mum23

Thank you Nylecoj, for passing the torch to me.

It's great to see ThinkWrite back here generating such enthusiastic participation and wonderful writing. I hope that the momentum will continue with this one!

Here's the list:

blush
children
fares
hope
hogwash
jolt
rendezvous
vulnerable
vulpine
waffle

The magic number this time is 363, and you may use the words in any form or tense.

Have fun! Looking forward to seeing what you all come up with!

Word count is 363 exactly.

mum23

sigh... needing that edit function...

Not meaning to sound dogmatic about the word count... I just forgot to remove the last line before I submitted...

ladyhwin

Awesome job, Mum, you deserved it!!
I like the list, will likely have fun with it... I'm already getting ideas and and imaginations, something I rarely do... tehe!

One question... how long do we have...??

mum23

Sorry... I was sure I'd typed that in!!

How about two weeks... which will be the 31st of August. Will decide the 'winner' sometime on the 1st of September.

mum23

... and I can't wait to read your ideas and imaginations!

Nylecoj

Oooo!!! Nice list Mum! Hogwash! Love it

sarahxanne

Love the list, had lots of fun with this. Here is my first submission.

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I try not to let the deep sigh escape, as I watch yet another customer walk through the glass double-doors of the restaurant at which I am employed. Some people have no respect or consideration for minimum wage employees like me. Its ten minutes ‘til close and yet another patron expects us to wait on him hand and foot, as if he’s the King of England himself. But what can I do or say?
I’m just the lowly diner waitress who lives to serve him his hearty meal of waffles and eggs, forgiving the fact that nobody in their right mind eats breakfast at dinner time.
My life is not as I had once hoped it would be. In my day dreaming, I had always imagined myself faring much better than this. I share a home with a man rather than his name, which gave my loving parents quite a jolt. He had talked of marriage and love, but as I came to learn the hard way, most of what he says is hogwash.
Still I am foolish, and his vulpine charms keep me hanging on his every word. It is this man’s child whom I have carried for seven months now, and who exhausts me though he (or perhaps even she) has yet to be born. I had always wanted children, and had hoped to share that desire with the man I loved, but this is not to be. The father of my baby was angry when I first told him of my news, and since then I’ve had reason to suspect he’s been rendezvousing around with other women.
Inside I feel so vulnerable, but still I hold my head up high and smile. Day in and day out, I serve my customers with a smile I do not feel, plastered to my face. Their scrutinizing stares bring blushes to my cheeks, but still I serve as if I do not notice.
I wonder often why my life has turned out like this, and what I did wrong to deserve to it. But some things are not meant for us to know, and I suppose this is one of them.

sarahxanne

Really needing an edit option! That was supposed to be "deserve it", not "deserve to it"!

mum23

You were very quick off the mark, sarahxanne!

What a sad story you've written. I found myself hoping that your character would find some light in her life once her child was born.

Looking forward to your second submission!

morshy

A feeling of unease settled over him, of vulnerability, as if someone were watching him from the shadows. He glanced around nervously, but none of his neighbours seemed in the slightest perturbed. He looked back to the front of the room. The speaker held the crowd in the palm of his hand. There was no denying his charisma: when he spoke, you wanted to listen. He had…something…about him. Even the children had stilled, which was no mean feat in itself. He tried to figure out what it was he was giving these people. And it came to him in a jolt: Hope. He was giving these people hope. And that made him all the more dangerous.

He’d tuned him out while he was trying to orientate himself. He’d noted where his escape routes were, what his exit strategy was. But as he looked behind one more time, he noticed the door was bolted. It must have happened after they’d all filed in. The windows were barred, and the only other ways out, through the kitchen at the back of the hall or the fire exit, meant he’d have to make his way to the front of the crowd, and he wasn’t ready for that just yet.

The preacher seemed to be working himself into a righteous fury. He thought it was just so much hogwash and waffle, but the crowd…the congregation, were lapping it up. When the preacher fixed his eye on a young blonde lady at the front, he could see the blush from the back of the room. And then the preacher looked up, right at him it seemed, and he could see that vulpine gleam in his eye. And he knew it was too late.

The preacher broke off from his sermon, took a sip of water, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, a calm had descended over him. He invited the congregation to take a small break. He pointed out a couple of trestle tables to one side of the hall, and invited everyone to sample the fares of the good ladies of the church. Sustenance had been provided, he said. And while he wasn’t feeding the five thousand, he felt he was feeding those who needed it most. That got a small laugh, and everyone seemed at ease. People shuffled past him, eager to taste the pies and cakes on display. But he stood where he was, looking directly at the preacher.

