Third Campaigner Challenge: SHOW not TELL
Oof. The deadline for this is tomorrow. I was able to get the other two challenges done in pretty good time, but between vacation and Occupy Writers and coming home, getting this one wrapped up was a close thing. The sphinx entry for Sommer Leigh‘s League of Monstrology is tomorrow; the final post for the Rule of Three is Wednesday, and I’ve got a copy writing gig that demands time this week, as does the rest of the writing. Suddenly I feel quite busy.
Here are Rachael’s parameters:
- that it’s morning,
- that a man or a woman (or both) is at the beach
- that the MC (main character) is bored
- that something stinks behind where he/she is sitting
- that something surprising happens.
Just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: “synbatec,” “wastopaneer,” and “tacise.” (NB. these words are completely made up and are not intended to have any meaning other than the one you give them).
I clocked in at 295 words.
There Have Been Better Ideas
Her coffee tasted salty and the wind rattled the newspaper edges over the clues to the crossword. Dave was rattling on about stone, subjected to years, decades, centuries, millennia of pounding surf. Blah blah blah volcanic blah blah blah ocean blah blah blah sand.
She squinted as the sun crept up on her too-pink legs. Already burned. She could leave them exposed until it rose farther, then it would be time for the garish towel. Oh, how she hated that towel. No. Hate required too much effort. Passive loathing.
“What did you say?”
“Oh God, what do they have?” The dismay in his voice was palpable. That wasn’t what he’d said a moment ago.
She turned a little. The boys were swinging something, a piñata maybe. A piñata. On the Outer Banks. Of course. The wind shifted and the air filled with their delighted laughter and a thick, nauseating funk that combined the worst of shit and dead.
“Put that down right now!” Dave yelled.
“We found a horseshoe crab!” Caleb called back.
“Put it down!” He stormed up the sand.
She flattened the newspaper. Six letter word for three-dimensional printer control. Tacise, easy. 18 Down: “Wastopaneer.” She didn’t even know what that meant. Indian cooking? She flipped two pages over. The answer was “synbatec,” which was good for filling in boxes but not for knowing what either word meant.
She hoped Dave did something about that dead crab-thing soon. She shifted on the deck chair and worked her toes into the sand. It’s like a cheap pedi. She sighed. I should go inside and shower. Grains of sand chafed under the elastic of her swimsuit, stretched around her waist and up her side. She didn’t get up.
We should only vacation in the city.