raise the alarm, but you have to live through the next four hundred pages, don’t you?’

Runner up goes to Keith for the most depressing adverb rich opener I’ve ever seen! Fantastic effort Keith

John wasn’t sure where he was going; walking solemnly and forlornly through the pea-souper fog, straining his weary eyes to make out the slightest detail murkily presenting itself to his age-worn visage; the laughter lines for which he was, until recently, famed giving way to worry-lines as he plodded relentlessly through the misty, dewy, heavy, moisture-laden air under a leaden sky that was constantly threatening to unload its heavy cargo, its payload, its bounty onto an unsuspecting world below, a world where hope had given way to despair, where happiness had been supplanted by depression, where gaiety had fallen prey to solemnity, a world whose very atmosphere, the elemental structure that is designed, intended, purposed to support and nurture life, is slowly, but surely, inexorably and remorselessly threatening to stifle it, to extinguish it, to render it extinct.

***

Helen Jones new to writespiration, gave a stonking effort with this terrible opener. If my wife had been choosing the winner, Helen would have won – it made Mrs. Black laugh out loud.

‘He had always liked penguins, and those shoes with the velcro fastening.’

***

Geoff was far too good but he does get an honourable mention for the two most disgustingly vile sentences:

‘And it’s confirmed: Nigel Farage will be the next Prime Minister.’

‘The only interesting about Tarquin was his toe-clipping collection which he had spent years cataloging: this is his story (with illustrations).’

***

 To this weeks Writespiration, remember, don’t look at the word till you are ready. Set your timer for 60 seconds don’t edit just write fast. Scroll down to see the word:

SILENCE

Here’s mine:

Why is silence so deafening? It ached in my ears, the pounding silence swallowed up any thoughts I had. It hurt. Hurt like the loss of my parents. No more voices to call me in at the end of the day. No mother to shout upstairs “dinners ready.” Just endless silence.

The post Writespiration #43 appeared first on Sacha Black.

How do you read? What happens to you?

Drifting off into another world when reading might be wonderful for the joy of the story. But it presents significant problem for me if I want to learn anything from the author.

When you read, are you reading as a reader or a writer? I always read as a reader. Allowing myself to be completely absorbed, to feel what the characters feel, smile at their wins and cry over their losses. But how do you stay consciousness enough to pick out the points you can learn from and still read like a reader?

There are the obvious things all readers like:

• Gritty multi-layered characters with hopes, dreams and faults.
• Characters being tested to their limits
• Pace – enough to keep you interested
• Story arc and a climax
• A statisfying ending
• Some kind of antagonist or bad guy
• An absorbing world

There are more, but you get my point. I don’t want to write a blog post telling anyone to suck eggs, or whatever the phrase it. These points are standard. It’s the more subtle things that I want to learn from. The nuances, the individual word choices in a sentence that give vivid imagery. Or the sentences that make me catch my breath and read faster, faster, faster because I just HAVE to know what happens. Or the actions a character takes that make me fall in love with them a little more.

There’s no magic to my method. I try to read a fraction slower than normal – hard if it’s a pacey book. I keep a pencil, highlighter or trusty index finger to hand depending on how I am reading. If on my kindle, then I use the highlighting function to highlight any I pick up. To ensure I keep buried in the book, I use my emotions as a flag system. If I smile, I check myself – why did I smile, a quick scramble back through the previous paragraph and hey presto, I just learnt a new trick. If I find myself scanning faster and faster, feeling desperate to just know, then I do the same. If I cry, if I feel anything, I stop and try and identify why.

Some of these might seem odd given you wont have any of the few hundred pages of context I had. But I thought it would be helpful to share some of the things I highlighted from the last book I read (End of Days):

1. ‘…can see the frustration stiffening the lines of his shoulders.’

Why did I highlight it? I guess because it painted wonderful images, in one sentence I knew exactly how he felt, and what it did to his body, I saw and felt the emotion.

2. ‘I put my hand over my mouth to keep from calling him.’

That’s the protagonist speaking, and a display of physical action showing her innocent love for the male lead. I thought it was so sweet an innocent and a beautifully honest depiction of what a teen might do to stop herself from calling out to the boy and admitting something she didn’t want to.

3. ‘The October wind tugs at my hair. Dry leaves float by, lost and abandoned.’

