Love of Writing discussion
Monthly Short Story Contest
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Novemer 2017 - Things to Remember
Shae, a question I have, with my observing that standard time resumes in November, what is intended with daylight saving time being used for the deadlines?
Good point. So then it will be EST for the deadlines and voting. I apologize because I had thought they moved it to December. Good catch. updating.... updating.... updating... done!
Thank you, Shea, for the refresher course. Though I have heard those steps many times it is good to have a reminder. I am determined to get a story written this month. Last month just came and went in a blur.
Lynette wrote: "Thank you, Shea, for the refresher course. Though I have heard those steps many times it is good to have a reminder. I am determined to get a story written this month. Last month just came and went..."Looking forward to reading it Lynette.
Shea - you have gone international! - I copied your url and sent it to the Facebook Group - Swanwick Wrtiers - and the response has been wonderful - they love it. Swanick Writers Summer School takes place every August for a week in Derbyshire in England. About 285 writers of all talents come together to learn how to develop their skills.I also gave them the link to this months competition so you may be up against more Brits!!
Some reactions to your blog post:Lance Greenfield Mitchell
3 November 12:07
That's what I like about this community, Steve. We all help each other. Even the most established and prolific writers. Like you, I am hoping that one of those helping hands will drag me through my own breakthrough wall or hedge. In the meantime, I'll keep helping others. It would give very me huge satisfaction to provide a breakthrough for a writing friend, even if I don't get mine. 😊
Comment history
Lyn McCulloch Fegan
3 November 12:09
That's a really good article! Xx
Diana Wimbs
3 November 12:14
Sorry Steve, I was so taken with the article that I forgot to credit the person who shared it! Thank you, really helpful. I've shared with my local writers' group.
Lance Greenfield Mitchell
3 November 12:15
Good idea. I am going to share it with my local writers' group too.
Steve Bridger
3 November 15:05
All good! Lance deserves buckets of thanks for helping fellow writers too.
Andy Roberts
3 November 15:30
This is brilliant. I've just shared it on my writers' group's page.
View all comments
Lynette wrote: "Thank you, Shea, for the refresher course. Though I have heard those steps many times it is good to have a reminder. I am determined to get a story written this month. Last month just came and went..."Thanks, Lynette. and yeah.... last month was quite a blur for me too. Glad to have you along this month.
Steve wrote: "Shea - you have gone international! - I copied your url and sent it to the Facebook Group - Swanwick Wrtiers ..."Wow! :) ... this is great. I love this. Please, everyone, share if you have a chance. I love helping people and really love that Steve got such a great response.
And we are about helping each other, and I really love that about this group. Learning is so much more fun that way. Way To Go!
The thing is this. This group is kep alive by people who love to write. Writers can live a lonely life but we all have the personal satisfaction of getting better over time and with the help and constructive advice of others. Heather started this and would be smiling if she read this and saw how much the time and effort she put into this group in the early years still endures.
Shae and Steve...Shae, what a great challenge for this month. Thank you, and thank you for the amazing link/article and website. A wonderful resource which I’ve bookmarked.
Steve, thanks for passing on the good writing news to other writers. Let’s see...my passport is still good through next August. Maybe I shouldn’t limit my dreaming.
Steve I have an idea for this story; it all hinges on your specifics and requirements of one element. Thanks. Can it be (a) or (b)?
(a) A Turkey.
(b) a turkey.
Personally i like (d) any of the above... :)
Wow... no posts! Either I made this really too hard or everyone is really busy.
Shae I usually let the criteria roll around in my head until a story takes shape, have finished my first draft and letting it sit for a while ... you know me well by now; that I work very close to the deadline then submit. Looking forward to reading all the wonderful stories that will be submitted by my fellow writers.
Mod
I blame it all on Netflix - Hell on Wheels. We're addicted.
Thanks Glenda for the SS outline blog. Just finished reading it and will use it to craft my November story. Great information!
Mod
I will try to join you again this month. This group and contests (mostly last year) account for a good number of my short stories. I will be publishing a book shortly -- All Things Cat, short stories to warm the cat lover's heart.
Some of the stories came from this group, so thanks to all. Will give you a head's up when it's available. Elaine
Received this message via Facebook this morning from a teacher who is a member of the Swanwick Writers Group:Hi Steve. I downloaded the info about the stages in short story writing and used it in an observed lesson at school. My HoD liked the idea and I have gone on to share it with other members of the department. My Year 10s had lots of fun coming up with a plotline, which covered as many of the stages as possible.
How good is that!
Forgotten things are not always as important as we think. - It that why we've forgotten them?There are many elements to be included in this month's challenge that it will make my brain hurt.
But I guess that's what a challenge is all about...
Elaine am looking forward to reading your book, All things Cat when it comes out, please keep us updated, thanks.
