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2nd Campaigner Challenge

This second challenge was, in my humble opinion (the same humble opinion that no one listens to anyway), a tad harder than the first. We were given five different prompts and tasked with doing one or all of the following:

  • Write a pitch/logline for a book based on the prompts (less than 100 words)
  • Write a short story/flash fiction piece of less than 200 words based on the prompts
  • Write a poem with a twist using the prompts as inspiration (in less than 200 words)
  • Write a story/poem in five sentences, each sentence based on one of the prompts
  • Write a poem/flash fiction piece (in less than 200 words) about the water pear *without* using the words “pear”, “spoon”, or “droplet”.
  • I chose to write a piece of short fiction (under 200 words) on the following prompt:

    Two people are sitting together under the remains of a concrete bridge. Their backs are against a rusted bridge support. One person’s leg is cut. The other person has wet hair.

    We were also given the opportunity to invite critiques from our fellow campaigners, which I am formally doing now. This is the first piece of short fiction I’ve written–at least for public consumption–which is just a not-so-subtle way of saying, be kind to me…I’m just a poor, lowly (and menopausal, therefore over-emotional and ultra-sensitive) blogger.

    Oh, and honesty is very much appreciated, since I can use all the help I can get.

    In the meantime, I’ll be cowering under the coffee table.

    ***********************************

    Jack dropped to the ground next to Dougie, his breath coming in quick, short bursts. His shirt clung to his back like a soggy blanket as he slithered out of his knapsack. His fair hair, normally neat and tidy, was wet and standing on end; he looked like a startled hedgehog.

    “Well, I don’t think we were followed,” he said, sucking in air. He had doubled back in the dark after settling Dougie under the remains of the concrete bridge that used to link the island with the rest of civilization.

    “How’s your leg?”

    Dougie let out a low grunt as he shifted position against the rusted metal bridge support.

    “Hurts like hell! One of Fowler’s goons got me. Where’d they come from anyway? I thought the area was supposed to be deserted!”

    “It was. Somebody clearly knew we were coming.” He leaned over to inspect the ragged gash running up the length of Dougie’s calf. Good. Not too deep, then. Jack got to his feet.

    “Can you walk?”

    “Guess I’ll have to,” Dougie said. “Unless you can find me a taxi off this god-forsaken a-toll.”

    Jack grinned, reaching down for Dougie’s arm. “I’ll see what I can do.”

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