Challenge 4 - Reflections

She stares at me, curious. Her fine, mousy-brown hair a frizzy halo about her round face. Some of those spots are freckles, others are red and sore from where she’s been squeezing pimples. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her teeth are mostly straight, except for the big canine on the left which stands out crooked and ruins the whole effect.

No, she isn’t beautiful, not in a traditional way.

I stare back, confused. Is this really how people see me? She looks nothing like the girl I imagine - slim and sexy, with an infectious smile and great hair.

“I don’t like you,” I say to the mirror girl.

Her eyes narrow, throwing the words back at me even as I say them.

“Why can’t you be pretty?” I murmur.

A dark part of me wants to erase her; replace her with someone else. For a moment I understand how the evil Queen felt.

Mirror, mirror, lie to me please.

Nothing changes. Nothing ever will. She’s me and I’m her.

I reach out, our fingers separated by nothing more than a thin sliver of glass. Is it compassion or sadness in her big blue eyes as I whisper, “I’m such a hypocrite, aren’t I?”

She nods, knowing exactly what I mean. There’s so much love in my life, crazy, generous, wonderful people I'm honoured to call friends and family. Who have I ever disowned for failing to be pretty?

No-one, of course. What a stupid question. I don’t care what they look like.

“Then why am I so mean to you?”

The corners of her mouth twitch up; the beginnings of a knowing smile. Perhaps I’ll never be a movie star or a celebrity, but I could strike ‘symmetrical teeth’ and ‘silky locks’ off the list of prerequisites to loving and accepting myself.

Challenge 2 - Scolding My Social Anxiety

It occurred to me that this exercise can be combined with the literary technique of apostrophe, in which the author talks directly to non-human objects or abstract concepts, in this case speaking directly to social anxiety. The technique is rarely used anymore and lends itself better to poetry and prose than to fiction. Still, I thought it was an interesting way to approach the exercise. I might attempt this exercise again to create a story with a plot, setting and characters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leave me alone! Stop bothering me. Go away, damn you! And take all of your childhood bullies with you.

Don't try to convince me that people are making fun of me anymore. Allow me to go to the occasional party without feeling like an outcast. Stop haunting my workplaces and social interactions. Cease and desist!

Grow up and be a real human emotion for a change, and graduate from being the pathetic loser of a neurosis that you have chosen to become. Reflect on your own insecurities and give up your cowardly strategy of intimidating others. Have a little self-respect for a change, and then spread that respect around instead of the negativity you thrive on so much. Feel the shame you have brought upon yourself and others. Change your wicked ways.

Taunt me if you must. Continue to be that way as long as you have to. Don't try to rush it, but work toward getting it out of your system. Know that I have learned to defend myself against your ways. Realize that I am no longer afraid of you. Fear me even. But fear yourself even more. And reiterate that to yourself so you never forget.

Think of all the people you treat with such personal contempt. Consider the social consequences you bring into the world. Ask yourself why you feel it is so necessary to use such tactics. Think of your parents. Remember your mother, Humbleness, and your father, Timidity. Reflect on how you came to adopt the worst traits from each of them. Allow their most beautiful qualities to influence you instead. Take your time.

Choose a new path for yourself. Pave your own road. Eradicate the parts of yourself that make you so condescending. Represent yourself with dignity, and utilize the more pleasurable neurotransmitters in the brains you occupy. Educate yourself on the differences between a brain and a mind, and learn about mind over matter. Stop trying to be the mean street kid that you wish you could be. Don't bask in the misconception of your own over-glorified bad-ass reputation. Soften yourself. Mature. Age gracefully.

Exorcise your own demons so that you might stop being a demon to others. Or persist as you have been all along, but be aware that it is a dead end. Make that choice right here and right now. Continue to be a neurological parasite, and be driven to extinction by human evolution. Don't delude yourself into thinking that you can go viral forever. Take into account the history of more than a quarter of a million years of human social change.

