Writing Challenge #8

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WEEKLY CHALLENGE #8

  1. WRITE: For this week’s challenge, you’re going to be dusting off your FAVORITE scene (or poem) you’ve ever written. It can be as little as one sentence or as much as 100 words. It doesn’t matter what genre or topic, but should be a small bit of your writing that you’re REALLY proud of.  Also, include one sentence as to WHY it’s your favorite.

Looking forward to reading all the entries!

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.

IMPORTANT In order to qualify, you MUST vote for your TOP TWO 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 must join our mailing list in order to receive the weekly voting email. 

DEADLINE: Tuesday, May 17th at 11:59 p.m. PST. Voting booth will open for this challenge on Wednesday, May 18th, and the winners will be announced the following Wednesday, May 25th

CONGRATULATIONS: To the winners of Challenge #6… Rebecca Braun, Marcia Yearwood and Jay Heltzer!

THIS CHALLENGE IS OPEN TO ALL MEMBERS!

Have fun!


Author Notes

180 Comments for “Writing Challenge #8”

says:

I chose this as it was my first real deep poem full of meaning. Having lost members of my family from newborn to grandparents, parents and siblings this piece resonates with me

On Angels Wings

On angels wings you were taken away
You left me behind and here I must stay
Memories seeded from time spent with you
Shared lives spent together as one not two
Alone without you another lost day

Here with family I act out this play
Scenes to be rolled out day after day
Away from our life and beyond you flew
On angels wings

My life without colour my life just grey
I long for the final act of this play
Between my arms I held onto you
Between your arms I farewelled you
I said goodbye as you went on your way
On angels wings

says:

Loss. A very real and heartbreaking emotion. Losing those close to you is so difficult to understand. You have described the feeling in a beautiful bittersweet way. Well done!

Write On!
Becky

Marcia Yearwood

says:

Since I worked with Mothers & Babies for 20+ years, I have a special place in my heart for them!

A pregnant woman lies near a dumpster. A blanket barely covers her as she shivers. I move toward her. She stirs; suddenly sits up in alarm.

“Please don’t go! Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head, trying to speak. “Uh, um…Got something to drink?”

“I’ve got water; just a minute,” I grab a bottle. “It was cold when I left.”

She guzzles it. How long it has been since she had something to drink?

“Come home with me? I love company. And I can make pancakes!”

She stares at me, shaking her head.

“Please…you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’m Susie,” I offer my hand.

She decides I can be trusted; then reaches out.

Tim Hillebrant

says:

“NO!”
I screamed, loudly enough my vocal cords ripped open, though I could hardly feel it.
The cars were still moving from the wreck, but I didn’t care. Nothing mattered in that second.
Dashing to the car with Echo inside, I pulled the door and felt fall free the car into my hands. Tossing it aside, I dove into the vehicle and Echo.
All I could do was stare, trying to comprehend the carnage in front of me. Both she and her mother were a mess; Blood was everywhere.
“…tommy…”
It was the quietest of whispers.
“Echo,” I whispered back,
Her hand, mangled beyond recognition reached up to me.
“Echo, hold still. Help is coming,” I pleaded.
Her hand found me and pulled me close. Her face moved, one side slack in a sickening mask. I knew what she wanted and allowed her to pull me in, then I heard her last words, whispered in my ear.
“Tommy, Baby, I love you…”
Tears blinded my eyes, but she wasn’t finished. Echo kissed me for the last time. Her dying breath exhaled upon my lips.

Part of my novel, Dreams Echo- only novel I’ve ever finished, and still in the I Need Editing stage.

says:

I never got to read the section where she actually died before… This is heartbreaking. From reading other chapters and sections about Tommy and Echo I feel like I know them. Especially, Tommy. He is constantly being crushed emotionally, and this event is paramount to the story. Your characters are so relatable to teen-agers, to us all, really. My heart goes out to them. You should edit and finish it, Tim. It is very good!

Nits:
-Dashing to the car with Echo inside, I pulled the door and {felt fall free the car into my hands}. Tossing it aside, {I dove into the vehicle and Echo.}

You mean the car door fell in your hands?
Sounds like you dove into Echo…

You may want to rework these sentences.

