Wednesday Write-in #83

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Welcome to the Wednesday Write-in!

Welcome to the Wednesday Write-in. This event runs every week to help any and all writers take control of their productivity and imaginations. Please join in; we’d love to read your work.


relapse  ::  busy bee  ::  ocean  ::  pacify  ::  putrid


There are no rules, but here are some guidelines:

  • 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 have time for (but we won’t shout at you if you don’t).
  • If you want to write a poem, a script, or something completely different, feel free.

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Any questions? Otherwise, have fun writing!

24 thoughts on “Wednesday Write-in #83

  1. Still away so not much chance to comment, but I will read everything.

    A Beautiful Day

    ‘It’s a beautiful day, Miss Florence. You want the window open wide?’ The helper threw open the double doors without waiting for a reply, then buzzed around briskly like an efficient busy bee moving medicine bottles and the accoutrements of a sick room in order to clean the surfaces.

    Florence watched without speaking, her eyes following the woman then falling greedily on the view outside. She couldn’t speak. Since the last relapse speech had gone. All she could do was stare out of the open window at the blue Pacific Ocean whose waves thundered onto the bay below.

    She’d always loved the sea, its power and might, never to be under-estimated. The ocean had taken her husband years ago. His putrid body had washed up miles down the coast. But she loved it nevertheless. Years ago she had spent hours walking along the sand exalting in the wind whipping up the waves and sending the surf racing up the beach. Now she could only watch, and remember.

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  3. Hope I have not missed the deadline

    Cakes 83 March 19th 2014-03-19
    relapse :: busy bee :: ocean :: pacify :: putrid
    The Angel

    They were laid out in lines of fold out stretchers with barely enough room between to collect the stinking piss-pots. Wounded lay alongside men with cholera. The latest batch from Balaclava shipped across the Black Sea to Skutari in the putrid dungeon of the hold. Slowly the doctors sorted out urgent surgery cases and took them off the ferry and into the hospital for inhuman amputations in filthy surgeries running with blood; the lucky ones dosed with laudanum to pacify their screams of pain. The ocean journey didn’t help and almost 20% died during the crossing. They were the last to be carried off for burial or cremation or lime pits. Eventually the living might make it to a ward where nurses, mainly nuns, swooped about like busy bees urged on by Florence who never seemed to sleep. She had just recovered from Crimean fever and everyone was afraid that if she did not get some rest she might suffer a relapse or worse; but she just ignored the concerns. In fact she also tended the prisoners just as diligently despite Dr Hall’s ranting and raging. She was not to be put off by the likes of such a weak man she had more important things to do. Trying to keep some sort of order and cleanliness and time for a little compassion; her reward was that some survived. She was a living angel in the darkest depths of hell.

    • Great writing, and wonderfully effective imagery, and a passionately wrought piece. Also, sadly, rather relevant to our own day. I enjoyed the pictures this created in my mind.

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  5. Mine isn’t particularly original, I’m afraid. But here it is:

    The smell hit me first. Then the high pitched sound squealed at me from the kitchen.
    ‘What’s going on?’ I shouted as I entered.
    ‘Relapse! Couldn’t have given her enough serum,’ Rod said whilst holding her at arms length.
    ”Keep hold of her and I’ll get more. Enough to cure a horse, this time.”
    “You don’t think that might finish her off? She’s only a kid.”
    “I don’t know, but the longer we leave her the more of her will putrefy. We don’t want to have to cut off any more flesh than is necessary. We’re running out of ways to pacify her.”

    I stood a few feet away and stretched over from a safe distance to pour the serum down into a gaping maw that only this morning had sung of the ocean.

  6. To pacify my best friend, I agreed to a vacation. The salty ocean air wrapped around me like a thick blanket as we walked along the edge of the water. I looked over at the ever busy bee and wondered how she transformed so quickly to the relaxed woman beside me.

    “Can you believe this place?” she asked, unaware that I was watching her, or that the idea I’d railed against was beginning to bring on a great deal of reflectiveness in me.

    I was finally seeing things that were so much bigger than I was. And yes, I could believe it. When you got past your own selfishness and demons that threatened to destroy everything, your eyes opened up to a whole new world.

    I stopped walking.

    She turned around. A small smile curved her lips, and then concern etched on her face.

    “Thank you,” was all I could say.

    She shook her head and said, “Thank you.”

    Neither of us had to voice that it was my own willingness to escape the putrid hole of despair I’d sunk into that would make this time different. This time, I wouldn’t relapse.

  7. It was spring in Manchester, occasional glimpses of sunlight peered through the clouds and some brave birds sang a tune. Spring tried its best to permeate the city, but Manchester fought back, hiding the ocean above; it tried not to be romantised. Industrious towards industry, boned with steel poles, it was still uneasy with a cappuccino.

    There lived Mickey the prole. Gold rings weighed on his fingers, and his plastic trousers glistened with rain water. He was prole alright; and he knew it. Relapses of anger without pacification, dappled across his past, like ciggarette burns. His lost tempers had nicked his rap sheet, at some central police computer. Each entry an indelible reminder of the event, only anarchy could erase the line in the sand. By the time his eyes had opened his body was marked, like a putrid fruit. He could be a busy bee, a toiler, a worker, a learned one. It didn’t matter doors had been closed, and certain modes of thinking banished. Past, past, past, past, no bloody escape, he thought to himself.

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