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Category Archives: Challenges

Weekly photo challenge: Infinite

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This bronze statue of a war-weary soldier was positioned in front of a mural of a World War I battlefield cemetery at the In Flanders Fields Museum in Ypres, Belgium. To me, it spoke of the infinite toll war takes on all involved.

 

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To soothe the savage beast

amphitheaterPhoto copyright Sandra Crook

In the darkness of the wings, Marcellus was nearly swept up as the tsunami of the third grade chorus rushed offstage, trailing nervous energy and holiday anticipation in its wake. Tugging one final time at his tie, the young soloist moved toward his center-stage mark. Stabbed by the spotlight as the curtain rose, Marcellus felt his stomach churn violently and sucked in a breath, certain his chicken nuggets were about to make an encore appearance. Instead, the purest, clearest notes spilled from his lips, immediately stilling fidgety parents impatient to get home before the roads iced over. ”O holy night…”

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Honestly, I’m not trying to rush the season in this little story for Friday Fictioneers, but the lone figure on the “stage” at L’Amphitheatre des Trois Gauls (Lyon, France) in Sandra’s photo this week made me think of elementary school Christmas pageants.

 
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Posted by on October 11, 2013 in Challenges, Fiction

 

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Told you so

pigeonsPhoto copyright Alastair Forbes

“Nuh uh. You’re lying.”

“No. Seriously. There’s a clown in there,” insisted Gary.

“How would a clown get in there?”

“I don’t know, but I saw him with my own eyes.”

“Oh yeah, what’d he look like?” grunted Toby suspiciously, turning his glare from Gary’s face to cast a wary eye toward the grate.

“He looked like a clown, you idiot! White face, big bulging forehead slashed by coal-black eyebrows. Frizzy red hair sticking out all over. Red nose, red lips. Crazy colorful outfit with a big lace collar. He was holding a balloon.”

“Oooh, I like balloons!” trilled Rosy, suddenly perking up and peeking into the grate from the left.

“I’ve got lots of balloons,” floated a disembodied voice from the darkness. “There’s cotton candy, and rides, and all sorts of surprises in here*,” the voice cajoled, growing louder as it drew nearer to where they stood transfixed.

“I told you there’s a clown in there,” whispered Gary shakily.

Suddenly a death-white face framed by a flame-red halo appeared directly in front of them, causing the trio to jump back in surprise.

“Where ya going? Don’t cha want a balloon?”

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Alastair’s photo brought to mind the scariest book I ever read, It by Stephen King. I think it’s the only book that has forever changed the way I walk through the world–literally. I cannot walk over the top of storm grates in parking lots, and will routinely veer six feet out into the street to avoid being within arm’s length of curbside storm sewer openings. I tell myself that’s the power a good writer has over his audience, rather than admitting to my own childish paranoia.

You can check out Alastair’s Photo Fiction, a weekly picture-inspired writing challenge, and the stories submitted by other bloggers here.

*Direct quote from It.

 
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Posted by on October 8, 2013 in Challenges, Fiction, Tuesday Tales

 

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Travel theme: High

Ailsa asked for our highest highs in this week’s photography challenge at Where’s my backpack? Check out her blog if you’d like to read some great travel stories, participate in the weekly Travel Theme challenges, or just view the stunning submissions from her loyal followers.

 
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Posted by on October 6, 2013 in Challenges, Photography, Sunday Best

 

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Mine mine mine

seagulls-wicklundPhoto copyright E.A. Wicklund

Like two gulls scrapping over a single stolen French fry, the twins screeched at each other.

“I saw him first!”

“Yeah, but, he asked me out!”

“That’s because he thought you were me!”

“Guess if you’d gone to the library like you told Mom, instead of sneaking into that club with Rhonda, it would have been you. Go on the date if you want, but I’ll tell Mom that you lied, then you’ll be grounded and won’t get to go anyway.”

“I hate you.”

“Look at the bright side. The ‘library’ is open late tonight. Maybe Rhonda wants to study.”

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Note: Gulls always make me think of this scene from Finding Nemo, hence the title of today’s piece.

Think a picture’s worth a thousand words? Well, over at Friday Fictioneers, they only charge a hundred. That’s right, if you can create a complete story in 100 words, based on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ chosen photo for the week, then you, too, can link up! 

 
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Posted by on October 4, 2013 in Challenges, Fiction

 

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Honey, it’s in my DNA

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My hubby might possibly be the only married man in the Western hemisphere without a wife-generated Honey Do list haunting his every weekend. In nearly eight years of marriage, I’ve never penned one and he’s never questioned why. I even have a Honey Do notepad, handed down from my mom, but it’s only ever used for grocery lists.

How did the hubby get off the hook? Credit for his good fortune can be traced along several branches of my family tree.