Awesome choice of writing, Tim!
Becky

Tim Hillebrant

says:

Thanks, Becky! I really appreciate your kind comments.
I just need to buckle down and work out the editing. It’s a mountain of work, literally, but one that should be done. 🙂

says:

I agree with Rebecca Tim, I stumbled on the (I dove into the car and echo) and it is definitely worth the work, I remember reading some of this on the old site..

says:

A very sad loss.
Should this line “I pulled the door and felt fall free the car”
read as “I pulled the door and felt it fall free of the car”
I gather this is the finale of the novel? well done Tim cheers

says:

Excellent, Tim! Sad and romantic. Heartbreaking.

I haven’t read any other parts of Echo – is this the end, or the beginning? Either way, it looks like an excellent story.

says:

The opening line from my book, The Sin-Eater’s Daughter

The sounds of the night filled the cool air of Black Water Swamp. Bullfrogs croaked their love songs to any female that would listen. The hissing of a snake echoed in the breeze as it was about to acquire a meal. Leaves rustled on the trees, and dead branches fell to the ground. The chaos of the night sounds blended together as a soothing noise. Suddenly everything stopped. The quiet was deafening.
http://myseashellbooks.com/books/sin-eaters-daughter/

Tim Hillebrant

says:

Sounds like a great hook to open a story with. I’d definitely read more, Michelle! 🙂

Tim

says:

For the longest moment the world stopped, the air became thick and the branch creaked. I watched the legs twitch, urine ran freely from the bottom of his trouser legs and there was a splash from the shoe that flipped and bounced off the lawn.

Not a sound could be heard inside our home, until the tick, click and roar of the boiler made me jump, the noise I thought a juvenile Dragon would make.

says:

This is a piece with mature content, no profanities, but covers a hard topic, so I put the link rather than expose someone who doesn’t want to read a death through a child’s eyes.
I call this my best because when I wrote this only a few months ago; my writing moved . My dealing with a difficult subject I believe found me my voice.
https://www.writerscarnival.ca/for-the-longest-moment/

says:

You can post it here, Ellen. No need to save us from the pain, it is perfectly postable. 🙂 I read and left my comments on your link post. Great job with this!

Write On!
Becky

says:

This is a poem I like a lot. It adresses the fear of discrimination and rejection; then it points to our beauty.

  ROSES

I fear to show you my real face
So you can see me as the rose
For you to judge me by my race
And not the meaning of the prose.

I cannot say it as my leisure
The things I feel and think about.
I must consider the full measure
and mighty magnitude of the mouth

I hide behind my real fears
Plagued by dreams of equality
Learned to adapt over the years
This existence, a fraudulent reality

I am a rose, that beautiful flower
You are a rose just another color.

says:

I feel the burn of discrimination and rejection, something I can relate to as a woman, but will never fully understand as my skin has no color. But you help me feel it with your words, and the gentle way you end this poem brings tears. This poem has a very strong voice, Claudine. Excellent!

Write On!
Becky

Tim Hillebrant

says:

Very well written, both the message, and the words used to convey it.
This is the kind of stuff that needs to be on posters, in magazines, and hung in places like libraries and cultural halls everywhere for all to see.

Nicely done, Claudine!

charles stone

says:

One of the first writes I allowed others to read.

The children lie in bed, asleep. Marcus and Hope lie on their sides with a thumb in their mouths. Jamal lies in the middle, on his stomach with an arm around each. Watching over them like a shepherd. Three angels, my only real accomplishments.

She forces two more pills and one more large swallow of the Hennessy and stumbles towards the kitchen.

“The kitchen is clean.” And she pours the last of the Hennessy down the drain. Turns on the gas and smothers the flames on the four burners. “One for each of us.”

The only sound.

Drip-drip-drip.

says:

Very powerful read, Charles. The POV seems strange to me, as the narrator mentions the children are their only real accomplishments. Yet, they are only watching the scene unfurl? Four burners… Children and Mom. Either that, or you changed POV’s if the scene is coming from the Mom.

What a sad scene… those poor children!! Brings up a lot of emotion. The desperation of the mother ending it all.

Write On!
Becky

charles stone

says:

Thanks for reading, Becky. Actually, “my only …” should be in italics, the Mother is thinking this. The italics didn’t make on the page.
Thanks for reading.

Tim Hillebrant

says:

I seem to remember this one, or one like it, and thought it very striking to read. You cover a lot of emotional ground here- from the aww moment of sleeping children and a protective sibling, to the horrors of murder/suicide.

Nice, Charles!

Lisa Doesburg

says:

Mind Snap

I stand ant hill small,
beneath the shattered American dream,
while schemes of mad men fill their pockets,
(with my soul.)

Endless coffee shops and sidewalk satire,
I stand guarded against lidded, lying eyes,
obvious intentions, sugar coated smiles.
(You could at least pretend.)