Prove to yourself that you have nothing to prove to all the more gentle and friendly human feelings and emotions. Allow yourself to join them. Stop fighting against them. Don't be such a problem child. Be likable, like you always knew you could. Play on people's sensitivities in all the beautiful ways that sensitivities can be felt. Know that you can do that. Know that I know that you can do that as well.

Listen to me. Take my warnings seriously. Snap out of it already, or ostracize yourself. Make that decision in your own way. But at least try to realize your own weaknesses and lack of power over people. Dare me to expel you from my consciousness. See what happens. Just wait and see.

Challenge 4

The Unstable Self

Write a story that alternated between the I and the he/she (or narrator name), making sure you don't confuse the reader with the switches. You might also consider other ways of indicating instability - voices (in italics), commands, or out-of-body perpectives. Perhaps a situation where a person is under such stress they cannot think straight?

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Do your best with this one - I am looking forward to seeing what you can come up with.
Good luck participants.

Challenge 3

Unreliable Third

Write a fragment of a story from the POV of an unreliable narrator - third-person limited (or attached) narration.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Notes:
Usually, an unreliable narration is spoken in first person, so what happens when you give us a slightly detached, yet still unreliable narration? (Think Hitchock's movie Stage Fright) In third person unreliable narration, the readers will believe more of the lies, so see if you can present a deceptive character's perceptions as what he/she believes or wants to believe. You have to both believe the lie and show it to be a lie.

Good luck.

Challenge 2: Run!

I have posted my response to challenge two over here: http://beaulahpragg.com/2012/09/25/run-a-3-a-m-epiphany-challenge-2/

Challenge 2 - Restart

Imperative

Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands, e.g. "Do this; do that; contemplate the rear end of the woman who is walking out of your life." This exercise will be a sort of second-person narration.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Good luck!

R-Rated Material

In order to keep this site available to everyone I have added a 'lock' to all R-rated material.

If you would like to post R-rated material you have two options:

Option one:
1. Post on here with the title and 'emailed' in the body
2. Email mysteryseekernz@gmail.com with the content.

Option two:
For those of you who feel confident enough to play around with encryption and HTML code.
1. Write up your post - it is easiest if you only put in what will be hidden at this stage
2. On the top left corner is ||Compose||HTML|| - select HTML
3. Copy all of the text
4. In another tab/window go to this site: http://www.vincentcheung.ca/jsencryption/
5. In the "Key"(yellow) box input: iamover18
6. In the "Plain Text"(green) box input your copied code
7. Press the "Encrypt" button below the green box.
8. Scroll down to the "HTML Code" (blue) box and copy the code there
9. Return to your blog post and replace all copied text with the code from the encryption site.
(Do not worry that it now looks like a whole page of garbled letters)
10. On the top left corner is ||Compose||HTML|| - select compose
11. Add anything else you wish around the message

Challenge 1 - Restart!

Back by popular demand (and with the backing of a writers' guild this time) - our second attempt to complete the 3 a.m. Ephiphany, from beginning to end - this time no skipping ahead!

Challenge 1
Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I, me or my) only two times. Keep the 'I' somehow important to the narrative you are constructing. The point is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing.

Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)

Bonus Challenge 1: Write an up-beat and cheerful scene following these rules.

Bonus Challenge 2: Write a scene between two lovers following these rules.

Thus the ultimate Challenge is to incorporate both bonuses!

Good Luck Authors!

Challenge 37: The Reunion

The school compound was unusually quiet. It was unusual to me because the school which I remembered was always filled with the chatter of students, some sudden outburst of a teacher’s reproach or the shrill ringing of the school bell.

“Visiting it again made me realised how I much I missed my teachers.” I had found Sarah mawkish and unnecessarily sentimental when she said this. But as I was pacing along the corridor of the classrooms, I caught myself feeling exactly the same way.