He had arranged a rendezvous with one of the preacher’s inner sanctum. She was scared, she wanted out, but she didn’t know how. He’d been on the preacher’s trail for a couple of years now. And it was always the same. Turn up in a small, back water village or town. Start low key, a few sermons here, a few readings there, and building up a following. And then hire a hall for a weekly meeting. And then a bi-weekly meeting. And let the congregation grow, let the people come to him. He was enigmatic, the kind of man women wanted to be with, and men wanted to be. He never pressured anyone into anything. But if a family wanted to invest in his new church, he never turned the money down. And then, just as he was about to unveil his master plan, invite the congregation to a special meeting. They’d drink the cool-aid, and he’d disappear. Lie low, and a couple of months later turn up in another state on the other side of the country. He had hoped to present a dossier to the police, and had hoped the information he’d obtain about the inner sanctum would be the final nail in the preacher’s coffin. But she’d failed to show. And it was at that point that he knew the net was closing in on him.

It was now or never.


Ok, so word count just completely ignored. But all the words in there. And nice to see the challenge back where it belongs.

Might have another crack at this and actually attempt to stick to the rules. But I saw the words, I saw this story, and thought I'd share. Enjoy.

Oooh, and critical feedback always welcome

mum23

An intriguing story, morshy. I did enjoy, and hope that you might make it an eligible contender, perhaps even write a Part 2...

Looking forward to more!

mum23

Real life has been keeping me rather pre-occupied lately. Maybe everybody else is similarly distracted, but it sure would be lovely to see another few entries...

ThinkWriteBoy

23/5/3618, 11:25 p.m.

They advance on the isolated house in the forest under cover of darkness. The men belong to the government’s Special Operations Unit. Their target: the headquarters of the criminal organisation Black Hand. They wear chameleon-camouflaged armour and they carry an arsenal of weapons.

One of them encounters a sentry, almost stepping on the man in the darkness. The sentry opens his mouth to yell, only to collapse as the SpecOps man’s fist jolts his head sideways. The man takes a closer look at the dead guard.

Shaking his head, Seargent Major William Forge looks at the body and sighs. “Always too greedy, brother. You never could resist money. What did they pay you to change sides, I wonder? Ah well, I never really liked you anyway. You were too quick to lie to get out of trouble.” Then he activates the communicator in his helmet and addresses the rest of his squad. “Look out for sentries. I just ran into my brother. Don’t go any further until that vulpine crook has finished waffling with the guards and gone inside for his rendezvous with the other criminals. Commander out.”

One of his men replies, “I hope he goes in soon, I need some sleep. He must be an absolute idiot to put his house in a position this vulnerable. Karalosky out.”

A giggle can be heard coming from one of the rooms. There is a movement at the curtain and the blushing face of a young woman is seen momentarily. In the heat sensors employed by the SpecOps men, her face shows as a bright splotch against the cold black of the house. There is a completely unexpected sound. The sound of children laughing.

Then the criminal, Daniel Jones, walks into the house, directing a parting comment at the guard. “Hogwash! Nobody knows I’m here! Your instruments must be faulty.” Seconds later a woman’s voice can be heard berating him for being late.

Forge smiles, wondering how Daniel fares under his wife’s tongue-lashing. He speaks quietly. “Commence Operation: Broken Hand. Commander out.”

As they enter, a helicopter takes off from the roof. Daniel Jones has escaped, but Black Hand is broken.
_____________________________________________________________

This is the first story of this kind I have ever written, so there will naturally be clumsy bits and mistakes. Still, I like it and I hope you do too.

chelydra

No time now to even read others' stories let alone contribute one of my own... that real life thing is a b----, ain't it? But maybe I can sneak back and squeeze something in quick when no one is looking (flash image of shewolf teeth bared) since I would hate to miss a ThinkWrite hosted by the estimable supermum...

chelydra

CHAPTER THREE


Blushing furiously, she blurted out in a small voice half-strangled by the intensity of these still-unfamiliar emotions, “Oh lord, oh lord, where are the children?”
“I gave them all bus fares, made sure they went to town.”
“I hope you didn’t arrange for them to be abducted or something. I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Cut the hogwash, kiddo. Trust me, they’re fine.”
A jolt shot through her every nerve. That voice of his when he reassured her, its depth and softness—even now it brought back the sensations she felt during their first rendezvous, when she gave herself to him body and soul. Again she was caught in the undertow of storm-tossed surf as lightning bolts ripped apart the purple sky—drowning and electrocuted at the same time, yet loving the fear and danger after so many years of feeling nothing at all. She was even more vulnerable now than she was then, swooning, collapsing helplessly in his powerful arms, weakly whispering “I hate you” as he pulled her close.
“I know,” he purred soothingly, and they said no more. After eight hours, as the day faded to dusk, he finally left without a word.