As I admitted in my post describing my writing process I’m still developing my ability to do description. This is a great example of weaving atmospheric description into the story – plus it gives away a piece of description about the protagonist too – which can be difficult when writing in the first person.

Some questions from me to you, I would love to know the answers to:

1. What do you naturally pick up on when you read your favourite stories?
2. Why are they your favourite, as a writer why do you appreciate them?
3. Do you collect and highlight pieces of text? If not, do you do something else to gather your favourite excerpts or ‘lessons’?

The post Read Like A Writer – Collect Words. Collect Sentences. appeared first on Sacha Black.

We constantly worry about how to write better. But actually, there’s a benefit to being able to recognise when you have written badly. And sometimes it’s fun to just reel off a load of codswallop.

This week, your challenge is to write the WORST opening line you can. Give it your best, and produce your worst!

Because this is an actual competition, The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest and I am secretly amused by all the nonsense that is to come, I am going to pick a winner… The winner will be announced in next weeks writespiration, the deadline is Sunday 31st May.

If you fancy it, why not submit to the real competition? – their deadlines the June 30th.

here’s mine, and it’s definitely bad!:

It stunk like rotten putrid gone off eggs but dear old mumsy with her tatty dirty apron thought the round pancakes were a success – I really really didn’t want to eat them – But decided not to offend her and held my bulbous nose and puckered up my reluctant lips, bottoms up, I thought.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration. First the lovely Jane who wrote a stunning poem that was originally published in the Ogham Stone Literary Journal. You can find the post on her website here.

Often at the turning of the year,

When the grass is bright and damp with autumn rain,

And last buds open with the failing sun,

I listen to the windsong in the trees.

When white-winged gulls blow in from stormy seas,

And the tang of salt hangs heavy in the air,

I hear the waves break on a lonely strand,

And taste the smoke and ash in long-dead hearths.

When only starlight guides the homing geese,

Their booming voices singing sailors’ songs,

I hear the echo from the vaulted sky,

And feel the northlands in their beating wings.

But when the blackbird sings his end of summer song,

And the white gull skims the restless ocean foam,

The whispering comes from deep in blood and bone,

The wind, the stars, the heart’s pulse call me home.

***

Ali submitted an emotional entry. It really makes you feel her longing for a sense of belonging:

Their eyes hook into my back like claws as I pass by. They keep their thoughts locked and silent in their heads, but their faces smoulder with resentment, distrust. They bite back the words but their message burns into my skin just the same, “You don’t belong here.”

And they’re right. I don’t. But I won’t go back, I can never go back, though my heart yearns for home. Those like me, well, we’re not welcome anywhere.

For me, home is not bricks and mortar. It’s not tied up in four walls, anchored in place by geography, or a slot in the vastness of time. The home I long for is family, acceptance, love. Home is not where I came from, but perhaps where I’m travelling to.

***

Geoff entered this last minute flash, and what a piece it is, he created such a disturbed character crazed by his loss in so few words.

Home Cruel Home

It’s the feeling of the bricks, sort of not quite slimy to the touch. That’s what I remember. Derby smooth stone, someone told me and they’re right. It does have that same slippery texture. But it isn’t the same, feeling an abstract. There isn’t the connection to the place and time. When I leant my face against its soothing surface after the burning; the hardness when I pressed my hands against the bricks, trying to push through the wall as Jimmy held me back; the way my tears made the slippery surface glisten. I wanted to stick to that wall, melt into it, be part of it. I’m still not sure whose screams I remember from that day but I’m sure some of mine were trapped in those bricks. Jimmy told me they demolished the cottage – ‘unsafe’ he said. I think it’s because of the ghosts. There had to be, after that fire, after those deaths. For a long time I wanted one of those bricks; it was all I asked for, for Christmas, birthdays, certain it held some part, some essence. Jimmy says it was me asking for bricks that made dad lose patience, had me committed here. I’ve plenty of time to lean again the bricks in this place, plenty of time to remember, to hear the screams. When I get out, I’ll go back, get a brick and hold it to my cheek. Then I’ll be home again.