I realised that I wasn’t alone when I heard a voice. “Come on, you can do it!” and followed by the laughter of children.

Out in the fields, there was a family with picnic basket, and picnic mat spread out over the grass.

Her hair sparkled with gold when the evening sun touched it for a moment. The curls, the colour, that hair, I recognised it immediately. Mrs. Sweetman taught us literature when I was sitting for my O’levels. She was the only Caucasian teacher in our school.

Her eyes were the most noticeable. They were blue, the same blue which Sarah and I had described as Smurfy blue. It was the same pair of eyes that had watched us intensely as we tried to write an essay on “The driving force behind Macbeth’s ambition.” It was the same pair of eyes that had seen us through the exams, and the same pair of eyes that was glossy with a little wetness when I got distinction for literature.

No doubt, it was the same eyes. But shouldn’t it be framed with a little wrinkles or some crow’s feet at least?

She didn’t seemed to have aged, which made me realised that it wasn’t Mrs. Sweetman. It wasn’t her. At least not exactly. It has been 14 years, surely no cosmetics could cover that trace so well?

Then I remembered the news about her returning to UK for her retirement. She can’t be Mrs. Sweetman. But those eyes, they resembled so much like hers.

When I was trying to figure that out, she had spotted me. She nodded and smiled, a friendly acknowledgment between two strangers. No sign of recognition from her at all.

I decided to unravel the mystery.

“Mrs. Sweetman?” and offered my hand for a handshake.
As her hand slid into mine, I noticed that her nails were painted orange. The Mrs. Sweetman I knew only stick to red or beige.

“I’m her daughter, Winnie.”

There and then, the puzzle was solved.

“I thought I had travelled through time!” I laughed “How is she? I hope she has been keeping well?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” Winnie’s eyebrows crinkled.

She looked down for a moment before she said “My mother died of cancer last year”

474 words.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This might look easy, but it's quite a tough excercise! :P

Challenge 1: The Choice

She was sitting on the couch, right leg slung over the left, arms crossed and her lips pouted in an exaggerated way. Her eyes stared fixedly, not taking them away.

The situation became very uncomfortable and it was particularly so with the silence. They had been silent for nearly 30 minutes. The last word said was “Suits you!” and Jason walked away to the kitchen. As Sharon watched him turned his back, she could do nothing else but pointed an accusing finger at me and said “It is all your fault!”

Jason might not give in this time. Nancy could be on the losing ground. The couch became her banishment, taking along the ‘accused’, the cause of the fight, as she had said. She didn’t need chains for the confinement, her piercing stare had replaced that and it was sufficient to instill fear.

Before Nancy moved in, days were happier. We shared the bed, the breakfast, the couch and the TV. We shared a life.

We had our daily morning walks where we would listen to his stories together. Jason would read them out while we were out in the park. As he reads them, he would make some changes here and there, and viola! He has a story to submit to the magazine again the next day.

Before Nancy moved in, days were simpler. Jason could concentrate on his writing, and do what he loves most. Writing was our bread and butter. It was also food for Jason’s soul. He could never feel more alive doing something else.
But Nancy couldn’t understand that. Nancy believes in driving expensive cars, living in big houses and good statuses in the society.

When Nancy moved in the first week, she tried to convince Jason to take his bar exams. By the second week, she succeeded. This should have sounded the alarm that trouble was lurking into our peaceful life.

The book Jason was working on was left unfinished. Soon, he got so caught up with the exams, the book was left forgotten.

Two months later, he passed his bar exams, which was a good thing that was packaged with trouble.

Nancy started suggesting Jason to get employment in a law firm. She started by suggestions, which turned into demands when Jason continued to say ‘No’. Writing was what he wanted to do, Nancy just didn’t get it.

She was relentless. One day, as the three of us were watching TV, Nancy pointed to Rowan Atkinson and said “Look at him, aimless and silly. Being sentimental at the wrong things! Come on, it is just a plush toy bear!”

