#SSC 8/ May 16-22nd

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Glass-Blown-ChandelierThe submissions to the 6th Sunday Scribble Challenge were some of my FAVORITE so far. If you haven’t already, go back through the comments and check out the great responses to the prompt. Many of the writers who participate in the challenges show remarkable talent, making it a pleasure to host the #SSC each week. So, thanks to EVERYONE who shows up to play with their game face on. You’re the reason these challenges are so fun.

But . . . there can only be ONE winner. Well, unless it’s a tie (like last week). THIS week *cue movie announcer voice* there was ONE.

The prompt for week 6-

Your character is dying. In a single line of dialogue, he or she has a final request that send loved one reeling. Write the dialogue and reaction.

And the winner: The mystery writer behind A Momma’s View. 

A Momma’s View is a lifestyle blog about homeschooling, being an expat, kids, and life in general. Although English is not her first language, her writing is crisp and witty. It’s easy to recommend checking the site out!

Here is A Momma’s View’s response to the week SIX challenge:

mommaHer heart felt heavy. It was too long. She had waited for too long to visit him again. He was only a shadow of himself. His eyes were still crystal blue, in a way they still seemed sharp. Everyone told her that he was “gone”, that his mind was somewhere deep inside of him, not able to be reached anymore. Dementia’s a bitch.
But somehow she didn’t believe them. Somehow she felt his presence. And she couldn’t understand that they wanted her to leave again only minutes after she arrived. She didn’t understand why her step-mom started talking to him whenever he tried to mumble something. She had to see him without the others around.
Now was the time. She had told the receptionist that she had left something in his room and was granted access. After all she was his daughter.
It was getting dark outside, her step-mom sure she was on her way back to the airport. His hands were cold, the color of his skin not the way it was supposed to be. They had told her he would not react anymore. And yet he was squeezing her hand and she thought that there was smile on his face.
Gently she caressed his forehead.
“I’m so sorry it took me so long to come see you. So sorry! So many things I would love you to know. Most importantly how much I love you!” Was it her or did he blink with his eyes while again smiling?
“Can you hear me?” Again he blinked.
“You can! Do you know who I am?” He blinked again!
“You can’t talk though?” He blinked again and the smile disappeared.
“I’m wish I could help you! I hate what this disease does to you!” She didn’t want to say it out loud, it just slipped out. He looked at her in a very weird way. Suddenly there was a thought coming up, almost like a dark realization.
“It’s not the disease! You are not as sick!” Again he blinked.
“Is it her?” He blinked again, his eyes wide open for a moment.
“Is she poisoning you?”
Just in that moment the door opened and the step-mom stood there.
“What are you doing here?”
She looked back at her dad, his eyes wide open, his hand cold and his soul gone forever.

Congratulations on the well deserved win, A Momma’s View! 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!

With those formalities aside I bet you’re wondering what the NEXT challenge is:

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Sometimes, describing food as “delicious,” “good,” or “tasty,” is perfectly acceptable while writing. In these situations the author isn’t necessarily worried about their readers paying attention to the food at all. This is not that time. This challenge is all about description. Is the food salty? Reminiscent of the sea? Or, is it sweet, reminding your character of the fresh baked buns their grandmother used to bake in the days before food was scarce?

The Rules: There are six 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.

  • The deadline? Saturday, May 20th @noon Atlantic Daylight Time.
    Encourage other Scribblers. TRY TO COMMENT (REPLY) TO AT LEAST THREE OTHER SCRIBBLERS 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.

Remember:

rules

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.

So, what are you waiting for? Unleash your writerly self.

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

 

65 thoughts on “#SSC 8/ May 16-22nd”

  2. Wooed by their fragrance, he ripped the wild strawberries from their stems, closing his eyes as they released an ecstasy of summer flavour upon his tongue. The taste of a stink bug emerged; filling his mouth with the pungent spice of a mothball in a sewer and making him gag. The sun warmed sugars of another berry erased it from his memory and with each red morsel his hunger relaxed into a sullen ache.

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  6. He swallowed the excess saliva flooding his mouth and smacked his dry, sunburned lips as he got whiff of the overwhelming smell rising from an empty cheese-and-onion flavored packet of crisps. He saw clouds wisp by as he lay on the back of the speeding pick-up and felt the piercing, grey eyes of the terrified, little boy through the rear window. He moved his arm in an attempt to grab the empty bag and braced the blood drenched t-shirt wrapped around the crude stump where his left leg used to be.

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  8. As Elissa landed with a heavy clang of armor on the grounds outside the castle gates, she looked up to see a small boy waiting around the corner of an aspen tree. Pushing a painful smile from her cracked and blistered lips, she saw the sweet bread that stretched out from his tiny hands. “Mistress!” he said, with tears in his eyes, and as he placed the soft flaky bit of heaven in her hands, the memories of foul, muck-covered ogres subsided, and the smells of spice and flour became a new comfort only the promise of a full belly could provide.

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  10. You can’t even begin to fathom my elation at finding food. Drool inundated my mouth to the point it dripped off my tongue when I caught the aroma of meat, potatoes, veggies and days long ago before my people left me behind. Pride and dignity won’t nourish a starving body, but yesterday’s waste will and while my ears remained on high alert for dangers my tail wagged uncontrollably.

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  11. It had been weeks since solid foods passed her lips, weeks of fevers, coughs, chills and vomit. Now that the illness had lessened its hold on her emancipated body she could feel her stomach clench, the saliva building inside her mouth forcing her to swallow several times, as the overwhelming smells of bacon drifted under her twitching nose. She could almost see the tendrils of delicious flavor pass over her as the small plate of scrambled eggs and bacon appeared before her as if by magic; she thought this must be what heaven is like as the first spoonful passed her chapped lips and teased her starved tongue.

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  12. That taste…faint trace of the familiar, made exotic by being of you. The stir, the oil slicked skin, heat beginning to seep through, a finger dips, a little more wine, just before the simmer. Almost but not quite, put it in the bin, it’ll make the dog sick, take away just fine for me.

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  14. The sun-warmed, succulent sweetness of the strawberries exploded in the ravenous man’s mouth, causing a rush of saliva and pain. No sooner had the warm, delightfully sweet juice filled his mouth and the aroma entered his nostrils, than he greedily grabbed another handful out of the bucket.
    Suddenly, he awoke and then moaned as he realized that, once again, he had been dreaming and still there was no sign of help.

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  15. The summer had been particularly harsh this year; an immeasurably minute amount of rain had fallen, the tall grass had long ago turned brittle and sun-bleached, and the hot dry earth was scorched and broken along an infinite number of cracks and crevices. He ambled closer still to the last watering hole for miles, slowly, taking his time to conserve what little energy he had left in his tired muscles, and what little resolve he had left in his hunger-maddened head. The lion drew nearer still, and was met with a scent carried aloft on a fiery breeze: the nauseatingly metallic smell of sweat, cotton, and fear quickened his nerves and pulled taught his muscles, and he knew in that instant that he was one last pounce away from either death or survival in this harsh, unforgiving prairie.

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