👿 What had happened to her husband, the father of her six children? If he was killed in Vietnam, she’d need to research the atmosphere and background of the mid-Seventies. Would this long-awaited new lover roar up in a dark green Dodge Charger with double four-barrel carburators, or a rusty used 1100-cc Harley-Davison chopper? Or would he whish up her driveway on a twelve-speed bicycle and stroll over to her door with his toes elevated by Earth Shoes®? Do romance novel readers care about historical accuracy? That’s guy stuff, these love-starved ladies just want mushy sentiments and at least one sex scene per chapter. So say the helpful hints on the writers’ forums. Forget history, get on with it, just kill him off, or let him split with his secretary, no, make it his female boss, a nod to feminism—that’s supposed to help readers preserve a modicum of self-respect as their whole gender submits, in unison, to the charms of tall, strong, aloof men.
A more immediate problem is how to fill that afternoon with explicit descriptions. Keep in mind, romance novels have evolved since the early years of nebulous, euphemistic interludes. Okay, backtracking now... 👿



Vulpine paws reached in and masterfully ripped away the lace bodice of her heirloom dressing gown — the grandmother who raised her had worn it on her wedding night! He kept ripping until there was nothing left to rip open but her own tender, eager self. The skin of his shoulders smelled just like fresh steamy waffles as she hid her blushing face in his awesome musculature…



Oh hell, that’s already 460 words. I still didn’t even get to the real juicy bits. Focus groups prove you need exactly 363, no more, no less, to hold the readers’ attention through this crucial third chapter. And 44% of all word-of-mouth advertising takes place right after Chapter Three, so sales depend on getting it right. Drastic surgery needed. Let’s see… Knock out everything from “What had happened…” to “…interludes. Okay” ...



Did I hear wheels rolling up outside? Hello? is someone at the door? It’s open, c’mon in! Oh no, what have I done. It must be him. Last time he showed up I knocked over the typewriter and swooned right down a whole flight of stairs into his waiting arms, only he was lighting a cigarette and couldn’t be bothered. Crumpled and crying at his feet, I —

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If I'm not mistaken, removing our would-be romance novelist's notes to herself, but just the part enclosed in purple wolf-cub heads, brings the word count to 363 — although of course, the story is ineligible for consideration even without this flagrant rule-twisting, due to indecency, sexism, and leaving six forgotten little kids to fend for themselves in town, probably without even bus fare back home...

sarahxanne

Chelydra -- I liked your story, even if it isn't eligible for consideration. It was definitely interesting, and contained a lot of truths. I love realism, and I love seeing it in writing.

chelydra

Sarah,
Thanks, I liked yours a lot but only now notice how much our stories have in common — essentially the same story, from slightly different angles.

TWB, It'll be interesting to see what happens next in your evolving ouvre... wait, is that works or eggs? ...oueff is eggs I guess... I mean the body of work you're producing is growing more branches and more layers—and a year from now, who know what'll be happening? I'm imagining a mad free-for-all as hard-boiled detectives, surly bodice-rippers, sorcerors, spies, assassins, reincarnated mummies, vampires, space aliens, etc., smash into each other as genres and plot-lines collide. Then later, all your TW experiments bear fruit in a forty-volume epic weaving together all these strands into who-knows-what.

mum23

TWB… It’s great to see you trying a completely different genre. Keep trying new things… you’ll be amazed at what you can do. You’ve written this very well, with lots of original ideas and I liked it very much! Good to see another eligible contender.

chelydra! This is quite a departure from what we’ve seen from you in the past too. I must say, I’m more than a little concerned about those poor children. Thanks for adding some spice to the mix, even if your entry isn’t eligible…

Not many days left now… it would be great to see some more entries!

randylynne

I keep seeing these challenges, and not sure exactly what all the rules are or really anything, but I think I have the basic premise. And felt like writing today. So here's what I came up with:
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The blaring alarm jolts her awake. She slaps the nightstand blindly. “It’s way too early for this,” she moans—especially after yet another night waiting up for her teen son to return from a late-night rendezvous with his flavor of the month. That boy is so much like his father sometimes. She shakes her head at the image of the vulpine smirk she once thought so charming. All his promises were hogwash.

The alarm blares again as snooze removes any chance of further sleep for the day. A glance out the window reveals the first blush of dawn spreading across the horizon. The nascent colors would normally inspire her painterly inclinations, but there is barely time to shower before she departs. Certainly there is no time to pull out her old oils—if she could even remember where she had them stored.

“Why do I do this?” she asks herself. But, of course, she knows the answer. It’s always the same. Everything she does is for the children. All she could ever hope for is a good life for her children. Well, that and that she could find enough change to make bus fares for another week until her next paycheck rolls in.

She deftly twists her hair into a bun as she strides down the hall, taking a moment to glance in each room. The twins wave sleepy hellos and she pauses to wrap them in an embrace before they have a chance to get into anything sticky for the day. Her tweeny daughter is already dressed in skinny jeans, making faces at herself in the mirror as she paints on thick black eyeliner. She grunts a greeting at her mother.

Finally she comes to her oldest son’s room. Sprawled out across the bed, his feet hanging off the edge, he seems so vulnerable in his sleep. She brushes back a ginger curl and thinks of the thousands of mornings she has come to wake Sir Sleepyhead over the years. He is her baby boy and always will be. No midnight adventures will ever change that. “Time to wake up.”

Blue eyes blink open. “Hey, ma. What’s for breakfast?”

She laughs. “Waffles?”

mum23

Hi randylynne... you've included all the list words, and your story has the correct word-count, so you've satisfied both rules.

The warmth and humour in your story took this ordinary scenario and made it something quite charming. I really enjoyed reading it!

... glad you felt like writing today...