***

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I don’t mind admitting I’m a selfish reader. I’ve always read exactly what I want for no other reason than, I felt like it. So I never paid much attention to whether or not it was useful or beneficial. But now, as a writer, whilst I still need some of that escapism by falling into a good book, I’ve come to realise I also need to read to aid my writing – and I’m not just talking about non fiction books that teach you writing skills. This is part one in a two part series, looking at reading like a writer – reading what you NEED and reading what you WANT.

When I was at school I hated Shakespeare. I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand any of his wordy sentences, or the elaborate metaphors. I figured he was just another drunk writer that got famous after he died. But then, my discontent was probably more to do with the prescription of school and the incessant deconstruction of texts, than Shakespeare himself. It wasn’t until I voluntarily picked up Shakespeare in my teens that I really grew a deep appreciation for him.

I outlined my writing process and 8 steps to discover your own perfect process last week. I’m drawing close to the end of the first draft of my novel and as a result have started to think about second and third drafts and what might need doing, which led me to Shakespeare. In my second and third drafts come the detail and description.

Whilst I have lots of ideas and a vivid imagination to create plots worlds and characters, as someone who primarily learned to write academic stuff, actually being able to convey the images in my head with enough poetic description to conjure fantastical worlds for readers, takes more practice than I’ve had. I need a parrot constantly sitting on my shoulder barking “Context, Context, Description,” reminders at me. I’m referring to similes, metaphors, and descriptively evocative passages.

So as a writer, that’s what I NEED to read. I need to find novels, passages, and poetry that are spectacular examples of creating vivid imagery through context and description. Who better than Shakespeare himself. (yes there are lots of writers I could have looked at, but I fancied a bit of Shakespeare today!)

Do you know what your weaknesses are as a writer? Could your dialogue do with a brush up? Maybe your characters aren’t quite as full of life as you would like, or maybe your world hasn’t come across the way you thought it would. None of us are perfect. So there will be something you can work on. If you don’t know what you need to develop, then ask someone else. Ask a trusted person who won’t crush you, but will be honest at the same time. When you work out what you need to practice, research writers who excel at it.

It’s ironic that I hated the thought of deconstructing Shakespeare at school, and now that’s exactly what I am about to do! Although there’s a lot we can learn from Shakespeare, for the purposes of this post, and in support of thinking about my next draft I’m focusing specifically on his poetic style and ability to create spectacular imagery.

My favourite passage of Shakespeare’s depicts this beautifully. It’s slightly dark but I adore the imagery and tragic metaphors in it. I give you, Macbeth’s final soliloquy:

She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word.

— To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing.

— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

I’ve bolded the bit that I really love.

‘Life’s but a walking shadow’ in other words life’s just an illusion. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a powerful image. It reminds me of Peter Pan’s shadow, prancing around mocking the kids in Wendy’s nursery. I think the way he takes ‘life’ such a complex concept and uses such a simple comparison to draw a powerful image is quite frankly awe inspiring. But that’s the point, right? Use imagery to turn complex concepts into simple images. Sounds simple… *slaps forehead, pulls at face – wishes it was that simple*.

‘a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more.’ A poor actor who struts and worries for his hour on the stage and then is never heard from again. Such a sad image; an actor who works slaves for lifetime, practicing through the blood sweat and tears to finally get a break and then, only gets 15 minutes of fame. Forgotten forever, like the army of hopeful thespians who came before him, and the budding recruits yet to come. Sad, yet cuttingly true – not everyone can be famous.

The last line, ‘It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.’

Life is a story told by an idiot, full of noise and emotional disturbance but devoid of meaning. Not sure how comfortable I am with the sweeping generalization we’re all idiots! But I get his point. We do get caught up in the mundane, or caught up in the shallow intricacies of fads and social hierarchy, and that ultimately is meaningless. Does he really mean that life is meaningless? I hope not, I like to think he is making a point that Macbeth’s life was pointless – he spent it doing despicable acts, and if you do the same, then at the end, life becomes meaningless. Macbeth lived the life of a shadow, an illusion of life.

Isn’t that a wonderful image? Ok, I read into a lot, and the average reader skims through words at a thousand knots trying to get to the end of the chapter, see what happens next. But if I can convey even a slither of that imagery I would be a happy lady.

Tell me in the comments below: do you know what your weakness is? If so, what is it? And what authors do you (or will you) try and learn from?

The post Learn To Read Like A Writer – Read What You NEED appeared first on Sacha Black.