Shae wrote: "Wow... no posts! Either I made this really too hard or everyone is really busy."Knock Just Twice
By Shelly Heskett Harris
999 words
A white-haired woman balanced on a three legged stool in her attic and dug in a trunk looking for a dress her daughter could wear to a costume party. She was misty eyed with memories especially after she found her son’s old Army uniform. She hugged it to her chest and smiled,. remembering. . . .
Claire Hutton was an average sized woman with greying hair and a slight limp due to arthritis.. At the moment she was at the kitchen window, standing on her tiptoes, leaning over the sink trying to see the build up of dark clouds to the east.
“How’s the weather?” she called to her husband, who was coming in the front door.
“Looking bad, Mother.” he said, unloading a bulging plastic bag full of last minute groceries. “We are never going to eat all of this.”
‘“I’m going to make every favorite dish the boy has ever said he liked and it begins with a full turkey dinner.” She began emptying the bag. “There is quite a bit of food here.” she admitted. She stood in front of the pantry with two boxes of raisins, one in each hand, wondering where to put them. She had been to the store every day that week. The raisins were finally stuffed into a space on the middle shelf reserved for two cans of cranberry sauce. There were no cans in the bag.
“Robert John!”
His full name, oh-oh,. He sat up in his chair and waited.
“How could you forget the cranberry sauce?” She sighed heavily, “Go right back to the store”
He already had one arm in his coat and was heading for the door,
Claire wasn’t usually so short tempered, but she was tired and she wanted everything to go perfect for her boy coming home on leave .She’d have him for two full days and she didn’t want to spend it all in the kitchen There would be plenty of leftovers from this dinner and she peered in the oven one more time, to check the turkey and baste it again, which was unnecessary. The bird was golden perfection and the large pan of dressing on the shelf below a crispy topped brown.
“That darn Bob, I could wring his neck.” and then she felt guilty because the storm broke and rain was coming down in sheets, lighting was bouncing around the sky and the wind was forcing the ocean waves to slam against the cliff her village was built on.
Claire gave the living room one more scrutiny and eyed the couch longingly. No time, Uncle Carl was picking Joe up at the airport at 5:00 o’clock. This storm may hold them up some, she thought guiltily of poor Bob out in this mess.
A knock at the door startled her “Why would Bob be knocking?” Claire opened the door halfway and a man, dripping wet and carrying a gun, pushed her aside almost knocking her down. She came up fighting mad. This was all she could take.
“Get out of my house, mister. You are dripping all over my rug. .Get out I say.‘ She saw the gun, but it’s possibly of danger didn't register. She could only see her beautifully planned homecoming being threaten, “Get out.”
The intruder shook the gun at her. “Lady” he yelled when he could get a word in. “I'm just here out of the rain.”
A loud alarm burst forth from the television. Both Claire and intruder stopped and looked at the Tv.. A red strip ran across the screen, Attention: A prisoner has escaped from the Milam County Jail. and is considered armed and dangerous. He is Jim Brown, African-American, 5 ft.10 in, 245 lbs, and has a large tattoo on both forearms. Brown overcame a deputy and took his weapon. If you see Brown . . . Do not approach, Call the sheriff’s office immediately..
Both Claire and Brown looked from the Tv set to each other. ‘You don’t look like you weight 245 lbs.’ Claire said.
“I’ve been working out,” Brown said before he thought. He recovered and looked at the gun in his hand. He wondered why she wasn't afraid. He couldn’t know about the long nights she paced the floor because she had not heard from her son and she knew he was out on some kind of maneuver. no one would tell her exactly what. Brown would never understand how a Mother's love of her child could over shadow everything else
The front door burst open and Bob stomped into the house flipping the rain off of his coat and hat, The two stood and waited for him to get his clothes hung up.
“Cranberries or no, I’d never have gone out in this, I’ve never seen it so bad.” Bob said and finally turned around.
“Mother?”
“You two work it out. I have to finish my cooking,”
“Not so fast,” Brown leveled the gun at Claire, :You both stay where I can see you. Storm let’s up and I’ll be gone.
The front door creaked and then flew open. Two men, one in Army uniform, stomped into the room, shaking the water off and looking around.
Everyone started talking at once, “Oh, Joe,you look so good.” Nothing was going to stop her from hugging her son.
Brown was yelling for everyone to “Not move” He was quickly losing control of the situation. Bob was across the room trying to hug his son. Brown was desperate, he raised the gun and sent a shot through the ceiling. They all stopped and stood where they were except Joe. His eyes narrowed, his body tensed.
In one fluid motion he spun his mother behind his back, whirled around and with a smooth Karate chop knocked the gun out of Brown’s hand then twisted back and caught Brown's fist forcing it behind his back and to the floor, then hooked the other hand around, and with his knee in the intruder’s back looked up and grinned.
“Got any duck tape?”
