Writing Challenge, Week 3
Day 15: Easy day. Pick a word and think of five synonyms without using a thesaurus. You’re halfway done with the challenge!
Day 16: Stretch. Write a scene in the moments before a car wreck from 1st-person
POV. Slow down, giving time for lots of details, thus drawing out the scene.
Remember to apply the principles of POV from Day 6.
Day 17: Tighten. Rewrite the same scene from Day 16, but this time cut
details and pace the action at high-speed.
Day 18: Stress. Write an exchange of dialogue between two strangers in a
subway train. It is 1:14am. They are the only two in the railroad car. The
electricity is out. The train is stopped.
Day 19: Minimalist. Sometimes saying less is saying more. Write a few
paragraphs either understating or not directly mentioning your subject to lend
irony and greater meaning to the unsaid.
Day 20: Numb. Write a scene from 1st-person POV showing the aftermath of a
battle (fact or fiction).
Day 21: Emotive. Pick five words that produce emotion in you and write a
sentence based on each of them, painting a picture with or of that word.
Day 15:
ReplyDeletePastor: Preacher, Reverend, Vicar, Parson, Father.
Day 16:
The oncoming car drifted into my lane. What did they think they were doing? They would go back, right?
The headlights approached, the increasing brightness melting away the black and blinding me from anything else.
“Babe, look out!”
I jerked my head to my wife in the passenger seat. She screamed and covered her face with her hands.
I glanced back out the windshield and pulled my wheel to the right, trying to get away. The car didn’t seem to turn, and just oozed to the side.
“Babe!” Terror filled Carlie’s voice and tensed my body. “Babe!”
I tried to block her panic from my ears.
Blinding white light filled the windshield, and an explosion blasted my ears.
Day 17:
The oncome car swerved into my lane. What on earth?
The headlights rushed me, growing brighter and brighter.
“Babe, look out!” Carlie screamed.
I jerked my wheel to the right.
“Babe! Babe!” She grabbed my arm.
Blinding white light flooded the windshield, and an explosion blasted my ears.
Day 19:
I’m sick of clichés. Maybe I could stand them once in a blue moon, but honestly, people use them like they’re a dime a dozen. I suppose I might be trying to reinvent the wheel when it comes to speaking up for creative writing, but joining the bandwagon of people already against clichés didn’t seem to work very well. Whatever they’re doing isn’t working. So I’ll start my own revolution and straight up tell people—give them the good old fashioned handwriting on the wall—: quit clichés and think out of the box.
Day 20:
I looked around. A breeze drifted through the ripped window screen on the cabin bedroom window.
All night. No sleep. Constant enemy bombardment. The wounds on my face and body throbbed and itched.
My brother and sister, my comrades in the fray, and the ones who sent me away to safety until they decimated the enemy, each gave me a tired smile.
“Show me the slaughter.” I said.
“There are the bodies.” My sister pointed to the dresser.
Ah, so there were the corpses of those beasts. But even vengeance on my enemies did nothing to take away my exhaustion nor the miserable itching on my body.
“How many?” I asked.
“Sixty.”
I stepped over and let my gaze rest on the strewn bodies of the mosquitoes who had attacked me all night, entering by secret way of the broken bedroom screen.
“Well done, sister and brother,” I murmured. “My life is indebted to you.”
Day 21:
Bloodstained: He staggered into the room, his shirt bloodstained. He eased his friend to the floor, and then collapsed beside him.
Murmured: His mouth moved with unspoken words, his face pale. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Taps: I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears and pressed the bugle to my shaking lips, forcing each note of Taps out as steadily as I could.
Grit: Grit reminds me of dirt (obviously), but specifically in relation to crawling around behind bunkers amid explosions and enemy fire, and of the courage that it takes to face war.
Honor: Honor reminds me of a military funeral—taps, uniforms, flag-covered coffin, and display of the utmost respect for the fallen.