Nancy always sees different things. She sees Mr. Bean, while we see Rowan Atkinson.
Jason knew that her comment was meant for him. He played along by saying “Well, looks like his bear understood him better than anyone else.”

That was how it all started. Nancy identified a new rival, a new threat.

“No, no dog pound!” Jason raised his voice.

“You have a choice, your wife or this bitch.”

Ouch, that hurts. It is a bad word in the human world.

Finally, Jason threw his arms in exasperation and said “Suits you!”. His words left Nancy’s question unanswered, a choice not decided.

The 30 minutes of silence extended till the night. We went to bed, with the anger, disappointment and frustration still hanging in the air.

The next morning, with the leash in his hands and penance in his eyes, Jason said to me, “I’m so sorry Vicky.”

585 words

Challenge 35: Picton

I told myself that I wasn’t really expecting to find Simon. Even if he’d made it this far, there was no guarantee, ten years on, that we’d find any trace of him. But from the moment I passed the old airlock where he and I had seen my half-sister Sonia out, which he had himself come and gone through on his later travels, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. A horde of sandflies when I reached the West Coast, and I just remembered the time we’d sat next to the letterbox full of cobwebs. Dad would have cleared them off (if he hadn’t walked out the airlock for good the day before). Simon was just happy to see that something was alive other than us humans.

In my backpack, I have the album that his then-fiance, Jack, gave him for his birthday ten years ago. The first photo is of the two of them on top of one of the mountains in the Nelson Lakes. They’re wearing bulky jackets and you can tell it was windy because Simon’s hair is a complete mess. The last one is of them with (according to Jack) Simon’s mother and his little brother. I guess his dad must have been behind the camera. The photo’s been taken a bit too early. Jack’s got her eyes closed, and Simon’s got his arms draped over his brother’s shoulders, looking down at him with an expression that’s familiar to me. Jack says it’s the last time they saw each other, because the bomb came less than a year later. I don’t know why Simon left the photos behind if he knew he was leaving for good.

Apart from my supplies, I also had copies of the new maps of the South Island. Simon started venturing out to make them quite soon after Dad left – but when he’d done as much as he could, he moved on to the North Island – at least, that was the plan. When the bubble around Christchurch got taken down, they started copying out his maps for the settlement expeditions.

Anyway, I had told myself I wouldn’t find him, so I tried not to be disappointed when, following State Highway 1 and the diversions he’d suggested, I reached Picton without luck. What had I expected, that he’d have built himself a little hermit’s hut somewhere?

The settlers hadn’t come this far north. I’d been on my own since Kaikoura, and I’d been avoiding the towns as much as possible – I didn’t know how fast bodies decomposed and I didn’t want to find out. Simon hadn’t volunteered any information about it. As I wandered along the railway tracks, I got the idea of spending the night in one of the old trains, if I could get in.

As it turned out, it wasn’t hard – like most of the expeditioners I’d brought along enough equipment to break into a building if I had to.I chose a passenger train that was rusting away at the station and went at it until I could pry a door open and get in. There were just three compartments...and something seemed to be wrong – it was far too clean to have been abandoned for ten years.

I found Simon’s stores in the last compartment. There wasn’t much – a few bottles of water, a couple of batteries. Some shrivelled kumara, but I couldn’t tell how old they were.

_____________________________________________________________________

Word count: 567. This is another one I wrote a while back (over a year ago, actually) so it doesn't quite fit the challenge :P

Challenge 35: A Place to Call Our Own

I can smell his musk on the breeze, a warm enveloping sense of calm. He is close. Through the muddy undergrowth, I run, savouring the kiss of afternoon sunshine as it pours down into the clearing I have chanced upon. Beauty is unspoilt in our wilderness. Here, anything is possible.

On the far side of the field of wildflowers, I pause beside a trickling creek. There are prints in the dirt, the shape of his toes as he leaped. The rain has just begun to drizzle down the back of my neck. In the distance, a hawk screeches as it swoops down to snatch up its prey. Where has he gone? The imprint of his passing begins to fill with water. Worms wriggle their way to the surface as the spitting becomes a torrent.

Sheltering in the hollow of our favourite tree, I feel like this circle, made by the umbrella of her drooping branches, is my whole world. I am safe and warm, wrapped up in his fur-lined leather coat and listening to the pounding of water outside. It was he who taught me where to go in a storm, how to build a fire of the dry twigs and logs we keep hidden here. I know I will find him, once this wild weather passes on. He can’t have gone far.

I drift into a gentle slumber, unfazed by the howl of the wolves. It is full moon tonight, but they will not bother me. I have my knife and know how to use it. Yet another thing he taught me.

My cheek resting against the rough bark, I dream of other days. Two miles north of here, at the base of the canyon, is a cave where we hid my new spear and a pile of nets I wove last autumn. He promised he would teach me to fish with it in spring, and Verdi’s eye is low on the horizon now, so winter is almost over. If I cannot find him by tomorrow, I will go there and wait. He always keeps his promises.

Dawn brings a frost. Blades of new grass crackle underfoot as I tip-toe out, not wanting to disturb the lively birdsong. Scanning the ground brings me new clues as to his direction. He’s headed west, judging by the lay of sticks beside the thorny brickle bush. It is a heady crawl, over a dead oak bough spanning the crevasse. He found it last year, after the big storm. It will be good as a bridge for many years to come.

He has left a bunch of wild blueberries on the other side, a reward for keeping up with him this far. I am eager to catch him up, though I know it is unlikely. I have never managed it yet, though he insists there’s a first for everything. Another day and my nose aches from the cold. My eyes are watering as I lie on my belly, peering over the cliff at the edge of the wastes. Is this what he wanted me to see? They are closer now than last I remember; dark, snaking pipes seeping black ooze as they suck the life from our wilderness. An owl hoots and I frown. It is not yet dusk, there should be no owls. I glance to my left and grin. There, tied to a low swung branch is a braided leather cord laced through a jade riverstone; a gift from my brother for completing his latest challenge. As I pull it over my head, I look for him, but there is, of course, no sign. I am a big girl now and there are many things I must do alone.

Wordcount: 619

Yay! I think this one is a bit closer to the brief - except for the part about using your own characters. I just made these two up on the spot.

Challenge 35: The Grace of Gods

Space.

Between tiny moments of brilliance when I wonder at the art of creation, there is only the black. It has been a long journey for my ship and I. There are no borders out here, no sense that the hours or days are ticking by. There is only purpose.

You.

I see traces of you in the solar winds. Your eyes sparkling like the corona of that distant blue sun. Free, formless, you are dancing out here in the vacuum. Angel, I have lost you. You have gone where I cannot follow, my dearest.

Sister.

How long has it been since those days? We were so young, so naïve. We saw the fall of everything we held dear, watched our people tear themselves apart. You dreamed of a better life, of a new hope.

Immortality.

Together we lifted those we loved. You and I found the cure for death. Machines and technology, healing, repairing, rebuilding our shells, we were forever young, forever learning. We thought we had left all that sadness behind, but we were still so young. Not ready for the power that came with forever.

War.

I pass now and then, through old battlegrounds. I skirt around drifting debris, rocks that were once planets and suns, shards of great ships and weapons of death. There you are again, in my memory, weeping at the pain, the mad rush to possess, to be right. They were our children, you said. We did this.

Guilt.

You stopped them the only way you knew how. Machines could be turned off, could be modified. You held life and death in your hands and they were forced to listen. When it was done, you fled and I followed. Here, a small blue planet orbiting an insignificant star.

Hope.

The planet turned, the plates crashed and fought, forming mountains and trenches, but still you worked. I wandered those lands alone, waiting for you to find an answer.

Evolution.

