Wednesday Write-in #6


Welcome to the Wednesday Write-in!

CAKE.shortandsweet runs a write-in every week to writers to practise their skills, and get chatting to each other about their work. Everyone is welcome to join in, and the more people you tell, the more everyone will get out of it.

 

Prompts

drowning  ::  spin  ::  say please  ::  curled  ::  back to front

Guidelines

There are no hard and fast rules, but here are some brief guidelines:

  • You can use the prompts as inspiration or try to work them into your story somehow. Use as many as you want.
  • When your story is done, post it online (your blog/twitter/in a comment here), tag with #wednesdaywritein and comment with a link so we can read it. You can write as many stories as you like.
  • Please take the time to read and comment on as many other stories as you can.

Featured Story

We’ll feature our favourite story on the blog with a review of it and links to the author’s blog/twitter/facebook if relevant.

Posts will generally go up at 9am(ish) on Wednesday – stories are due by 10am Thursday (UK) to be considered for the featured story. You can keep posting your work after this, it just won’t be featured.

Rewards

We’ll keep track of who takes part in the write-ins, and you earn points for different things.

  • Take part in a write-in = 1 point.
  • Comment on other people’s stories = 1 point.
  • Share/reblog this post = 1 point.

When you reach ten points the editing team will give detailed feedback on a story of your choice. This only counts for separate sessions—so if you write five stories for one write-in, that counts as one, and if you share on both facebook and twitter, that’s one.

 

Please look for us on Facebook or Twitter to keep up with the write-ins, or click the follow button to get blog updates!

Don’t forget to read our Previous Issues and check out the Submissions page if you’d like to be a CAKE.author!

 

Any questions? Otherwise, have fun writing!

Advertisements

61 thoughts on “Wednesday Write-in #6

  1. lakedistrictnovelist.blogspot.co.uk/

    Drowning my Sorrows

    I reached for the table but it slipped away. Elbowing the chrome chair didn’t work either, I tried to get a grip and it scraped away from me. I sat on the kitchen floor and laughed. I laughed until tears ran down my face, I laughed until I hurt and watched the drips pool as one. I dipped my finger in, spread it into a smiley face.
    I crawled like a baby into the sitting room and tugged myself onto the sofa. What would the neighbours say if they could see me? Who gives a stuff what the neighbours think. The idea of my big fat arse wiggling along the floor made me laugh some more, but not so heartily. Was that my blood? I licked my finger, I must have cut myself. I don’t remember. I don’t want to. Not now, I was enjoying myself.

  2. Here’s my attempt

    Phantom Life

    I love this field. I love to spin in it. I love ripping the grass to bits. Best of all I love that nobody can see me. And that’s the best feeling in the world. Nobody will say
    – Look at the state of that field. What stupid bugger had to go and rip up all them plants!
    They will just carry on. Not even notice.

    I don’t come here at night. Night’s for walking. I love it when everywhere’s empty and there’s only me. It’s all mine. I look at the houses and think
    – all them houses look the same, like boxes with windows and doors. And all them people in all them houses and they’re all different.

    It’s great being invisible. ‘Specially when you’re with people. At first it feels like your body’s still thre but you’ve gone somewhere else. The place I go to is about three steps behind me. I stand really still and stare dead hard. When my stomach feels a bit sick and I can see myself in front of me. I know I’ve done it. S’easy.

    • I don’t really get it. The voice seems to change from paragraph to paragraph.Oh – unless, it’s supposed to show some kind of degeneration? Like the ghost is slowly fading or something? Or I have completely missed the point (which I do, alot).

      In any case it’s your story has wriggled into my mind and I’ll be thinking about it for the next little while, so that’s a major plus.

    • It is an interesting concept you have here. This felt like the start of a longer piece, to me. The last line threw me for a spin – so is this an invisible phantom or someone that is physically projecting themselves around. Not that it matters – you’ve definitely succeeded in piquing my interest!

