777 Challenge: An Excerpt About Naughty Schoolgirls

Leigh W. Smith of Leigh’s Wordsmithery very kindly tagged me for the 777 challenge back in mid-October (shame-faced at my slowness to respond). Leigh is such a cool writer of most original voice and style. She writes speculative fiction and science fiction, mostly short stories, although she is working on her first novel. Do visit her blog and read some of her awesome creations.

The 777 challenge requires you go to Page 7 of your work-in-progress, scroll down to Line 7 and share the next 7 lines in a blog post. Once you have done this, you can tag 7 other bloggers to do the same with their work-in-progress. This is all a bit of fun: nobody must feel beholden to take part and they are free to bend the rules if they wish.

SarahWritingI’ve already done a similar challenge (Lucky Sevens) twice before, for my Speculative fiction novel that I’m busy submitting to literary agents and publishers just now. What I found interesting about this earlier exercise was that my 7 lines changed from the first draft to the last. For anyone who’s interested, you will find the two different versions in these posts —  Lucky Seven Time! and The Magnum Opus: Where Did that Year Go?  Also, the title has changed several times, with it ending up as Counting Magpies, partly thanks to my fellow bloggers’ input in a recent poll.

At the moment, my work-in-progress involves editing and formatting one of my older novels, possibly with self-publication in mind. It’s not a path I ever envisaged going down but no harm in exploring all avenues. This particular novel, Desiccation, is set in a posh girls boarding school in the 60s and is a darkly comic science fantasy, which I envisage as being suitable for older teenagers upwards. So here’s my extract, although I can’t guarantee that it will appear exactly on Page 7 by the time I’ve finished my edit.

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The head girl despaired at both the skag and the hog, but she could just about tolerate them as long as they didn’t start quibbling about her extortionate commission; not that she was optimistic about making a fortune with such shoddy specimens in her employ.

The sport-mad Skag Rag looked more like a boy than a girl with her flat chest, muscly limbs, and short-cropped hair, while Sweat Hog resembled a large pink blancmange. She could have made something of her white-blonde hair, but instead chose to wear it in a limp ponytail, adding to her general air of neglect. The plus side of both girls’ unattractiveness was their desperation for male attention of any kind.

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And while I’m on the subject of girls boarding school, I’d like to share a picture of me, aged 8, dressed as a St Trinian’s Girl for a fancy dress competition! St Trinians Girl

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Following that brief interlude, here are the 6 (not 7) people I’m tagging for the 777 Challenge (I hear their feet running off into the distance already!):

Blondeusk of Blondewritemore , who is writing her first novel and was my guest storyteller in August (Note: this tagging is strictly under the proviso that Blondeusk doesn’t take up the challenge until December, after she has surfaced from NaNoWriMo as I’m encouraging her not to read back over any of her novel-in-progress until she has typed THE END).

Sherri of A View From My Summerhouse, who’s writing her memoirs. (And shush, this is secret as Sherri doesn’t know it yet, but I’m shortly going to invite her along as a guest storyteller to my blog).

Dave of Dave Farmer’s Blog, whose fantastic zombie novel The Range is due for publication at the end of this month (watch out for the Publication Day special on my blog). Dave was my guest storyteller in June.

Andrea Stephenson of Harvesting Hecate, who is at the submission stage of her poignant novel The skin of a selkie and was my guest storyteller in October.

Ese Klava of Ese’s Voice, who has travelled the world and has written a book titled Butterfly Thy Name.

David Milligan-Croft of There Is No Cavalry, who, like me, doesn’t enjoy the restrictions of genre. I’m not sure where he is with his second novel, Peripheral Vision, re editing, but I’m hopeful he’ll take up the 777 challenge.  The story is about a boy growing up in the 1970s northern England, who descends into crime and whose only chance at redemption is in finding his long-lost childhood sweetheart.

Friday Fictioneers: Too Many Legs

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Excuse me, has anyone seen my mouse?” Damn, that’s not working.

“Help, there’s a tiger on the loose!” Unbelievable. Still no response. You’re all dead from the neck up.

“Fire! Fire!” Well, that’s flaming useless. My lighter’s not working.

“Does that bag belong to anyone?” Excellent, they’re getting twitchy.

“Make way for the bomb disposal unit.” OMG, I hate crowds.

Phew, they’ve gone. Now I can tell my behaviour therapist I made it through the shopping-centre without panicking.

“Oh, no. Help! Somebody, please. Take it away.”

(shaking my fist at the sky)  “What manner of twisted deity creates spiders?”

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 words stories
Photo Prompt: image (c)Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Friday Fictioneers: Crusher

PHOTO PROMPT - Copyright - Jean L. Hays

“You are a naughty, broken car and I’m going to tip you in the rubbish.”

“Ben, for heaven’s sake stop chucking things at the bin. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Come on, digger-crane-Cadillac, let’s scoop this old rust-bucket into the crusher. Wham-bang, wham-bang.”

“Lunch is ready.”

“Oh, but Mu-u-u-um, I’m playing with my cars.”

“Your soup will get cold.”

“In a minute. I’m just–“

“It’s petrol soup with tyre crôutons, followed by car-wax pudding.”

“Yummy stuff. Broom, broom, br-oo-oo-m. On my way up the motorway. Overtaking a police car–“

Skid. Crash. Silence.

Boy-racer in head-on collision with wall. Dial Emergency Services.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt image (c) Jean L. Hays

November’s Guest Storyteller, Christy Birmingham

Christy Birmingham 600x600

Christy Birmingham is a poet, author and freelance writer in British Columbia, Canada. Her debut poetry collection Pathways to Illumination is available exclusively at Redmund Productions. If you haven’t been by her blog Poetic Parfait yet, check it out. You can also find Christy on Twitter.

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Shoveling Conversation

We stood, I threw onions, we never left… in our minds.

It was Thursday, and we weren’t any more drunk than usual. Only a few bottles of Merlot in and already Alex was throwing words my way that amounted to a hit that felt like a shovel to the face.

“You can’t tell me that,” he said. “You told me – you said you wanted to give her up for adoption. How was I to know you didn’t mean it?”

I didn’t hear anything other than give her up for adoption. His mouth moved in ways that I wish I had never felt on my body.

I threw the onion I had been cutting up at the kitchen counter at him. It hit his left ear and he looked at me with the astonishment I wish I had received months ago.

I didn’t know if my tears were true or fake, like our love. Either way, the knife in my hand wasn’t keeping anyone safe around here, and my wine glass was less than halfway full.

 

©2014 Christy Birmingham

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Sarah says: Thank you so much, Christy, for guest storytelling this month. Your piece of flash fiction illustrates so accurately the breakdown in communication that can happen between males and females just because their brains are wired-up differently. I wonder how many times in history men have said to women “how was I to know you didn’t mean it?”.

You can find the links to previous guest storyteller posts at https://sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/

Friday Fictioneers: A Tale for Halloween

three_chairs

Come nightfall, I’ll slip into one of those three chairs.

At first, people will think I’m a pretend vampire, outdoors enjoying Halloween. Then some youth dressed as a ghost will say, ‘Hey, cool outfit.’

And his lithe girlfriend, kitted out like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, will compliment me further. ‘Spooky makeup and classy fangs.’

These hot-blooded revellers will fit the two empty coffins back at my crypt to perfection.

Would you care to join me?’

In life, I was a gambler; so too, am I in death. The street light. The window. Will they notice too late that I’ve no reflection?

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Photo Prompt: Melanie Greenwood
Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories