I've submitted a challenge to the Six Sentences (6s) community, to write a six sentence story where the sentences start with the numbers one through six. Along with my challenge, I threw in my own attempt. You can see the challenge, and my story "In all my Glory" here.
If you've ever thought about having a go at writing, why not join the 6s community and have a go? A six sentence story doesn't take long to write.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
3WW (Three Word Wednesday) - "A Bag of Potting Mix"
I've just come across a very simple little blog site called "Three Word Wednesday", or "3WW" for short. In the words of the site's owner, "Each week, I post some words. People write things using the words. Then they comment here."
So, I thought I'd give it a go. The last 3WW (number CLIV) words are "Disarm", "Engage" and "Mayhem". This is what I came up with.
A Bag of Potting Mix
The plan is simple, and we follow it to the letter.
We go to Big W, and the Saturday morning shopping is mayhem, which is perfect. I engage the dragon-lady gatekeeper in a conversation, asking for directions to the gardening section. It's her job to check the bags for stolen merchandise and watch out for suspicious characters like us. While I'm chatting with the old girl, it's Brad's job to disarm the alarm on the anti-theft tag detection sensors.
With the thumbs up from Brad, we go shopping. We find a 68cm flat-screen high definition plasma TV that will suit our flat just fine. On the way out I distract the old cow again by thanking her for her help.
"No problem," she says, "it's all part of the job. Did you find what you were looking for?"
I smile; Brad is walking straight out the shop behind her, barely managing to carry the box. "Sure did; thanks again. Sorry, I have to go now."
I catch up with Brad as he gets on the escalator down to the car park. We finally get the box into the back seat of the car; it barely fits. Just as we close the doors, a cop turns up. It looks like the battle-axe gatekeeper is not as dumb as she looks. Next time I pretend to find what I'm looking for in the gardening department, I should probably buy a shovel, or a bag of potting mix.
So, I thought I'd give it a go. The last 3WW (number CLIV) words are "Disarm", "Engage" and "Mayhem". This is what I came up with.
A Bag of Potting Mix
The plan is simple, and we follow it to the letter.
We go to Big W, and the Saturday morning shopping is mayhem, which is perfect. I engage the dragon-lady gatekeeper in a conversation, asking for directions to the gardening section. It's her job to check the bags for stolen merchandise and watch out for suspicious characters like us. While I'm chatting with the old girl, it's Brad's job to disarm the alarm on the anti-theft tag detection sensors.
With the thumbs up from Brad, we go shopping. We find a 68cm flat-screen high definition plasma TV that will suit our flat just fine. On the way out I distract the old cow again by thanking her for her help.
"No problem," she says, "it's all part of the job. Did you find what you were looking for?"
I smile; Brad is walking straight out the shop behind her, barely managing to carry the box. "Sure did; thanks again. Sorry, I have to go now."
I catch up with Brad as he gets on the escalator down to the car park. We finally get the box into the back seat of the car; it barely fits. Just as we close the doors, a cop turns up. It looks like the battle-axe gatekeeper is not as dumb as she looks. Next time I pretend to find what I'm looking for in the gardening department, I should probably buy a shovel, or a bag of potting mix.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Published on Espresso Stories!
I've had two stories published at Espresso Stories. This site is the hard core of flash fiction. Each story has a maximum of 25 words!
The stories are:
Hope you enjoy them. If you sign into Espresso Stories, you can rank each story. The collective votes for each story determine its rank in the slush pile.
The stories are:
Hope you enjoy them. If you sign into Espresso Stories, you can rank each story. The collective votes for each story determine its rank in the slush pile.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Your Objection is Noted
This story is a response to another challenge from Mattrozi. His challenge was:
Confession: I've busted the 300 word limit out to about 600. Sorry. In return, I offer a first-person account of Tara, the character that I introduced in Dilute Solution, and which Mattrozi said he'd like to know more about. Not using words starting with 'b' is really challenging; but that's the point, isn't it?
Mattrozi writes a poetry blog called Cleveland Thomas.
"Tara," said Mr Everton, "tell me what you think of your last assignment.
I looked longingly at everyone else leaving the English classroom, going off to lunch. I turned to my teacher. "What I think's not important, Mister Everton," I said, smiling sweetly; leaning a little closer. "It's what you think that matters, isn't it?"
Mr Everton sighed and took a step back. "Very well," he said. "I think that it's an excellent first draft from a highly intelligent, highly lazy young lady. I think this took you twenty minutes; tops."
That got me. I'd actually written my short story submission during the ads of Australian Idol. "Whatever," I said, softly, looking at the floor.
Mr Everton sighed again. "This story, as it currently stands, is less than what I consider a passable quality." Before I could argue, he put his hand up and kept talking. "However, I'm confident that about a lunchtime's worth of rewriting and editing will elevate it to a pass; or higher."
I didn't like where this was going. I said nothing, and looked Mr Everton in the eye as he went on.
"Take your laptop with you now to the staff room, and you can get to work. I'll accept your assignment at the end of lunch.
"Si-ir," I said. "That's just not fair!"
"Your objection is noted." he said, "Though you're quite right. Giving you a second chance isn't really fair; only I think that with a push you just might start to realise some of your potential."
The lunch hour went slowly; however, I worked hard. I had to pass English. A fail would have a seriously tragic effect on the spending money and other goodies I get from Dad.
About half way through lunch, Mrs Atkinson, my Art teacher, knocked on the door of the staff room. "Mister Everton," she said, after noticing me, "I need to speak with you for a moment please; privately."
