#SSC 7/ May 9-14th

Happy Scribble Challenge . . . MONDAY!

Without making anyone wait ANY longer, it’s time to announce the winner for the fifth Sunday Scribble Challenge and post a brand NEW prompt to pump up those writing muscles. The votes were close this week, and Jennifer Shelby ALMOST took the prize. But, by two votes, (drum roll please) Frank Parker grabbed the win.

The prompt that week? Write a six word story with a twist ending.

Frank’s winning entry: Six feet under; six hands waving.

Frank is the author of: Transgression, Strongbow’s Wife, Summer Day, and Honest Hearts.

YOU can check out more of his stuff at his author site, here. Congratulations on the well deserved win, Frank! It’s my pleasure to invite you and/or your work to be featured in an upcoming post on Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins. This can be done in whatever way you like: a reblog, a guest blog, or even a small sample of your latest book along with a purchasing link. You decide!

Now, this week’s Scribble Challenge is all about showing. One of the first bits of advice new writers often receive is “show, don’t tell.” In truth, both showing and telling have their advantages. The best story tellers understand the value of each method in different situations and weave their stories accordingly.

This week’s challenge fell on the day after Mothers Day. I am particularly lucky because I happen to have one of the best mommacitas in the world226630_10150602586000105_2515096_nShe’s funny and friendly, and she does whatever she can to make the world a little brighter for the people lucky enough to know her.

This is one of my favorite pictures of my mom (taken by my very talented sister, who also happens to be the owner of the Calgary based company, Photolicious Photography). It was taken almost five years ago. Mom had planned to arrive in Calgary from Winnipeg in time to be present for my youngest hellion’s birth, but, as troublemakers sometimes do, he came early. When I called her from the hospital to tell her she missed the “fun,” (her word, NOT mine) she cried. I cried. We all cried. Now, I can tell you how much I love my mom. I can tell you she loves my kids. In this situation, it might be better to show you the scene when she finally met her fifth grandchild:

She set her suitcase beside the door, a wide smile across her face. The boys ran down in an eruption of feet thudding on stairs and squeals across the kitchen, waking the baby in my arms. He began to cry again, just as he’d been crying all night: the quiet, raspy wail of a somewhat colicky newborn, my unyielding alarm of the previous fifty-two hours. She hugged the boys and took the baby from me, telling me about her flight while swaying back and forth, bestowing my new son with the big soft cuddles that only the very best of grandmas can.

Miraculously, he settled. She rubbed his back. She smoothed his little tufts of soft baby hair. And, in a moment I’ll never forget, he leaned back to look her in her the eye as if he knew already how special she was, as if he could feel her love emanating into the very cockles of his heart, the exact same way that I do.

And just like that, everything was okay.

Okay, okay, enough with the sappy stuff.

Just joking.

It’s time for WAY more sappy stuff.

Because YOUR mission this week is to:quotescover-JPG-99

The Rules for this challenge? It can be long. It can be short. Do what you have to do. There are five days to ruminate if you need them. Post one submission to the prompt in the comment section below this post. DO NOT EMAIL YOUR SUBMISSIONS.

Deadline: Saturday, May 14th @noon Atlantic Daylight Time.
◾Encourage other Scribblers. Try to comment (reply) to at least three other submissions during the week.
◾After the deadline, VOTE for your favorite submission by emailing: Sundayscribblechallenge@gmail.com. Place the lucky author’s name in the HEADER of your email.



Participation is quick and easy, and a great way to procrastinate interact with your writing peers.

These flash fiction challenges fuel creativity! They’re also a relatively painless pool for writers who’ve never posted their work to wet those feet, OR for established authors/bloggers to pick up a few new readers.

Trolls will be escorted back beneath their bridge along with a flaming stick of dynamite.



39 thoughts on “#SSC 7/ May 9-14th

  1. Were houses always this quiet? She traced her fingertips along her belly, seeking reassurance in the uneven textures of her stretch marks. Her eyes flicked to the clock. She picked up her pen and put it down again. Finally she got up, turned on the TV to banish the silence, and tried to get some work done. She had looked forward to this, hadn’t she? She glanced at the clock again and sighed. Where had this horrible ache come from?