Then one day you were gone, a thousand sparkling lights, expanding to touch every part of what is known. I have not the courage to follow. Not yet. For now I am content in my search.

Wordcount: 361 (Way too short i know, but then I don't think this is really a wilderness piece in the way the challenge describes it, so I will do another one anyway)

Challenge 35

Put two characters you already know from your own fiction in a wilderness of some sort. It doesn't have to be a forest. It could be a desert of a big foreign city where the characters don't speak the language. Do not explain to us why these characters have landed in this wilderness. Stick to one POV. Slowly describe the other character, which does not want to be seen but leaves a handful of traces.

Word limit: 600 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 91: It's all in the literature

I just killed someone.

I know you can’t quite tell, but that's because I washed all the blood off my hands. Like Lady Macbeth.

The knife was just there.

The person I killed was a useless old bum on the street - like me, only a bit filthier and with a knack for begging that I never had.

So the knife was just there and it was dark and you were all gone and I stuck it in his gut and pulled it out again, took his little plastic coke bottle with the top cut off that all his coins were in, and went to hang out under the bridge.

Like a troll.

My sunglasses are broken in the middle. They're not really my sunglasses. They're my girlfriend's. I borrow ‘em sometimes when she’s not looking, but she’s here now and she’s not so impressed.

‘Jeeze, Lee, what’ve you gone and done now.’

‘Killed a bum,’ I mumble. ‘Needed the dosh.’

‘You didn’t,’ she says angrily.

I’ve never killed anyone before. I’m starting to feel a bit guilty. Maybe I didn’t really need the dosh, you know?

‘I killed him stone dead and took his coke bottle.’ I start crying. ‘I’m sorry!’ I’m a bad person.

‘Well where’s the cash then, huh?’

‘Must’ve dropped it…’

Maybe there was no coke bottle. Maybe I’m confused like Raskolnikoff. Raskolnikoff didn’t take anything from the moneylender when he killed her. He had a fever afterwards, and he was confused. Maybe getting rid of the bum just made life easier for someone else, if not for me. It was the right thing to do.

‘Lee! There was no cash.’

‘No…but it was the right thing to do. Have I got a fever?’

‘No.’

She’s got her mobile out and she’s calling someone and I know she’s going to dob me in. I should kill her, but Raskolnikoff wouldn’t have killed Sonia.

They put me in an interrogation room. I look for the bottle but it’s not there. The cops must’ve confiscated it as evidence when they took me in. I don’t remember what happened to it, guess I got distracted by the siren.

Shit, now they’ll make me do a court case. I hate court cases. All that yes your honour and no your honour and an uppity jury who half the time made up their minds the minute they saw the defendant looked a bit scruffy.

A woman in a suit comes in, and my girlfriend is behind her. ‘I want to represent myself,’ I say. ‘I used to be a qualified barrister, you know.’

‘I see…’ she frowns at a clipboard. ‘He was working up until last month,’ my girlfriend adds. Her mascara has gone all smudgy over her face and she looks a bit like Alice Cooper.

‘I seem to have forgotten, but was there any cash in the bottle? Or did I do it for more noble causes?’ Am I Dmitri Karamazov? Or am I Raskolnikoff? Or maybe…

‘I was framed!’

‘And who do you think framed you?’ says the woman in the suit.

‘Smerdyakov, the bastard. Of course he’d have wanted the cash. I wanted it too, but I’d never have killed another homeless bum like me. He knew they’d pin all this on me.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ says my girlfriend. I guess it’s fitting that she starts praying. I know they don’t send people to Sibera these days but I imagine if they find me guilty it’ll still be the inside of a prison cell for months.

‘Where did you find him?’ the woman asks my girlfriend.

‘Find him? I didn’t have to find him. He’s been at home the last three weeks. I noticed he’d been a bit quiet but I’m at work all day, and he’d been really stressed at work before he quit. I know there’s some family history of psychosis on his mother’s side, but he’s never had an episode before, not in the four years we’ve been together.’

