Rachael Harrie's Third Campaigner Challenge has been announced, and this is how it rolls:
Write a blog post in 300 words or less, excluding the title. The post can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should show:
• 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).
Entries in the Third Campaigner Challenge will close on Monday, October 24th (at 11.59pm EDT).
I BELIEVE I HAVE INCORPORATED ALL OF THE REQUIREMENTS!
TO SEE THE OTHER ENTRIES, OR IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO VOTE FOR ME, CLICK HERE. I AM NUMBER 65!
IN HONOR OF HALLOWEEN, HERE IS MY ENTRY!
Running From The Grim
There’s this boy I like, see. And he likes to run on the beach. So here I am at the butt-crack of dawn, alone on the beach.
I yawn in the early morning gray, the damp, tangy sea salt tickling the back of my throat. Tucking wisps of humidity-clouded hair behind my ears, I begin to jog. Glancing around, I still don’t see him. I don’t see anyone...
I hit the cold spot at the same time as the roaring fills my ears. Voices – agonized, moaning, screaming. Like trapped souls of the dead.
My stomach sinks. A familiar tingling creeps up my spine. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms what my senses have already told me. The Grim Reaper has announced its own horrid arrival.
Swirling clouds of unnatural vapor, thick like a London pea-souper, enshrouds me on all sides. With my heart racing, I flee as fast as I can. Running fast through sand is like trying to squeeze thick honey through a bear-bottle. Visibility near zero, I frantically search for an escape route that will end with my soul intact.
My foot catches on driftwood and I go down hard, gritty, damp sand imbedding into my hands and knees. Scrambling to my feet, I risk a quick glance back, and stifle a sob. Still there, a tactise wastopaneer, and growing bigger, taller, wider, darker. A foul stench assaults my nostrils, invades my mouth, triggering my gag reflex. Rotting flesh and fear. The smell of death.
Racing until my lungs are about to explode, I burst through some kind of synbatec barrier...
“What the...” the boy sputtered, finding himself flat on his back. I lay sprawled across him, staring into startled brown eyes.
All things considered, this new situation I suddenly find myself in is a vast improvement.