Wednesday Write-in #45

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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

coven  ::  bermuda triangle  ::  stroke  ::  discovery  ::  moreish

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 if you like, and comment with a link so we can read it.
  • Please take the time to read and comment on as many other stories as you can.
  • If you want to write a poem, a script, or something completely different, feel free.

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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!

38 thoughts on “Wednesday Write-in #45”

  1. Pingback: Making Ends Meet | Craig Towsley

  3. Oops. Posted this morning and forgot to leave a link 😀

    Stroke

    The discovery was made late last night during a police raid on a local house…

    Back in the saddle! (here’s hoping I don’t fall out again…)

    Reply ↓

  4. Hi, here’s mine. Look forward to reading.

    The aircraft spins into the suction. The world whips round and round.
    I am not prepared. I am not prepared.
    I close my eyes.
    A sudden change in momentum and I am in a floating craft and it’s no longer like viewing the world through a washing machine’s eye. This is smooth, other worldly. A rainbow of blue, so many variants of this celestial hue, makes me calm right down to my stomach.

    People chatter.
    What’sHappeningNow?WhatJustHappened?AreWeThroughIt?ThoughtWeWereGonners.NeverAgain.

    I’m not sure if I’ve said anything. I might have.

    The next wave.
    An overwhelming urge to hug, to cry, to love. The air is a tranquilliser.
    ‘Do not unfasten your body guards’ flashes on the screens.
    Air stewards make their inspection. They wear masks and and are still businesslike while we weep. They dispense blankets.
    The stewards disappear behind walls marked crew only.

    The final wave: Ice. Brittle. Never so cold.
    Frozen. Then, movement, blankets flail in the panic of oppressive heat.
    This moment burns out.
    A drop.
    The temperature is perfect once more.

    There’s clapping, and laughter bursting from the frantic that is silenced by the all powerful voice penetrating the cabin:

    ‘This is your Captain speaking. We have reached Bermuda Triangle Resort. We hope you enjoy your time here and that your journey with DiscoveryJet has been a pleasant and comfortable one. We look forward to your joining us for your return flight.’

    Reply ↓

  5. Bewitched
    The five women nursing their drinks at The Coffee Bean that morning looked like any other women who had dropped various children off at school, run a few errands or picked up a bit of shopping and were grabbing an hour off to meet friends.
    Susan watched them from behind the counter, bored. One was a bit older than the others with wild black hair and large gold hoop earrings. Susan privately nicknamed her the Wicked Witch. She looked too old to have school-age children but who knew these days. The blonde with slightly protruding teeth was Bugs Bunny. Well, naming the customers passed the time and she had finished the last Twilight novel. She had even skimmed the paper with its usual dull politics, health claims about the possible discovery of a cure for cancer, sensational articles about celebs who swore they had been lost in the Bermuda triangle or kidnapped by an alien. She went over with the jug.
    ‘More coffee, ladies?’ Susan interrupted the Bunny, “… dark in the woods” she was saying.
    ‘Thank you,’ one of the younger ones, Giraffe on account of her long neck, held up her mug. ‘And another slice of carrot cake, please; it’s very moreish.’
    The Witch was talking quietly when Susan returned with the cake and she caught the words “…on the stroke of midnight”. Intrigued, she made herself look busy rearranging the condiments at the next table trying to hear more snippets of the conversation. When she felt she couldn’t linger there any more she went to the table on the other side. She shot them a suspicious look as she went back to the counter. They had their heads together deep in their plans.
    But what would they be doing in the woods in the middle of the night? Maybe these women weren’t what they seemed. Maybe they were a coven of witches plotting a ritual. They might want to dance naked round a clearing in the trees, or slaughter a small animal or something.
    ‘Miss!’ the Witch was calling her. ‘May we have the bill? And by the way, since you’re obviously so interested, we’re planning a moonlight picnic for the school to celebrate midsummer’s eve. Would you like to support us?’
    There was a gleam of laughter in her eyes but Susan suddenly pictured herself spread out on a slab under the moonlight with hordes of children screaming out from behind every bush brandishing knifes.
    ‘No thanks,’ she replied blushing. ‘I think I’m busy that night, but I’m sure the manager would donate some cake.’
    ‘That would be marvellous,’ the Witch smiled. Funnily enough she looked quite ordinary now. ‘Please tell him Mrs Jones from the PTA committee will be round to speak to him tomorrow. Goodbye,’ and the five women picked up their bags and left the café.
    Susan began to clear their table. The door opened again and a tall slim man walked in, his black jeans and tee fitting snugly and his black eyes matching his hair which swept back from a widow’s peak. No, Susan said firmly to herself as she went to take his order. He’s just another customer. I will not call him Lucifer.