Claire bustled off to find the tape. She had just seen her son in action and she was in awe. While Joe taped the man’s hands, she asked,
“Joey, about that”. . . and she motioned to the living room. . . “what you did to that man.”
“Awe, Mom it wasn’t anything.. That’s what I do for a living”
I wish we had a 1,500 word limit! I want to find out what happened next! Very atmospheric - excellent description and building tension against a wonderfully created homely backdrop. I'd better get my skates on!
Perhaps in the traditon of American hospitality they all sat down and had one last Turkey meal with lashings of Cranberry Sauce and waited until the storm blew over!
The story below is an edited excerpt from my WIP Black Cat and the Keys to the Treasure. Let's call it - Dewey's Diary....Kimberlee settled in her easy chair in front of the fire. She draped a lap robe over her legs and opened the journal. The handwriting about Dewey’s Army camp life became blurred and harder to read. Dewey wrote from a landing craft headed for the beaches of Normandy where the German army lay in wait for the invaders.
He wrote about how smell of diesel fuel resulted in soldiers moaning and throwing up in the bottom of the landing craft.
Those not already seasick from the motion of the boat became ill from the stench of vomit. They buried their heads in their arms to keep their friends from seeing their tears. The young men were terrified that their lives could be measured in minutes. The deafening pounding of the artillery from the ships onto the beach added to their terror and made conversation impossible.
Dewey’s scrawled words made Kimberlee smile. "Mother will be pleased to know that over the forty-five minutes aboard our landing craft, there is no longer an atheist among us. There are signs of the cross and hands clasped in prayer. Almost to a man, the boys are ‘coming to Jesus’. If this is my last day of life, I have no regrets for how I’ve lived my life. I’m ready to meet…"
Kimberlee flipped the page. Empty… She swallowed a lump in her throat. Tears pricked her eyes. Even knowing that Dewey survived the landing, by virtue of more entries in the journal, her heart ached for him. He faced Hell on earth that day. Eighteen-years-old, he and others from all over the U.S.A., naïve small town boys, carried a gun into battle, ready to kill or be killed.
What must he have endured over the next couple of days? How many of his comrades survived? Did Dewey kill men that day? How does a young boy experience such an event and not relive the Hell night after night for the rest of his life?
Dewey must have carried the journal into battle. Had he tucked it into his rucksack or were the stains on the cover from the sweat inside his shirt, next to his heart?
According to the date, the blotched entries began again several days later, on the battle field. Dark streaks near the top of the page could have been mud or blood. Were the circular stains from raindrops…or tears?
"Will I still be alive when…or if…someone ever reads this journal? Everything is quiet, except for the wind. Guess they left me behind, thinking I was dead. Bodies everywhere. Americans and Germans. This must be what Hell is like. Will I be one of the dead when someone comes? Terrific headache. Bullet hole in helmet. Ate candy bar. God? Why have you forsaken me? Didn’t Jesus say that on the cross?"
The army must have abandoned the beach in a hurry. Surely, they would return to retrieve the dead. How long had Dewey waited before he was rescued?
Dewey’s writing was more legible, the pages cleaner. The date indicated several days later, written from a hospital ward. He wrote about the days before he was rescued.
Apparently among the dead men surrounding him, Dewey came across a young German soldier, gravely wounded, also left for dead. Dewey dragged the soldier under the shelter of a truck, tore his own shirt into strips, and bound up the soldier’s leg wounds. He gave him water and food, surely saving his life.
The boy spoke English and introduced himself as Hans Gruber. Over the next twenty-four hours, as the young man passed in and out of consciousness, Dewey talked to him about everything from baseball to family, his girlfriend, and turkey dinners at Thanksgiving, Christmas trees, the classics, and music. They shared Dewey’s tinned rations, cigarettes and his canteen water.
Hans spoke about his dreams for the future. Never once was the subject of war or politics mentioned.
The young men exchanged addresses, vowed eternal friendship, and kept up each other’s spirits until the American troops returned. Dewey and Hans were separated on the hospital ship; Hans to surgery and Dewey to be medically assessed and released the next day to return to his decimated battalion.
The young surviving warriors laughed and rejoiced over a hard battle fought and won. No longer driven by fear and imminent death, most of their religious commitments made on the boats disappeared. Boasts were made of how many Germans each had killed.
Dewey wrote of his gratitude to God for sparing his life."It’s only been a few days since I last journaled, but after all I’ve been through, I feel ten years older and decades wiser. I wonder when I’ll sleep through the night again without seeing the bodies and the men screaming in pain? Must not dwell on that. Will I ever see Hans again? They say he was sent to an American prison camp. Maybe someday we’ll meet again."
Dewey wrote nothing about the actual landing, the charge onto the beach over sand and barbed wire, watching his comrades drop and die on his left and right, charging forward with bullets whizzing and shells shrieking overhead. He did not write of what he must have seen and felt, because he could not bear to put into words the horrors of that day. Apparently, he could not bring himself to revisit the memories, even in the shortest of sentences.
