The third and final campaign challenge is upon us! Once again, though aimed at adult writing, I wanted to stretch myself by notching it down to YA,, to keep it in my kidlit realm.
Write a blog post in 300 words or less, excluding the title. The post can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should show:
- that it’s morning,
- that a man or a woman (or both) is at the beach
- that the MC (main character) is bored
- that something stinks behind where he/she is sitting
- that something surprising happens.
Just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: “synbatec,” “wastopaneer,” and “tacise.” (NB. these words are completely made up and are not intended to have any meaning other than the one you give them).
I was always the first up ! I tiptoe past the bunk where the twins lie lost in dreams, out of the beach hut and down to the wrinkled, damp ridge of the sandbar. The receding tide greets the ascending sun; I lick my lips, nature’s embrace reminds me of my separation. I clench and unclench handfuls of wet sand, rubbing the grains between my fingertips. How many more days of building sand kingdoms and playing volleyball with the girls until I can see Julian again ? A synbatec camp – he’d tried to explain it to me – his father thought it would be character-building, hence the unknown time-span, right, like not knowing when something will end will make you into some wastopaneer overnight.
I tilt my head back, and close my eyes, the warmth strokes my cheeks. The sun is fully globed above the ocean now. It must be 8.00 already and my sisters will be here soon spilling over with giggles and carefree vacation plans.
Shit, I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I roll over and bury my face in my sunburnt arms, but recoil and spin around immediately, spitting and snorting as though that will rid me of the of the acrid stench that invades my nostrils.
I blink and think that yesterday’s sunstroke is still playing with my mind.
He stumbles and crumples in an inert heap of ragged flesh beside me; his body so sliced with wounds, I see only dried blood crusts and seeping pus, not the brave, healthy boy I know.
I shiver and scan the beach for others, for explanation; the silence of the hunted shrouds and immobilizes me.
“Em,” his voice is less than a whisper, “I refused my father’s tacise. Help me. We have to go, to disappear.”
The voting can be found here, and I am a rather late entry, slipping in at #96.