A portrait in prose, single tear obliterating happiness.
Mind left behind in shackled sadness, sleep is never.
Bending backward, breaking, mind snap.
(Or was that yesterday?)

Fear swims shark circles, stalking tomorrows promise of
happiness. Wishing for childlike splendor spent frivolous.
When paper hearts were art, and your home was your castle.
(Once upon a time.)

says:

I like this, the smooth lilt of voice, and the line ” A portrait in prose, single tear obliterating happiness.”
A couple of tiny nits, that could help this go from good to great,
, I stand (anthill) small
I believe it is a conjoined word not ant hill,
lidded(,) lying eyes, no comma required.
A portrait in prose, ‘a’ single tear obliterating happiness.
I love the line and with the addition of “a” single tear it moves with more fluidity.

Tweaks aside you should be proud of this.

says:

You create some wonderful images with this poem. Many of the short lines speak volumes, and there is a coldness that hits the reader in the face, though you give a buffer at the end of each line in the parentheses sections. Even those lines add another layer of irony.

This is an outstanding alliteration : “Fear swims shark circles, stalking tomorrows promise of happiness.” Wow!

Great job with this, Lisa.
Write On!
Becky

Tim Hillebrant

says:

Hi Lisa,

An angry poem, but one with a lot of vibe to it. You know, you’re on to them (government, politicians, big business moguls – any of those fit here well), and while you tolerate, you’re also letting them know you’re aware of what’s really up too.

I like it! Great imagery here too.

Lisa Doesburg

says:

Thanks for reading, Tim, and yes, this is an angry poem. My anger was aimed at those who feel a sense of entitlement because of their social status.

Marcia Yearwood

says:

Oh Lisa! This is amazing! I agree with Rebecca, the images speak volumes. It drives one to ponder…to what does this refer? And with Tim, who mentioned government, big business, etc. I would add perhaps the fall of America, depression or human trafficking. May I ask what you were angry at the time you wrote this? I’m sure it would be enlightening!

Lisa Doesburg

says:

First, thank you very much. I’ll share what made me write me. My daughter and I had lived in the same apartment for 11 years. we were so happy! I had a huge yard i filled with flowers, we had friends, and it was the in the same neighborhood I grew up in. A new owner decided he wanted my apartment while he and his wife were getting their new house ready and gave 30 days to vacate. Eleven years in thirty days. The anger comes from the sense of greed, entitlement and apathy that comes with land and power. Never mind how our lives were up heaved. That’s what this poem is all about. Money, power, and greed.

says:

I really like haibun poetry. The combination of haiku and prose really clicks with me. This is one of my favourites:

### On the Crest of the Storm

thunderous dark skies
running through the autumn grass
into the dark wood

*I am the hunted. He does not stop, will not stop. I hear my name above the building storm. He’s coming. I climb an ancient tree. It is warm. I draw from its strength and my knife hand quiets its tremble. I wait in the gloom, a wife and victim no longer.*

*My eyes narrow as I see him creeping through the brush, brandishing a hammer. There is no going back. It is quiet. Below me now, the smell of sweat and anger fill my mind with fear and something else. Hatred. There is no going back. It ends now. I drop from my perch and strike.*

lightning casts dark spells
violent blood soaks maple leaves
no one walks away

says:

I am really intrigued and impressed by this style of writing, combining the Haiku with prose! I’ve never seen this done before, and what you have done is expertly show how they compliment one another and can draw out dramatic affect. This is really cool, Doug!

Write On!
Becky

Anisa Claire

says:

Neat style and well done with it. It’s dark, twisted, showing us a moment of desperation. Great read, Doug.

Tim Hillebrant

says:

Haibun! I love this form, and remember wanting to try it before. Doug, sir, you’ve inspired me greatly here today with this one.

The poem really shows off the technique very well, and is very gripping to read at the same time. Nicely done!

says:

Thank you Doug for the intro to this style of writing. I researched it a little and it seems like a style I would love to try. The concentrated use of seasonal words, a concentrated use of sensory detail , a turn or sudden change of heart.
I will experiment with this.
In the piece you have written there is a sudden change of events. the hunted becomes the hunter,and bloodies the leaves. I love this

says:

(I once played around with micro-fiction. It was a great learning experience.)

A bow pinned to his shirt, he lay under the tree and put a gun to his head. Merry Christmas, baby.