Even without Dewey’s account of the battle, Kimberlee knew what he must have experienced from movies, books and accounts by other veterans involved with the Normandy landing and ensuing battle. She wiped away tears, knowing that Dewey would never erase the memories.
She closed the journal. Enough. Tomorrow, she hoped to read more about his return to Oregon, marriage and a happy life. After surviving Normandy, he deserved that.
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Christine, let it sit. I do that all the time. Steve, I am speechless. I didn't think my little repost would be so popular. It was a great blog though.
Shelly, great story. really well written and very action packed. I was waiting for Clair to invite Brown to dinner also. but I like how you wrapped it up. Go, Joey! I agree with Steve though, you needed more words to end that story. Maybe next big challenge, we'll go for a bigger word count.
Elaine, great story also. Nicely done on including everything and doing Normandy. Great description details. Can't wait for your next book either. Let us know when you have it out.
So we definitely have a great start. Who is next?
Elaine - superb! Great storytelling and feeling of time and place. Excellent.
Steve wrote: "Elaine - superb! Great storytelling and feeling of time and place. Excellent." Thanks Steve. This is part of a book I'm working on for 'next year,' A hybrid story, half fantasy with the cats worrying over events back home, while Kimberlee goes to Europe and experiences a more serious mystery based on experiences I had in Germany and Austria in 1987 which resulted in my writing several short stories, and finally this one regarding 'the key to the treasure.' Oh my!!Thanks, Shae. My short cat stories should be out by Dec 1.
Elaine, I loved your story. You told it straight, without embellishment which makes it more powerful. Good job.
Looks like I have missed out on some great conversations thus far. Dang, this having to work, eat, sleep, repeat thing. Steve, so excited to see active participation from England again. Early on there were about 3 active writers from that area and I always enjoyed their stories. I would love to see insurgence again. Elaine happy to see you back with us again. No one can write a cat tale like you.
Shea: you have instigated a formidable challenge! It has taken me a couple of weeks of brain storming but I think I am ready to rise to the challenge.
Thanks Lynette - I'm in the middle of writing my 5th book - but will break away to post something this month. It will do my brain good to think about something else! Better get going.
Lynette wrote: "Looks like I have missed out on some great conversations thus far. Dang, this having to work, eat, sleep, repeat thing. Steve, so excited to see active participation from England again. Early on th..."Nice to see you again, Lynette. Hope you're not too busy to join this story month.E
Thanks Steve for your encouraging words. and Shea, too. You're right they all sat down to Thanksgiving dinner. Brown, too, who had to be fed because of the duck tape. They went on the next years and Joe finished his tour of duty and got a job selling insurance, Clair and Bob retired and began growing marijuana in the back garden. Brown turned over a new leaf after serving out his sentence and went into politics and is now Governor of New Jersey.
Uncle Carl stood too close to the edge of the cliff and was blown off. His body was never foun
d.
Lynette... hey, can't wait to read what you come up with. Steve, take a break and stretchhhhhh.... and write us a quick short story.
Shelly.... WOW.... and Poor Uncle Carl. Wonder where he "ended up". (eyebrows going up and down).
Ok, I can't help it.... I get this blog from one of the agencies to whom I'm pitching and they had a blog today about word counts and the importance of each word in what you write. I thought it fit our goals here nicely. So check it out at https://stevelaube.com/unnecessary-wo...
Thanks, Shae. I have shared this with my critique group. Two of them write for particular places that have word count restrictions. Have you heard abut the anthology that is printed with stories all written with only one syllable words?? My friend, Erin, has a story in there. My small brain can't begin to comprehend such a task! Thanks for sharing this interesting and informative post.
OK, Somehow I completely missed so vital information here.I got "So, in my research, I ran across this great article on writing a Short Story. It works well for scenes also. Most of you probably know this info but thought I would share anyway. It’s on How to Outline a Short Story in Seven Steps and is at https://mythcreants.com/blog/outline-..."
And "November - Things to Remember
Theme: Forgotten things are not always as important as we think.
3 Elements to be included:
- A Turkey- A Soldier- A Cliff on a River or Ocean (real or on a map)
Setting – any"
I even read the article.
BUT COMPLETELY MISSED
"I am providing step one and 3 Elements to be included in this month’s story. All 4 must be used to qualify."
And "The Problem: A guest is coming, there is a storm brewing, and something has been forgotten."
Therefore: I am guessing my story will not qualify. However; with the holiday coming up here in a couple of days I don't see me having time to write another one before the deadline. So I am going to go ahead and post it and hope you at least enjoy it.
Coming Home Word count 1011Danny Tucker’s head rested on the locked arm, braced against the shower wall. The hot water messaging his back, temporarily easing the pain where the doctors pulled out the bullet. As he looked at the blue tiles his mind flashed to a Danny Tucker he no longer knew.
