Writing Challenge #48

WEEKLY CHALLENGE #48

1. CHALLENGE:  Describe a nostalgic location. Be as creative as you can! Do you hear leaves crunching? What do you smell? What is your character doing there? What significance does it hold for them? Are there voices from the past lingering there? Make us feel the importance of this place.

Write this using no more than 250 words!

Think you can do it? Of course, you can! Looking forward to reading all of your fantastic entries.

2. COMMENT: You MUST comment on FOUR other entries to qualify. If you do not, your entry will be disqualified from the challenge. Give and take… Keep the cycle going.

3. IMPORTANT In order to qualify, you MUST vote for your TOP THREE choices. If you don’t vote, you cannot win this challenge (even if you receive the most votes!). To vote, you need to reply to the email that goes out for the Weekly Challenges. In that email, if you scroll to the bottom, you will see all the information you need to vote for this challenge.

You need to join our mailing list in order to receive the weekly voting email

4. DEADLINE: Tuesday, October 31st at 11:59 p.m. PST. Voting booth will open for this challenge on Wednesday, November 1st, and the winners will be announced the following Wednesday, November 8th.

HUGE CONGRATULATIONS to the winners of Writing Challenge #46… Karen Holt, Reigny Dai and Riss-Ryker!

Have fun!

BONUS CHALLENGE: Want to stretch that creative muscle a bit more? Take your entry and turn it into a flash fiction story! Then post it in the ‘Posts for Review’ section on Writer’s Carnival. Remember to review other posts while you’re there, too, to keep that cycle going!

Not sure how to post a full story? Click here and then scroll down to ‘All About Posting’

 


Author Notes

24 Comments for “Writing Challenge #48”

Karen Holt

says:

‘Piccadilly Circus. It couldn’t be further from the truth now.’

Rebekah stood on the sidewalk peering down the length of the street. Tall buildings on either side squatted like stained gargoyles above dingy glass facades of derelict shops. The department stores lining the ‘circus’ intersection appeared to be bound and gagged by blackened coils of burned out neon tubes that used to pour rainbows of light out over bustling shoppers. The lava flow of bodies clutching carrier bags: the cacophony of conversation, layer upon layer of voices, the babbling musical notes, were gone.

Weeds grew out of cracks in deserted roads, reclaiming ground, pushing up from beneath and creating mounds in asphalt that strained to hold back green-leafed intruders. The diesel and gas smells she remembered had long since been cleansed by winds which blew through the streets, whipping banks of leaves into merry dances.

It became harder with each passing year to remember the sounds of queuing traffic. The purr and rumble of engines and crunch of tyres crawling over gritty tarmac.

The cawing of a rook, it’s black silhouette passing across a crystal-clear unpolluted ice-blue sky, would not even have registered back then. The noise called Rebekah back to now. ‘I better get moving before they come out.’ Humans had no place here any longer, and the underground shelter was still a long way off. Her penetrating glance swept the shadows gathering like piles of soot beneath trees and filling doorways; Rebekah hoisted her backpack higher on her shoulders and started moving, fast.

says:

There it was, the cow shaped mailbox Claude knew so well, it’s neat black letters spelling out GENTNER. His face clouded and he shook his head ruefully as he turned his silver Mercury Milan off tree-lined Blackberry Lane and crunched up the rutted driveway to his former Indian Falls, New York home. He parked, got out of the car and stretched away the fatigue of the three-hour drive.
As he expected she was waiting on the top porch step of the rambling white farmhouse, cradling a coffee mug in her hands. “Thank god you’re here, son. I thought you might be late and I’d have to cancel my plans to go dump digging with Gert and Nina.”
“Got things in motion, have you, Ma?” Claude hauled his week-ender out of the trunk of the car and dropped it to the ground. “Where does that leave me?”
“With your father. Now that he’s feeling better and since he put old Tootsie down, he’s ornery. I need to get out of the house. Do you mind?”
Claude climbed the uneven steps to the porch. He leaned over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Of course not,” he lied.
They walked together into the farmhouse kitchen, a large, old-fashioned room that featured a cast iron stove, soapstone sink and dark, wooden, glass-fronted wall cabinets filled with gleaming Blue Willow dishes. Elsie had salvaged the china from an old dump she and her friends had mined, brought back the neglected treasure and cleaned each plate and cup until it shone.

Karen Holt

says:

Patricia, you’ve painted a scene which leaves me wanting to know more about the relationships. The return to his childhood home is overshadowed by a sense of duty, but borne of love for his mother? Claude’s sense of being resigned to looking after dad left me wanting more of the backstory. Great writing.

says:

Thank you Karen for your comments. I have posted the completed story of The Rescue in WC’s short story section. It tells the whole story of Claude, his mom and Dad and Gert and Nina. You might enjoy reading it for the rest of the story.

reigny dai

says:

This is a touching scene that gave me warm fuzzies in my heart. I pictured everything as I read, and as I did, I felt like was home.

RissRyker518

says:

She felt like an unwanted specter as she walked through her old neighborhood one last time. A desolate smattering of empty houses, boarded up and abandoned without a backward glance. Decayed dwellings once echoing laughter and joy, now held ghostly memories hiding in the tall grass and broken glass. The old dairy where, on hot summer days, she and her best friend would wait for the chocolate milk crates to come out on the conveyor belt to sneak a pint or two was now a blackened skeleton from the 1979 fire. Mrs. Radaczek, who baked the neighborhood kids cookies, her tumble-down, clap-board gray house sat derelict, yard overgrown and wild. Next door, her own childhood home, its newest inhabitants neglectful and sloppy. Taking one last look at wreckage of her past, she turned and walked away, never to return.

Karen Holt

says:

You created a melancholy atmosphere and painted a scene of happy times viewed through a lens of sadness. Really great piece.

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