I just wished I could hide in the corner for the next few minutes to pick up some hot gossip on another student, or even a teacher. As I got up to leave, I had a stroke of genius. I opened "Sound Recorder" on my computer, hit record, and then locked the computer.
I could not have hoped to record a juicier conversation. My two teachers weren't talking about a student or another teacher; they were talking about themselves. They were having an affair; a very raunchy one, it seemed.
Later that night, I lay in my room in the dark and smiled. I formed my plan and slowly drifted off to sleep.
I said nothing as I played Mr Everton the conversation on my iPod the next morning. He went pale, and his hands started to shake. He stopped listening after half a minute.
"You little cow," he said.
I said nothing, and tried not to smile; much.
"What do you want?"
"I want an 'A' for English," I said. "Like you said, I'm pretty lazy and don't like to spend a lot of time on my assignments. So, I'll turn up to class, and hand in the assignments that you write for me; and you'll give me an 'A'."
Mr Everton stuttered. "That's extortion! That's --!"
"Your objection is noted," I said, and it felt good to say it. I turned and strutted down the hallway towards the Art department.
Write a short story no more than 300 words in length and use "noted" in the title and somewhere in the text. You may not use any words starting with the letter "b" and it must be written in first person.
Confession: I've busted the 300 word limit out to about 600. Sorry. In return, I offer a first-person account of Tara, the character that I introduced in Dilute Solution, and which Mattrozi said he'd like to know more about. Not using words starting with 'b' is really challenging; but that's the point, isn't it?
Mattrozi writes a poetry blog called Cleveland Thomas.
"Tara," said Mr Everton, "tell me what you think of your last assignment.
I looked longingly at everyone else leaving the English classroom, going off to lunch. I turned to my teacher. "What I think's not important, Mister Everton," I said, smiling sweetly; leaning a little closer. "It's what you think that matters, isn't it?"
Mr Everton sighed and took a step back. "Very well," he said. "I think that it's an excellent first draft from a highly intelligent, highly lazy young lady. I think this took you twenty minutes; tops."
That got me. I'd actually written my short story submission during the ads of Australian Idol. "Whatever," I said, softly, looking at the floor.
Mr Everton sighed again. "This story, as it currently stands, is less than what I consider a passable quality." Before I could argue, he put his hand up and kept talking. "However, I'm confident that about a lunchtime's worth of rewriting and editing will elevate it to a pass; or higher."
I didn't like where this was going. I said nothing, and looked Mr Everton in the eye as he went on.
"Take your laptop with you now to the staff room, and you can get to work. I'll accept your assignment at the end of lunch.
"Si-ir," I said. "That's just not fair!"
"Your objection is noted." he said, "Though you're quite right. Giving you a second chance isn't really fair; only I think that with a push you just might start to realise some of your potential."
The lunch hour went slowly; however, I worked hard. I had to pass English. A fail would have a seriously tragic effect on the spending money and other goodies I get from Dad.
About half way through lunch, Mrs Atkinson, my Art teacher, knocked on the door of the staff room. "Mister Everton," she said, after noticing me, "I need to speak with you for a moment please; privately."
I just wished I could hide in the corner for the next few minutes to pick up some hot gossip on another student, or even a teacher. As I got up to leave, I had a stroke of genius. I opened "Sound Recorder" on my computer, hit record, and then locked the computer.
# # # # #
I could not have hoped to record a juicier conversation. My two teachers weren't talking about a student or another teacher; they were talking about themselves. They were having an affair; a very raunchy one, it seemed.
Later that night, I lay in my room in the dark and smiled. I formed my plan and slowly drifted off to sleep.
# # # # #
I said nothing as I played Mr Everton the conversation on my iPod the next morning. He went pale, and his hands started to shake. He stopped listening after half a minute.
"You little cow," he said.
I said nothing, and tried not to smile; much.
"What do you want?"
"I want an 'A' for English," I said. "Like you said, I'm pretty lazy and don't like to spend a lot of time on my assignments. So, I'll turn up to class, and hand in the assignments that you write for me; and you'll give me an 'A'."
Mr Everton stuttered. "That's extortion! That's --!"
"Your objection is noted," I said, and it felt good to say it. I turned and strutted down the hallway towards the Art department.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Miner's Wife
I've been posting a lot of six-setencers lately; sorry. I've struggled to find time for anything more. I've received another challenge, which I'm working on, and hope to post soon.
This story has been cross-posted here at "Six Sentences" Social Network. It's a bit melodramatic; I know.
She lay on her side on the bed, holding the paperback in front of her, absorbing the pages. The world within the pages put her into a trance that numbed the constant pain. She could ignore the ache in her own heart for a little while by feeling make-believe joy, anticipation, romance.
When she put the book down, the fictional world dissolved, and reality slapped her again in the face like a cold, wet towel. She dealt with the real world only as long as she had to, and then returned to her bed and to her book. There was nothing she could do anyway; they would keep digging until they found a man, or a body.
This story has been cross-posted here at "Six Sentences" Social Network. It's a bit melodramatic; I know.
She lay on her side on the bed, holding the paperback in front of her, absorbing the pages. The world within the pages put her into a trance that numbed the constant pain. She could ignore the ache in her own heart for a little while by feeling make-believe joy, anticipation, romance.
When she put the book down, the fictional world dissolved, and reality slapped her again in the face like a cold, wet towel. She dealt with the real world only as long as she had to, and then returned to her bed and to her book. There was nothing she could do anyway; they would keep digging until they found a man, or a body.
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