Lisa Doesburg

says:

Wow! The scene that these two small sentences unravels in the reader’s head is explosive! Excellent, Dave!

says:

It’s so hard to pick a favorite. I don’t know what is my best writing, so I will just choose one that means a lot to me personally.

I HEAR THE DREAM

I hear the dream,
listening, it tells me
a tale.

The road has many stones,
and you must gather, the stones
that make you feel
beautiful,
magical,
useful,
and loved.

Your beauty will shine
when all you know
is balanced in time.

The magic of your soul
will lift you to the heavens,
if light be your goal.

Hands that will give
love to others
will let you live,

and love will find you
intertwining with the path,
the universal view.

Let music be your guide
the pen be raised,
the Lord be praised.

Don’t fear your shadow,
follow all that is light.
Don’t miss your chance,
listen long into the night.

I hear the dream,
am I strong enough
to follow the call?

There will be no answer
until you choose
to risk it all.

Lisa Doesburg

says:

So beautiful, Becky, I love this piece. It could be said for any one of us.

says:

I’m pleased it could be relatable to many. We all have a dream of what we would like our lives to look like, and the struggles and the strength needed to get there. Thank you, Lisa. 🙂

Becky

Marcia Yearwood

says:

This touches something deep in me! It’s almost as if you’ve been looking in the window of my soul and wrote down what you saw. In the words of Anne of Green Gables: “we are kindred spirits” Becky.

says:

Your response makes me smile. That it touches you deeply is such a fine compliment. You have made my day with your response to my poem. It is very dear to me, and we very well could be kindred spirits. I look forward to getting to know you and your writing!

Becky

Carol Moore

says:

Toni said, “No way my nephew did not kill his own dad. He is nine years old.” She picked up a glass from the patio table and threw it at the fire pit. And busted into tears and sobs.
“Let’s talk to him and find out if he handled the knife before the murder. Calm down he doesn’t need to know that his prints are on it.”
Randy asked, “Charlie, did you play with this knife in this picture?”
“No. I picked it up off of the floor and laid it beside that Chef guy.”
Toni hugged him

says:

This is from the first novel accepted for publication. Come with me to what was. I really like that line.

He lost count of the number of times Uncle Daniel hit him in the face, his eyes refused to focus, and his face was numb from the hard slaps. Uncle Daniel threw him against the wall of the shed, kneeling on his legs when he slid to the ground. Gort didn’t know how long Uncle Daniel beat on him. His body was one great pain, and still Daniel continued to land blows on his head, stomach, and back.
“Set the law on me will you? Get some fancy lawyer to take away the money that’s rightfully mine and give it to that auld biddy, Emily?” Uncle Daniel punctuated each accusation with another blow.
Gort finally just let himself slip into the comforting oblivion where Uncle Daniel and the pain in his body couldn’t follow him. Safe in the encompassing darkness, his searching hand encountered and became entangled in the crystal strands of GogMagog’s mane. Relief at the stallion’s presence washed through him. He’d missed Gog immensely when he had been gone on some business not requiring his soul mate’s presence. There hadn’t been an opportunity to discuss the recent troubling events before Daniel pounced.
Gort pulled himself to his feet and leaned heavily on the spirit stallion’s shoulder. Not for the first time, the teenager thanked the Goddess for the kinship of the crystal stallion. The bond they formed when Laurel successfully bargained for her mother’s life in the crystal caverns within the Tor sustained Gort and chased away the night terrors. “Thank the gods, you’re here,” Gort’s voice trembled, choked with his tears.
“I would have come sooner, but I was a long way away.” Gog’s warm breath sent hope and strength coursing through his cold body. The stallion glowed and shimmered with rainbow light; his large liquid eyes as fathomless as the night sky. Powerfully built, the spirit stallion had a long, flowing heavy mane and tail and thick-boned legs. His broad short back and powerful haunches rippled with strength. He belonged to the herd of crystal stallions that wait beneath the Tor for Arthur to call them to battle on the day of Britain’s greatest need. Partners in many former lives, man and horse were re-united once again. In the everyday world, Gog appeared as a sturdy black Fell pony who never strayed far from Gort’s side.
“Come with me for a while. Leave what is for a time, and travel with me to what was once,” GogMagog entreated him.
“Lead me to it.” Gort stepped away from the warm crystalline shoulder of the great stallion. Without a backward glance, the lad walked away from the pathetic heap of clothes and blood Uncle Daniel was still beating on.

Lisa Doesburg

says:

Wow! Fantastic! I love the horse’s name, too. How frightening and sad, though.

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