That foolish boy stood in this exact shower four years ago excited that he joined the army with his best friend Tanner Ferdinand. They had visions of exotic places, grand adventures, and dancing the night away with beautiful girls who were enamored by men in a uniform.
Those “exotic places” ended up being the blood soaked sands of the Middle East. Their “grand adventure” was sharing fox holes with critters who tormented them. As for the beautiful girls: they were pointing rifles at them. Not throwing them kisses.
Yesterday Tanner was laid to rest beside his grandparents. Their convoy was ambushed, killing eight soldiers and wounding ten others. The ten held off the attackers long enough for the two Apache gun ships to reach them. Among the dead rebels were two rifle packing ten year olds. Danny woke up in a hospital the next day with one bullet in his back and another gun shot wound to his left leg.
The next day he learned Tanner didn't make it to the hospital. Their superior officers were compassionate enough to allow Danny to escort Tanner’s body home and grant him 60 days to heal.
A sound in the next room snapped Danny out of his reverie. He frantically looked for his weapon and several panicked heartbeats passed before his mind registered he was at home.
He cursed himself for over reacting as he turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, dried off, then wrapped the towel around his waist. He paused as he opened the bathroom door to make sure the hallway was clear before darting into his room. The moment he approached the bedside nightstand he froze.
Who the hell was in my room?” he roared furiously.
Doors opened up and down the hallway and everyone gathered around his doorway. Each of them clearly stunned, though it was impossible to tell if it was because he was yelling or the fact that he was wearing nothing but a towel.
“Who was just in here and took Tanner’s dog tags?” He demanded, pointing at the spot where he carefully placed them the night before.
His father cautiously stepped forward, holding his hand up as a warning to remain still. “Now Danny, calm down. I am sure we will find them,” he offered in a gentle voice.
Danny scanned the apprehensive faces of his family. Forcing himself to calm down and relax he felt the anguish starting to rise. Choking it back, his entire demeanor changed.
“Please, they are all I have left of Tanner. Don’t take them from me too.”
A whimper from the hallway drew everyone’s attention to four year old Zander hiding behind his mother Gloria. Danny heard the chain as the boy opened his tiny hand. Suddenly the fury was back.
“Damn it, Zander! You little pest. I know you have them.”
David half turned toward his daughter, keeping one eye on Danny. “Gloria.”
It took her a moment to tear her eyes off her brother and focus on her son. “Zander, can I have them please?”
With tiny trembling hands the boy held them up to his mother. “I just wanted to see them,” he defended himself as he broke into tears.
She leaned down and kissed his little head. “I know, baby, but you know you don’t take things that don’t belong to you.”
She cautiously held them out toward her father, he stepped forward to take them from her and turned back toward her brother.
“Please, Danny, he is just a child. You are his hero. Don‘t destroy that for him.” She pleaded in her son’s behalf.
Danny took the dog tags from his dad but his eyes were on his sister. Before he could stop it the image of a boy, not much older than Zander, flashed before him. He shot that boy to save his own life. Danny closed his eyes to banish the memory. When he opened them everyone was waiting for his answer.
“No harm done,” he conceded.
Content the situation was over, everyone went back to their rooms. As the Thanksgiving chaos bustled around him Danny kept to himself. He had been a complete wreck from the moment he was told Tanner was dead. Surprisingly enough the one person who understood what he was going through was his father. Everyone knew David Tucker started his military career in Vietnam and ended it after Granada. It wasn’t until the last couple of days that David opened up to Danny and talked about it. They had a bond now that only warrior’s understood.
By the time the family gathered around a table, brimming with turkey and side dishes, Danny had convinced himself he was not going to ruin the festive atmosphere. It was a tradition in the Tucker family to tell one thing they were thankful for and one wish. Little Zander started first.
“I am thankful Uncle Danny is home. I hope he doesn’t stay mad at me for a long time.”
As Danny looked into those sad blue eyes his mind drifted off to a cliff overlooking the lake where he spent many a summer day with another blue eyed boy. Oh, what he would give to have those lazy days of innocence back when he and Tanner had not a care in the world.
“Danny?”
He snapped back to the present. “What?”
“Your turn.” Zander urged.
Danny winked at him. “ First; your wish is granted. You are forgiven.” He held up the dog tags. “Yesterday as Mrs. Ferdinand gave these to me she promised me that if I stopped mourning Tanner’s death but celebrated our life together that I will not need these. I will know he is always with me. I wish that one day I can set them aside.”
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Lynette, I too loved your story. Your opening line built such a vivid picture. I had to read it over a couple of times to really get it. A d then the mention of the bullet really pulled me into the story. Nicely done.
okay, tears in eyes. ... nice story Lynette. depending on how you look at this, i think you covered the basis. the guest was Danny, the storm was ptsd, and the something forgotten would be that Danny forgot he was home for a bit.
okay, i stretched the last a bit but I am amazed at the amount of powerful emotions that have been put in these stories. Well done everyone.