  3. Pingback: Story :: Crawled out of the sea « a slice of imagination

  4. Pingback: Crashing « Craig Towsley

  5. Pingback: Fallible Opinions - Wednesday write-in 6

  6. Pingback: Story: Tweet | beccaaudra

  7. Pingback: Debris of Tragedy « Rebecca Dudley – Collected Stories

  8. Pingback: Orders of magnitude more cruel and unnecessary | Jacky Hillary

  9. Pingback: Wednesday Write In 6 – The drowning. « Writing the wrongs.

  10. Here’s what I wrote. It is a bit long( but was alot longer, i hope the story can still be followed!)
    Grandad
    Nana taught me my manners, how to say please and thank you. I loved going on holidays to Nana and my uncle Michael. My Grandad died of lung cancer before I was born, when Michael was only ten. At his own mother’s funeral, before any diagnosis, Grandad predicted his own death. “I’ll be next in there.” He muttered to his sister as the coffin was lowered.
    I loved my grandfather even though I never met him. I felt like I knew him. Visitors said things like “If Marty was here now you know what he’d say.” He was larger than life. Even in black and white the vividness of his deep tan and magical sparkling blue eyes was dramatic. In the sitting room he stood proudly framed, one hand on a knife cutting a cake, the other around his wife. His hat was tilted slightly and his laughter was tangibly present.
    Nana told me all about his gardening and fishing and all the wonderful things he did. He was so active in my imagination that I half expected him to walk in the door with Uncle Michael some evening. Nana told me that he heard and saw everything I did and that he would be proud of me. I’d talk to him in my mind like an invisible best friend.
    With my tracksuit bottoms back to front over my nightclothes I must have tiptoed past Uncle Michael curled up asleep and past the open door of Nana’s room. I would have known where Grandad’s wheelbarrow was because it was one of my favourite things to play with. Uncle Michael would turn it upside down and I’d sit on it’s belly and spin the wobbly wheel.
    Michael heard the squeak of the wheel as I headed down the back lane towards the river. It was a distant sound in the background of his dream, dismissed until the groan of the gate to the river roused him from his sleep. He lay still and listened, hearing nothing because at this stage the soft rubber wheel of the wheel barrow would have been padding along the grass of the riverbank. He turned around, trying to go back asleep but the uneasiness niggled. He lifted the window, stuck his head out into the silvery night and sure enough the gate was open.
    Horrified when he found that I wasn’t in my bed he woke Nana. Living by a river, drowning accidents are something you come to expect. Images of my white body floating or tangled in the weeds at the riverbank haunted them as they called out my name over the dark gurgle of the river beside them.
    I’d never been down to the river by myself.We often went for walks as far as the rocks known as the Devil’s eyebrow. I wasn’t anywhere to be found along that stretch of river so they continued on into more treacherous terrain. Everything here was more overgrown. Trees stretched like bony fingers prodding and poking and weeds and grasses grew taller bloking the path and disguising where the edge of the river was.
    As the black sky began to turn navy, flattened grasses could be seen and the trail of the wheelbarrow. Nana and Michael ran, lifting their knees up to their chests to negotiate the path. They heard the clank of the shovel being dragged along the lip of the barrow and then they saw me. My face was covered in muck and I was struggling, shoveling soil from under a bush into the half full barrow.
    I didn’t stop digging. I had to get something really important. It was clear that I was sleepwalking. Nana wanted to try to wake me but Michael heard that you should never wake a sleepwalker. The discussion was still ongoing when the shovel hit the biscuit tin. I do remember that feeling, the thunk of shovel against the tin.
    I let the shovel fall to the ground with a thud that reverberated through the handle, dropped to my knees and clawed at the earth. Nana and Michael stood open-mouthed as I uncovered a biscuit tin. The minute Michael saw it he dived in and helped me lift the tin out of the ground. When we wiped off the dirt off we examined the tin, the outside was a bit rusty but what was inside was perfectly preserved.
    As light began to dilute the sky, Michael began to realise where we were. This was Grandad’s secret fishing spot.He liked the collusion of the wild growth concealing him from the rest of the world. This is where he found peace.
    Michael sat in the dewy grasses and seated me on his lap. He prised the tin open with a pop. Perched inside in neat rows was every colour of the rainbow in its purest form, insect dummies made by hand. As a child Michael helped his father gather their ingredients and watched as he spun his magic. My eyes workedhard in the half-light to drink in the details, feather as wing, blue tail, red body, turquoise fluffiness hooked bodies, canary yellow plume, speckled concoctions wating to fly through the air and sit delicately on the surface of the water. These were my grandfather’s lures for fly fishing buried carefully at his favourite fishing spot. The sun rose, illuminated our treasure and Grandad’s tranquility could be felt.

    • Thank you for taking part, Emmaleene! It’s great to see new faces on here every week as well as the regulars 😀

      I really love the idea behind this story, of the ilttle girl’s grandfather watching over her, of it being something more than just childhood pretend. The descriptions of him are so vivid, and I really like “In the sitting room he stood proudly framed”, that’s beautiful.

      The only thing that feels out of place is the journey along the river is quite long, I think it almost lessens the impact of the discovery because you’re so focused on getting there. It’s also very sinister, particularly with Michael’s fears of her drowning. It kind of introduces the reader to the idea that someone or something means her harm, and the story is heading down a very dark path. Nothing wrong with that of course but it just feels a bit odd after the very comforting, lovely opening 🙂

      • Thanks for reading but more importantly thanks for great feedback. I agree the balance of the tone is a bit off. I would like the focus to be more on the discovery (or the fact that her Grandfather lead her there). I am looking forward to eding it and perhaps making a short story out of it.
        Loving Wed write ins by the way-great inspiration. I have been spreading the word in my writing groups.

  11. Pingback: Featured writer week 6 | CAKE.shortandsweet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s