Give me a challenge!

I want you to present me with your short story writing challenge! Your challenge will be my inspiration and stimulus to imagine and to write; and of course, to entertain. A bit like Mister Squiggle, really.

Your challenge can be one or a couple of words, a theme, a brief character description, a picture: anything, really.. The constraints for your challenge are:

1. No copyrighted or offensive material.


2. Not too much: don't write the story for me. One word can be plenty.


3. Be creative and have fun.


4. By challenging me, you recognise that I retain full ownership of any material that I write in response to that challenge. If this doesn't feel fair to you, don't challenge me.

I will respond to challenges as follows:

1. I reserve the right to not take up challenges for any reason.


2. I will try to send an email back to you letting you know whether or not I intend to take up the challenge.


3. I can't guarantee how quickly I'll respond to the challenge. This is a surge bin after all!


4. When I post my response to each challenge, I'll include the details of the challenge, and acknowledge the challenger. Please let me know what name, if any, you'd like me to acknowledge. Also include anything else you'd like to see with your name, including where you're from, what you do, or a link back to your own website.

Simply e-mail your challenge to me (Bernard) at surgebin@gmail.com

Why Call my Blog Surge Bin?

1. The good names are taken
All the good blogname.blogspot.com names were taken, including "shortstory", "short", "story", and the list goes on. I needed something obscure.

2. I thought it apt
In the world of materials handling, a surge bin allows for the peaks and troughs in production to be 'ironed out' for the downstream processes.

In my world of fiction, this blog is intended to be my surge bin. I have lots of peaks and troughs - it really is a batch process. The downstream processes produce short stories, very short stories and flash fiction. Maybe, poetry.

My Eyes and Isabelle

I first saw Isabelle on a rainy Wednesday night in April. I was leaving my local supermarket with fresh onions and some ice cream when she came in out from the cold. She looked drowned: her hair was drenched and wild and her clothes were soaked and sticking to her skin. This was no "dashing from the car" wet - this was "walking through the rain all the way from home" wet. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, and succeeded; mostly.

"You look wet," I said, for want of anything better to say, but wanting to say something.

Her look was adequate reply. She made a move up one of the isles.

I tried again, following her. "Look," I said, "can I offer you a lift home, when you're done in here."

She hesitated, so I pressed my advantage. "It'll save you walking in the rain," I said, "and you don't want to get your shopping wet, do you?"

I married Isabelle on a sunny Saturday morning that September. I stood beside her at the front of the church smiling proudly, happily - stupidly. She looked beautiful: her hair had taken the entire morning to attain a state of perfection, and her dressed fit her body like a glove. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, and succeeded; mostly.

I buried Isabelle on an overcast Thursday afternoon the next June. I stood by the grave, stunned. The coffin lid was closed: you couldn't look at her, in the state that her body was in. I tried to keep my eyes dry, and succeeded; mostly.

Jill's Answer

Jill was soon lulled into a semi-hypnotic stupor by his voice, which droned on like a twin engined propellor aircraft, loud and constant. The subtle variations in volume - up and down, up and down - created an underlying beat to the drone that throbbed every few seconds.

It was the long, heavy silence that broke the spell. He was looking at her, expecting an answer, waiting. She looked at him, lost, then looked at Bill - her mind racing - but Bill's look of eager expectation was even more intense, and even less helpful.

Jill could only think of one response that might be expected of her right now, so she plunged ahead and said, in the loudest voice she could manage, "I do!"

Long Black, No Sugar

Doug asked the the girl with the black apron behind the counter for a long black to go, no sugar.

"That's three fifty," she said.

He already knew that, and handed her the correct change. She scurried off to the bean grinder. The cafe wasn't really very busy at this time of day; the breakfast crowd had gone, and morning tea was still an hour or two away. The middle aged couple in the corner looked like they were talking about mortgages, divorce, haemmoroids, or an equally painful subject.

The girl worked the espresso machine. The sounds of hissing and clunking were ominous. Doug wondered if espresso machines ever exploded, scalding and maiming barristas and customers. The girl said, loudly over the noise, "It's almost ready! How many sugars would you like?"

"No sugar, thanks."

A bit more clanging and some wiping. Suddenly aware that he was being watched, Doug turned to find two women waiting behind him, who didn't look like they wanted to wait. The serious couple was leaving. Doug turned back around in time to see the girl walk over from the work bench to the serving counter. She handed him a coffee and two packets of sugar.

Doug said, "Thanks," took the coffee - left the sugar - and walked straight out of the cafe. He shook his head and wondered what was going on in his world. Logically, the problem lay either with others, or within himself. Were others consistently becoming increasing incompetetent and less able to understand him? Alternatively: had Doug himself developed a speech problem of some kind? He considered whether it was plausable that he had developed an involuntary Freudian slip that he was himself deaf to; in that he now only thought he asked for no sugar, but was requesting sugar nonetheless.

Despite the fact that he was almost seventy - and must by now be leaning a little toward senility - he still tended to believe he was a victim of the incompetence of others, rahter than his own deficiencies. This was based on his own assessment of the balance of probabilities to be sure; but he had little else to work with.Why is it so hard to get a long black with no sugar, anyway?

Doug stopped on the footpath to admire an old but well maintained Honda motorcyle. He gingerly sipped the coffee, careful not to burn his tongue. Revolted, he spat the milky liquid into the gutter, barely missing the nice old bike. White coffee! White coffee?