Shea, I am willing to accept that. I was kinda thinking along those lines. Except I was thinking he had forgotten his goals, lost his innocence, and yes the storm brewing was ptst.
And we are down to the final stretch with really great stories so far. here are the deadlines once more... Any one else up for the challenge?
Entries must be submitted by midnight EST on Monday 11/27/2017. (Yes, you have all day Monday to post.)
Voting will begin at 12:01 am 11/28/2017 and will close at 9 pm EST on 11/30/2017. All times are Eastern Standard Time.
Winners will be announced 11/30/2017 by 10 pm.
Stories will be judged by those who entered, you can't vote for yourself, and judging should be based on adherence to the guidelines, craft and grammar, and quality of the story.
all voting is for first place, second place, and third place.
Thanks.
PS.... Get those stories in. And I hope your Thanksgiving was a good one.
Elaine, I was just reading through the posts and saw yours about the cat stories. You can SO out me down for one of those!!
The Blue Anchor– Cornwall England 1747 - Word Count: 967Beth’s frozen fingers refused to follow the commands from her exhausted brain. She was soaked to the skin and crouched in the foetal position on her knees, her back to the ripping west wind to protect the candle flame and lift the lantern to the cow’s collar. The Force Nine Gale swept in from the Atlantic Ocean relentlessly smashing wave after berserk wave onto the defiant, unyielding rocks of the Cornish coast.
The wind funnelled skyward hurling freezing daggers of ice at Beth and the hapless beast. One last jerky movement and it was done. The wrecker’s light was set for the night. The cow was free to meander along the cliff top as a beacon of hope and ultimate disaster for unwary seamen. Any vessel in distress would see the light and steer for the safety of the shore only to enter the jaws of hell. Survivors of the wreck would not survive. By the law of the land the wreckers could only claim salvage from dead men. Those who escaped the shipwreck would be murdered in the shallows. Beth turned for home, the glinting light of the Blue Anchor Inn promised rum and a warm bath. Had she looked over her shoulder she would have seen a frigate with sails ripped to shreds, her main mast in splinters being borne onto a leeward shore and certain destruction.
“No fighting! Sheath those daggers or you’re out in the gale you two. There’ll be no blood split this night, well not unless we’re lucky!” The band of reprobates, thieves and vagabonds whistled and banged their tankards in glee. “If you can’t cheat at cards and get away with it, you need more practice, my sonnies.”
Jem Parsons the landlord of the Blue Anchor liked to run an unruly house. Hidden away in a craggy cove only those known to the select brotherhood and the not so dainty sisterhood, were allowed entry to the Blue Anchor. Jem wasn’t finished.
“Pray silence for moment. Fiddler stop playing. Let us all remember my son and Beth’s brother Samuel taken by the Press Gang for the Royal Navy these five years since. Today marks the day of his taking; a curse on King George!”
The room erupted with echoing curses. Beth newly arrived and shivering by the door lent her voice to the riotous cacophony and hurried upstairs to get out of her sodden clothes. The storm may bring them a bounty from the sea, she had to be ready.
Jem looked at the faces of his gang of wreckers, hard men of muscle and evil intent. There were a few exceptions. The village parson, Father Patrick put on an angelic face to Excise men, but was a devil hiding in black robes. It was his calling to send sinners to the Promised Land starting with bewigged magistrates and officers of the law. The real sinners carousing and blaspheming in the Blue Anchor were his soul mates. Doctor Pellew pulled on his clay pipe and sent billows of smoke into dense fog that filled the room. His bag of sharpened knives, bandages and saws stood ready to save or take lives. Jem smiled at the thought of his surprise guest who would be arriving anytime now. Sure enough, a flash of red passed the window before slamming blows from a musket butt crashed against the inn door.
“Open in the name of the King! Open or prepare to meet thy maker!” The sound of a trumpet call compounded the mayhem. The chaos was total as hands grasped flintlock pistols, tables overturned and the wrecking crew stood ready to fight or die.
“Stand down lads, stand down. Lower your weapons.” Angry faces flushed with rampant adrenaline coursing through their bodies turned towards Jem. “Meet our new insurance policy.” Two soldiers from the His Majesties 33rd Regiment of Foot, clad in red coats with white crossed sashes entered grinning like idiots. “Meet Privates Wilson and Dyer otherwise known as Tom and Isaac from Padstow. They’ve borrowed a trumpet and muskets to stand watch over our nightly endeavours and distract attention from prying eyes. They’ve joined our fellowship.”
“Wreck ahoy!” Beth’s scream broke-up the welcome party.