    Reply ↓

    • Ha! I loved the humour in this piece. I really liked the image of the woman on a sacrificial slab surrounded by children with knives. The last line made me smile. Wonderful story! 🙂

      Reply ↓

    • I really like the concept: a bored waitress inventing names/personalities for the customers and getting carried away. Very amusing. I also like how you ended this piece.

      Reply ↓

    • This is great- really enjoyed it. Love the way her imagination gets carried away ! Very funny. You could call your next collection “Ladies who dream” & include this & last weeks piece!! Great stuff!

      Reply ↓

      • Thanks for the idea! But I’ll have to try and change my ‘dreamy’ content for next week or I’ll get boring. I need to make more of an effort with different styles.

      • Oh never boring- the characters & lives are so different- almost opposites! I think anyone who enjoys reading will identify with a character who uses their imagination! Everyone has such different styles & your stories are always so complete. It can be fun to experiment though!

    • Great reflection on how we make assumptions about people. And an ending that’s left me uncertain. Is he, isn’t he? And Mrs Jones and her gang? Could it nonetheless be possible …? Oh, double cross and treble cross. Remind me never to trust you again.

      Reply ↓

  6. Pingback: Story :: Stroke | a slice of imagination

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  12. Delighted to see the return of some familiar faces! Looking forward to reading. Here’s mine

    Words
    A stroke my mam said.
    His mouth was lopsided, slightly triangular, sagging on one side. A steady stream of drool dripped from the corner and trickled down the line of raw-pink skin beneath.
    He has sailed the seven seas but never got to tell everyone the stories of his adventures. His Bermuda triangle mouth has eaten up all of the words. He tries to say something to me but all that’s left are crumbs.
    So I tell him a story about a game we used to play when I was younger. I can see the recognition in his eyes as I immerse him in a time when words were plentiful. He thinks it’s funny when I act it out for him. I know. I can see the glint.
    You’d make a big black pot of soup and between slurps we’d come up with another word for tasty.
    “Luscious.”
    “Oh there’s a big word for such a small girl. Slurp. Succulent.”
    “Moreish.”
    “That’s not even a word. Now you are just making them up!”
    “It’s in the dictionary!”
    “Ok so! Slurp. Delicious!”
    “Yummy!”
    I always won with that word.
    I know this is not a stroke. The coven took all of your words away. They are afraid that some of your wisdom will spill out, that you might speak of your discovery, of what you unearthed while you were away. As the wizard’s daughter, it’s up to me to search for the secret you bite on.
    I left the room with a promise to him that we will create a new language.
    As the distance between us grows I still communicate with him in my heart and I can see the world through his eyes. I can feel him guide me as I psychically reassure him.
    “I will trace your still raw trail and retrieve the words to unlock the spell.”

    Reply ↓

    • Wow! Powerful stuff. I really loved this. The imagery of the mouth, words being eaten, crumbs is brilliant. I am not sure if it is an actual journey she goes on or she has created this ‘coven’ idea as a coping mechanism for herself, and I like that. Either way creating a new language and searching for the secret he bites on is fantastic. Really terrific.

      Reply ↓

      • Cool! Thanks. Delighted you picked up on the ambiguity of whether it was a coping mechanism or not- that was deliberate! Glad you enjoyed, thank you for your lovely comment.

    • The image of the man with the sagging mouth caught my attention right away. An intimate story. Great job!

      Reply ↓

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