A day late this week because of #1000speak, but nevertheless here we go:

This is less about the house in the photo and more about the word and meaning… If you fancy it write a few words, a poem or a story and I will post it along with my next Writespiration. I wrote one this week, but liked it so much I decided to submit it to a competition, so apologies, mine is missing – I will try and write another and post it with all this weeks entrants.

Now to last weeks absolute stonkingly brilliant entries, and four newbies.

Last week’s Writespiration was to write a story in Six Words, there was a phenomenal response.

First in was Ali with three brilliant entries:

1. Birds sing. Darkness into light. Dawn.
2. Last breath. Darkness into light. Reborn.
3. Study hard. Darkness into light. Illumination.

Ali also submitted a wonderful story for the week before – an insect story with the most vivid imagery and touching ending:

I am Etain. Once I was Sidhe, and a Queen, adored and admired. Now, I spread my wings, and they are beautiful, vibrant, shimmering. The wind catches them, takes me up into its arms, and I am airborne. Invisible lips blow me here, there, and I delight in my freedom, my weightlessness.

When I tire, I alight on a blossom. The petals are no match for me; they pale in my shadow, for I am a purple jewel carved from living flesh by an alien hand. The sun warms my body; I glitter in its light. I flutter my wings, and radiate bright ripples of colour and fierce joy.

But I am distracted. The flower hides a secret. Its scent draws me in, more powerful, more intoxicating than I ever experienced in my past incarnation. My wings fold as I feed on nectar sweeter than honey, more precious than the Gods’ ambrosia.

Giddy with sweetness, greedy for more, I leap from bloom to bloom, heedless of the darkening sky, and the wind which whips the trees into clumsy dance. Raindrops fall, hard and heavy, brushing the colour from my wings like dust. Bruised and battered, I realise the wind is no longer my friend, and I am buffeted before it without mercy.

Until kind Óengus takes me in. He builds me a crystal bower, where I rest and recover. He feeds me pollen and sugar, and I need do nothing more in return but shimmy my wings now and then for his pleasure. It feels good to be adored again.

But a wild creature needs its freedom. I exchange my crystal prison for air and sunlight, and journey where life takes me. Then one day, I hear a sound I have long missed, and I am lured by my longing.

A man is playing a harp, its light liquid notes falling through the air more silver than birdsong. Men and women gather to listen; they talk and laugh softly, and I am struck with the sharp pain of sudden loneliness. I perch on the rim of a goblet, but there is so much beauty around them, I am unnoticed.

When she lifts the vessel to her lips, I tumble into the swirling red depths. I desperately beat my wings, but they are immersed, trapped in the fluid as if it was glue. Unknowing, she swallows more than wine. I flutter my wings, and she feels those faint stirrings, for she places a hand softly over her belly.

I am Etain. Once I was Sidhe, then I was dealan-dhe. Now, from the dark, warm recesses of woman, I will be born mortal.

***

Rachel entered next and I particularly love the last one:

1. Teacher of preschoolers; learner of preschoolers.
2. I read, I write, I create.

***

Geoff came next with three true stories – the backstory to the second is hilarious, maybe Geoff will tell you all about it…

1. Cancer. How long? Not long enough.
2. Third choice. Will you? Yes. Finally….
3. He’s deformed! No, he’s a girl.

***

The lovely Hugh decided to enter for the first time and submitted three amazing (and funny) entries, the last is my fave.

1. She left. Never came back. Never!
2.Come here. No! That’s it then.
3. Affair? Me to, with his husband.

***

Next the fantastically funny Lockie (who’s name I love too) and first time entrant, with a six word story that has an entire novel behind it:

“You’ll lose the leg.”
“Do it.”

***

Next we have two submissions on other social media platforms, first my friend Donna another newbie, who posted this touching entry on Facebook:

No note was found… Just tears.

***

Then Pat another newbie to writespiration posted on G+ with these six words that tells a thousand more words:

We were meant to be here….

***

Jane, with three stunning entries:

1. Night-driving drowsiness
explosive impact
two orphans.

2. Dead star
black waters
eternal night.

3. Bright horizon
a sail
your boat.

***

Last but by no means least, Sarah another newbie to Writespiration. With a hilarious entry. I can just picture the guilt written all over their face!

I’m holding it for a friend.

***

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