Empty air filled the space where the wreckers had been. They were now in sight of the beach with old farm carts ready to spirit the riches away. There was nothing. Nothing of value. Broken rigging littered the shoreline. No barrels of brandy, no trunks of booty. Only bodies broken by the rocks, bodies wearing blue and white uniforms. A spar wrapped red and white spun in the swirling water. The ensign of the Royal Navy, the battle flag of H.M.S Defiant, Samuel’s ship.
Jem had no choice. “Into the water lads, bring these brave boys ashore. Pellew work your magic save as many as you can. Wrap the dead in sailcloth, give them respect and put them carefully on the carts.” The deep bond between mariners and countrymen should never be forgotten.
“Dead, alive, dead, alive.” Beth ran from body to body searching for her big brother and calling for help for the injured. The last sailor was brought to the beach. Her last hope extinguished. She collapsed crying inconsolably. Grief consumed her. Was this the price the God’s demanded? Jem cradled her in his arms and took her home. Father Patrick escorted the convoy of dead and injured to the church and sent a messenger to the Helston naval station with the news.
Samuel was listed among the dead. His time in the Royal Navy was over forever. Jem and Beth returned to the Blue Anchor heartbroken. An unexpected guest lay on the cold stone floor. Days later the crew reassembled for a thanksgiving feast. Sam carved the freshly stolen turkey.
II always enjoy your stories as I did this one. well told with a satisfying ending.
Thanks for the challenge, Steve.The discussion of "a" or "the" or "d" versions of Turkey set my mind swirling. I thought and thought of a way to give a twist to these elements. I'm hoping using a Turk will work.
Martin's Gift by Sandy Carlson, 971 words
Martin limped along the dirt road, not used to walking on his peg leg. His face would be scarred for life, and his right hand now missed two fingers, as well. War!
The gray clouds overhead threatened to open sometime soon. He hobbled quicker.
He wondered if Elizabeth would accept him now that he was no longer a whole man. She’d promised. But her promise was made when he had both legs. He clutched the white rose, Elizabeth‘s favorite flower. A thorn dug into him. Martin looked at the drop of blood beading on his palm. He licked it clean. He’d seen enough blood in the past year for a lifetime. He tucked the flower in his inner cloak pocket.
Many of his comrades had perished in the last battle with the Turks. Now, eight months after losing his leg in battle, and nearly his life, he was going home, and to Elizabeth.
A thunder clasp sounded nearby. From behind him, around the curve, a carriage rattled, pulled by two galloping horses. Martin couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. One horse jumped as his chest shoved Martin to the side of the road.
“Stop! Stop!” came a voice from within the carriage. A man in gold trimmed clothing leapt from the carriage. He ran the few steps back to Martin, holding out his hand to help Martin up. “Are you hurt, man?”
There was pain, but this jolt was nothing compared to battle pain.
“I’m fine,” Martin replied, rising on his own and dusting himself off. The carriage man stared at Martin’s leg. Martin started walking away.
“The least I can do is to give you a ride. Where are you going?”
“Vienna.”
“That is my destination as well. Ride inside with me.” He glanced at his driver before turning back to Martin. “We were racing the storm. Then that thunder came. The horses got scared. I insist you come. This road gets messy when wet.” He looked from Martin’s scarred face to the wooden leg. At least Martin’s leather gloves covered his missing fingers.
Martin bit his inner cheek at the supposed apology. Although he disdained anyone feeling sorry for him, a ride before the coming storm would be preferred. Plus, it would get him that much faster to his beloved.
Martin had little in common with this wealthy, privileged man, but with the rumbling sky above, he was grateful for the offer. Inside, the rich man stared again at his peg leg. Martin moved his cloak over that leg. The rich man blushed with being caught. He talked quickly about his journey to meet his bride.
“Tell me about her,” Martin encouraged.
“Her name is Elizabeth. Her family are merchants, and she is surprisingly educated, for a woman.”
“Most people in Venice are merchants,” Martin said. He thought of his on Elizabeth and grinned. She, too was educated. The two of them would have number races, adding, multiplying, dividing, subtracting. He wished he could have afforded more for her. A book, perhaps. All he had was the rose.
The man continued. “Her father deals with pepper. She has long black hair that shines like pepper, I mean, ebony.” He chuckled. “And her older brother, Charles—Oh, no!”
Martin’s heart stopped. His own Elizabeth’s father was a pepper merchant. Her hair was like ebony. And she had an older brother named Charles. Could it be—?
“Charles told me to bring her a flower. There’s something meaningful to her about a single flower. What am I going to do? I forgot the flower!”
“Does Charles have a birthmark on his cheek?” Martin asked.
“No.”
Martin sighed a relief. Then it couldn’t be the same family.
The rich man looked at Martin’s scared face. It was healed, although still bright red and shiny from his close encounter with the Ottoman Turk.
“Wait,” the carriage man said. “Yes, he does. But on the other cheek. Do you know him?”