First, let’s climb the tree to my paternal grandmother. She and my grandfather divorced when I was a wee one, so my memories of her were always as a single woman. She lived alone in the house my grandparents once shared until well after my college graduation. She was very financially savvy, she kept a spectacular yard and garden, but she couldn’t (wouldn’t) do a damn thing for herself around the house. Dread absolutely oozed from my parents whenever it was time to go to Grandma’s, because she was inevitably waving a mile-long Honey Do list at each of them before they even had both feet out of the car—once we were of a responsible age, my brother and I got lists as well (it was my job to wash and polish the crystals on the dining room chandelier). I don’t remember a single time when we went to Grandma’s just to sit and visit. In high school, I discovered the true depth of her dependency when I learned that she called the neighbor over twice a year to reprogram her thermostat for daylight savings time. For reasons I can’t explain, that single revelation eclipsed all of her previous “I’m just a poor helpless female” antics, and my theretofore-dormant feminist hackles went up. I swore in that moment that I’d never, ever, ever call a man, be he family, friend, or professional, for simple home maintenance chores. Hence, no Honey Do list for the hubby.

Next, we can swing over to my maternal grandfather’s branch of the tree. I did not inherit much from my mom’s side of the family, but the few traits I did get are worth their weight in gold. The most valuable is Granddad’s willingness to tinker. I’m not sure there was anything the man could not build, repair, redesign, or improve. I have some physical reminders of his ingenuity…an aluminum pot that he made from scraps at work on his lunch break, a set of roofing plans that he sketched, a level from his basement workshop. But better than that, I have his curiosity about how things work, his creativity to overcome obstacles, his common sense to plan a solution, and his mechanical aptitude to carry out the plan. As a result of my granddad’s influence, upon returning from a TDY the hubby found his wife had installed brand new tile in the entry rather than writing an entry on a Honey Do list.

Finally, we can climb back down the tree to my parents. There was a Honey Do system in place while I was growing up. Mom, unlike my grandmother, was willing and able to do a lot of the day-to-day household maintenance that cropped up. But she was busy taking care of two kids, and there were just some things that she felt Dad should do, so they went on the list. Problem was, Dad’s priorities and timeline didn’t always mesh with Mom’s priorities and timeline. Unfinished (unstarted) projects caused tension. Tension occasionally escalated to anger. I don’t like tension. Or anger. I knew that whenever I got married, no matter how wonderful and willing to work he was, my type-A personality would likely mean disparity between my priorities and timeline and my husband’s. For the sake of marital harmony, I’d rather just do things myself. If I am the one procrastinating, or taking too long to finish a simple job, I can’t be angry at the hubby. So the Honey Do system has never been implemented in our house.

Sometimes I wonder if the hubby is glad to have a self-sufficient wife (possibly even proud that she has her own drill and knows how to use it?), or if it hurts his feelings when I get out the ladder and replace the air filters myself instead of asking him to do it. Personally, I like that the absence of a list means our weekends can be spent doing things together rather than me micromanaging supervising while he struggles to complete designated tasks before his beloved Patriots play on Sunday. So unless he asks to join the ranks of the Honey Do husbands, I’ll continue to lean on my ancestry to preserve our harmony and his freedom.

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The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge was to examine how certain inheritances come alive in our looks and/or personality.

 

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Bond of brothers

bImage courtesy of fromoldbooks.org

Barely able to see through the slits in his mask, Billy struggled to keep up with the others. Big brother Blake was leading tonight’s mission, setting the pace the other three would follow. Begging him to slow down was not an option. Blake had carefully scouted their route and rehearsed the timeline for this operation, and no deviation would be tolerated.

Besides, the older guys had all doubted his ability to see this through, and he’d already had to agree to give up half of his share of the take just to shut them up. Being personally responsible for their failure to collect as much booty as Blake anticipated was not appealing. Beatings would surely ensue. Bountiful rewards were within their reach, he just had to keep up for a little…while…longer.

BANG!

“Billy, you dumb-ass, watch where you’re going!” Blake hissed from the top of the driveway.

“But…but…I didn’t see it ‘cause-a my mask,” Billy whimpered as blood started to drip from beneath the rubber Scream face.

“Break your nose running into a truck mirror, and Mom is gonna kill me. Boy, I knew bringing you was a stupid idea.”

“But you had to bring me!  Boys in high school can’t trick-or-treat without a little brother or sister. Better be nice to me, or I won’t come next year, and you guys won’t get any candy at all.”

Blake smacked the back of Billy’s head as he fished an old napkin out of his coat pocket, hating when the little punk was right. Bending down, Blake wiped the blood off the front of Billy’s costume.

“Buck up, we’ve got two more blocks to go, and you haven’t got us nearly enough chocolate yet.”

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Tried to cram two prompts into this one story. First, I took The Daily Post‘s idea of choosing one letter, and starting every sentence of the story with that letter. Then I snuck in the third definition of Trifecta‘s word of the week, “ass.” 

 

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