    At last the hands of the clock dragged themselves to the hour she was waiting for. She rushed to the end of the driveway, her heart beating too fast, her eyes hunting for clues along the empty road.

    A yellow bus drove into view and lurched to a stop at her feet. The doors opened and a small pink tornado threw itself into her arms. “Mom! I missed you!”

    She embraced her daughter and kissed her messy hair. The ache disappeared. “How was your first day of school, pumpkin?”

    Liked by 5 people

  2. Today’s afflicting mark was the direct result of running faster than his two-year-old feet could carry him. Fall-upon-fall, no lack of coordination would slow his speed.

    He had been too excited to stop, and too oblivious to notice the beads of blood welling up on his elbow, where a circle of skin had been sloughed away by rough pavement. No doubt the stinging he should have felt at present, was being calmed by the cool breeze that blew against us as we neared the end of our morning walk.

    We reached the door to the gate surrounding our cottage and it creaked that familiar creak that, along with the sweet smell of roses, meant we were home. As soon as we walked up the final steps to our front door, Rowan looked up at me with glistening tears in his eyes.

    “Kiss the booboo?” he asked, holding his skinned elbow up to me. It seemed, the pain had finally caught up to him.

    Wiping the tears from his eyes with a brush of my fingertips, I bent down to his level and gently placed a kiss upon the sore spot. “All better?” I asked, fixing my gaze with his.

    “All bet-tah.”

    He darted inside ahead of me, pain forgotten, until the next time he would need or want me to comfort him. I longed for those moments. He was growing up so fast, and I was beginning to forget a time when he had once fit in the crook of my arm.

    I placed the keys on the hook beside the door and turned around.

    “Kiss the booboo?” Rowan stood before me, elbow once again propped high in the air, waiting for his mother’s kiss. It was the best kind of medicine.

    Liked by 5 people

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  4. After hitting the buzzer to allow our visitor into the office, I twist around in my chair, eyeing the young girl sitting in the nurse’s office. She cradles her injured arm as the tear streaks dry on her face. “Your mom’s here, Celeste.”

    She sniffs and drops from the chair as a tall woman – an older mirror image of the first grader in my care – breezes through the front door. After a polite greeting, the woman walks past my desk, beyond the boundary parents normally cross, to meet her daughter.

    Crouching, the woman connects with Celeste’s eyes. “Mrs. Moore told me what happened. Does your arm still hurt?”

    Fresh tears pool in the girl’s eyes as she nods.

    The woman tilts her head and gently tucks a loose strand of long hair behind the girl’s ear, then wipes away the tears with her thumb. After a kiss on the forehead, she pulls Celeste into her arms. “I’m sorry you’re hurt. The doctor’s office is expecting us.” She pulls back, meeting the girl’s eyes again. “I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

    Celeste smiles, though pain still shows on her face. Taking the girl’s hand, the woman heads for the door, glancing at me on the way out. “Thank you for taking care of my baby.”

    Liked by 7 people

  5. They were hiding behind a few empty, broken shelves. Both of them listening quietly, big eyes peering into the front of the ransacked, dilapidated building that probably was a store at some point in history.

    “Are they gone?” Her voice was filled with fear and anguish. Jennifer almost forgot what her voice used to sound like. It’s been so long. She’s been through so much already. She held her daughter and brushed the wild, unwashed, auburn curl from her cheek. Her porcelain face was covered in grime. Her piercing blue eyes like glitter in the dirt.

    “I think so. Let’s just wait a few more minutes.”

    Her heart was pounding. She was afraid Sam might hear it. She took a deep breath to try and calm herself down. It took everything she had to compose herself. She simply wouldn’t allow her daughter to see her numbing fear. Her legs were unable to move.

    “Mom, I thought they all died by now? Isn’t that what Uncle Matt said?” whispered Sam beneath her.

    “Yes, my love. He did. But we’ve never ventured this far from Basecamp. I suppose they’ve always been hanging around in the bigger towns.” She took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. The adrenaline was still surging though her body like a monsoon.

    “Mom, I think we should find the others.”

    “Yes, I agree. Just give me a minute.”

    “Are you alright Mom?”