“Perhaps,” Martin said. He looked at the carriage floor. Martin was a broken man. Elizabeth undoubtedly assumed after all this time that he had died. His companion, however, was handsome and rich, and very much alive. She deserved to wed the carriage man.
Martin suddenly jerked his head up and stared at the man. “I need to get out here. My…aunt lives over that hill by the river,” he lied. “I’ll go to Venice tomorrow.” Martin had his hand on the carriage door, ready to leap from the moving thing.
“Stop! Stop!” carriage man said, pounding once again on the roof.
Martin jumped out as the horses pulled to a stop.
“Are you certain?” carriage man asked. He looked honestly concerned.
“I am.” Martin hesitated a moment and then took the white rose from his pocket. “I was going to give this to…my aunt. But I’m guessing your Elizabeth might appreciate it more.”
“A flower!” carriage man crowed. “A single flower! I can’t tell you how you’ve saved me.”
Martin grinned slightly. “Be good to your bride,” he said, turning before the tears fell from his eyes.
He climbed the hill just as the rain started. Martin stood on the edge of the cliff overlooking the river. He could throw himself off, but with his luck, he’d live just to be even more mangled. He stood for a long time letting the summer rain soak into his cloak.
A narrow path caught his eye. It led down the side of the cliff to the river. He stared at it for a long time before taking the first step towards it. He knew his numbers. You didn’t need two legs nor a handsome face to work numbers. He’d go to Vienna and find work as a bookkeeper for one of the merchants. And every day he’d wish for Elizabeth to be happy.
Theme: Forgotten things are not always as important as we think.
November has a couple of different holidays and is a season for change. As writers, we are constantly striving to improve, to grow, and to create. So, this month’s challenge is also a time to reflect.
I have been working on my cartography and maps, learning to use paint programs, graphics effects, and learning geography/geology better. Seems rivers do split "downstream" but only when the land levels out and runs into the sea (delta's, stream/river islands, and sometimes in lakes.) I've also discovered that mountains have their own patterns. They tend not to be alone but are created along faults, plate edges, and volcanic rifts and run in ridges. Canyons and cliffs are created by glaciers (long ago) or where land masses have collided.
Yeah, yeah. And what does this have to do with the challenge this month?
(evil grin from moderator) Just wait. I'm getting there.
So, in my research, I ran across this great article on writing a Short Story. It works well for scenes also. Most of you probably know this info but thought I would share anyway. It’s on How to Outline a Short Story in Seven Steps and is at https://mythcreants.com/blog/outline-...
On that note (if you didn't at least glance at the article, you are going to be lost here), I am providing step one and 3 Elements to be included in this month’s story. All 4 must be used to qualify.
And to make things more interesting, I have a prize for the First-Place winner this month (contingent of there being more than 6 stories posted). So, give it your best shot and encourage our writer friends to come check out this month's challenge.
The Problem: A guest is coming, there is a storm brewing, and something has been forgotten.
3 Elements to be included:
- A Turkey
- A Soldier
- A Cliff on a River or Ocean (real or on a map)
Setting – any
Plot – your choice
Length: 500 to 1,000 Words
Submission deadline: Monday, November 27th, 2017 at Midnight EST.
Genre: Fantasy, Thriller, Sci-Fi, Mystery, Crime, Comedy, Romance, or a mixture (BASICALLY, anything but erotica)
Purpose -
Some fiction writers are looking to win a short story contest, keeping in touch with making deadlines, and/or simply sharpening the skill of writing fiction. The main purpose of this contest is to sharpen plot and character skills, collect your own short stories, receive good feedback, make a good connection with other writers, and take a short break from your current novel to get a fresh view when you return to it.
Rules and Directions -
* Type in English - a minimum of 500 words; a maximum of 1,000 words; no erotica, no profanity.
* Post your title, by line, and word count total in the first line of your story posting.
* Writers are responsible for their own copyright. Authors keep all rights. PRIVACY POLICY IS ENFORCED. COPYRIGHTS AND INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS BELONG TO INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS. THIS CONTEST DOES NOT GRANT ANY PERSON THE RIGHT OR LICENSE TO COPY OR USE OTHER STORIES. EACH STORY IS PROTECTED BY THE COPYRIGHT OF THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR.
* ONE entry per person. It must be writer's original work, a final revision, and a new piece of writing. Please do not delete and re-post since this becomes confusing to the readers. Try to post your final revision.
Judging: The story will be judged on creativity, proper grammar, good punctuation, and overall good quality for story.
Voting: Please vote for first, second, and third place.
You are not allowed to vote for yourself. If posting this month, you MUST vote, in order for your story to remain eligible.
Contest opens 11/01/2017 and closes 11/27/2017.
Entries must be submitted by midnight EST on 11/27/2017. Voting will begin at 12:01 am 11/28/2017 and will close at 9 pm EST on 11/30/2017. All times are Eastern Standard Time. Winners will be announced 11/30/2017 by 10 pm.