    “I’m fine. Come on let’s go. But we have to run. Do you understand my love? We don’t know what’s out there and until we do, we should just keep running.”

    And with that she grabbed her daughter’s hand and stumbled out through the broken glass into the open street. But they should have stayed where they were. There were a large horde not even a block from the store where they’ve been hiding in. The horde saw the couple and gave chase. Jennifer was frantic and panicked when she saw Matthew’s concerned expression through a window across the street.

    “Run Sam! Over there on your right. There’s Uncle Matt. Run! Quickly!”

    “Mom, I’ll never make it. My leg. They’re too close… MOM!”

    “Run Sam! Come on. I’m right behind you. I’ll keep you safe.”

    Sam did as she was told, she ran as fast as her wooden leg would allow her. She never even noticed when her mother stopped. She reached Uncle Matt and turned around looking for Jennifer. Only to see her in the midst of the frantic mob.

    For a brief moment their eyes connected and Jennifer mouthed: “I love you Sam! Stay safe. I love you.”

    And then she screamed in agony as they ripped the limbs from her body.

    Matthew was a big man but he battled to prevent the little girl from charging back across the street. He picked her up whilst she was kicking and screaming uncontrollably: “Noooo! MOOOOOOOOMMM!!!!”

    Liked by 4 people

  6. She looked out the window. She didn’t know how many more days she had left. Did anybody? The boys head rested on her shoulder and his scrunchy little behind covered her breasts.
    Oh. The breasts.
    No one ever said it was easy. The feeding. Waking up at night. Nipples coarse. Sore. Eyes blurry. Mind playing tricks.
    He slept.
    His little lungs breathed in and then out. A rhythm. She rocked to it in the chair and maybe some music played. It did.
    Mozart became a staple. Loud orchestrated lullabies to sooth the colicky infant to sleep.
    Did love feel like this?
    Scrunched up baby.
    Itty-bitty feet.
    An indescribable smell.
    Was love tangible?
    If it was, it was him.
    She could touch him. Feel him. His skin. His heartbeat.
    And for the first time, after weeks of non-accepting compliance:
    She let him in.

    Liked by 6 people

    • “Did love feel like this?
      Scrunched up baby.
      Itty-bitty feet.
      An indescribable smell.
      Was love tangible?
      If it was, it was him.
      She could touch him. Feel him. His skin. His heartbeat.”
      –These lines took me back five years. I never thought I’d say it, but I miss those late night feedings a little.
      Now, I REALLY enjoyed how you added an extra layer to your story with this line: “after weeks of non-accepting compliance.”
      Excellent job with the challenge here, A.R..

      Liked by 2 people

  7. “One more push, Lina. Just one more.” The nurses’ voice was optimistic and upbeat, encouraging Lina to dig deep for the strength to carry on. Unconsciously, she touched her belly. Soon, the only reminder she’d ever been pregnant would be the stretch marks lining her hips and breasts. Soon, she’d be a normal girl again, going to summer parties and looking for colleges to attend next year.
    “That’s it, honey. You’re doing excellent,” her mother said, tears brimming in her eyes. She’d wanted to keep the baby. To try. But Lina said no. Something inside of her said this baby was special and needed more than a sixteen-year-old girl could provide. Lina knew the moment she saw the profile of the family she chose that they were the ones. The Osmonds. A middle-aged couple, both in their mid-forties. They were infertile, and though several adoptions had fallen through, they were trying one last time. Lina was determined for this one to stick.
    A newborn’s cry filled the cold room, and Lina heard the doctor say, “It’s a girl, Lina.” He paused. “Do you want to hold her?”
    “One second, please?” she pleaded. As the tiny bundle passed to her arms, she wept almost as loudly as the newborn. Lina didn’t want to let her go. This was her child. Her baby. Her daughter who so easily quieted in her mother’s arms. Selfishness said keep her, love said let her go. Lina kissed the little one’s cheeks and tousled a lock of her dark hair. The child would not remember this day, but Lina would. “I love you. I will always love you.” After one last look at her daughter, she said to the nurse nearby, “Take her to her parents.”

    Liked by 6 people

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  9. Pingback: #SSC 10/May 14-20th | J. A. Allen

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