______________________________________________________

Word count: 664

I admit to cheating because I don't think this really fits the challenge. Maybe I'll try again later :)

(Re)introductions?

A warm welcome to our newest member, Melissa!

It's been over a year since the blog started, although things have been rather quiet for a while, so I propose another round of introductions - we had one last year (http://3amepiphanyproject.blogspot.com/2010/01/and-now-for-something-completely.html), but if anyone wasn't around then or wants to write something different, please comment away :)

Challenge 91: Losing Denver...

"Hi sweetie, how was your day?"

"Fine," Denver grunted.

Mrs Lebowski pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven and slid them off onto a plate. Denver, who had been half way up the stairs, paused and sniffed.

"Smells good."

"Chocolate chip and raisin," she laughed. "I'll trade you a cookie for a story about your day?"

Denver slouched in the doorway, school bag heavy on one shoulder. "That guy in shop - Mitchell Lewis. He stopped Anthony Biggs from hitting me today."

Mrs Lebowski's eyes flashed. "Why would Anthony want to hit you?"

"I dunno, because he's a retard."

"Well it was nice of that boy to stand up for you."

Denver shrugged. "Not like we're really friends or anything."

"Ah." Her overly bright smile returned. "You should try a little harder to make friends, sweetie."

"I have friends." Denver said between mouthfuls of cookie. Half the tray was gone before Mrs Lebowski confiscated the rest "for your father."

"So why don't I ever get to meet your friends?" she asked with a pout.

Denver shrugged the school bag back on and said, "Most of them are on the other side of the world. Online gaming and all that."

"Do you have an online... girlfriend?" Mrs Lebowski took a moment to decide on that last word.

Denver's eyes narrowed. "You know what? That's none of your business, Clare."

She looked like she'd been slapped in the face. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a door slammed shut. Clare flinched, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Denver didn't emerge again until much later, after George got home.

"Mmm, roast." George gave Clare a kiss. "You know me too well."

Denver made a face behind shoulder length black hair.

"How was your day honey?" Clare asked as George carved the lamb. "Any new developments?"

"The Jefferson Estate looks like it might be a good catch, if I can get my hands on it." George put a slice of lamb on Denver's plate.

"That's lovely darling." Clare smiled.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Clare said, "Someone tried to hit Denver today."

Denver groaned. "Why did you have to bring that up? Makes me sound like a wuss. It's not like he succeeded."

"I wish you wouldn't keep getting into fights, Denny," George said quietly. "That's not how you were brought up..."

Denver scoffed a whole baby potato to keep from responding.

"Maybe you should go easy on the potatoes, Denny." George poured gravy over his own meat. "You are starting to look a bit pudgy."

Denver gave him a scathing look and shoveled another huge spoonful.

"Denver Lebowski." George growled. "Cut the attitude."

Denver stabbed a steak knife into the untouched meat and stood up. "Seriously dad, you call that attitude? I didn't say fuck you for calling me fat. I didn't scream at Clare for thinking I'm gay... even though it's written all over her face every damn fucking day."

"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you." George put his cutlery down slowly.

"George," Clare put a hand over her husband's. "I think Denver has had a hard day. Why don't we deal with this tomorrow after you both have had time to cool down."

George let out a breath and rested his head on his palm. Denver was already gone; motorbike screeching down the drive.

"I don't know what to do about that kid," he said.

"Being a teenager is rough," Clare said. "Losing a mother triply so."

"Denver used to be such a sweetheart though." George asked. "Other kids have lost their mothers and they don't go and... change that much. We should never have allowed that bike..."

"Wasn't our money," Clare replied. "Denver has been working in shop for three years to be able to afford that bike."

"I prefer the online games," George admitted. "At least then I know she's not out getting herself pregnant."

Challenge 91

Leaving Out
Write a scene leaving out some significant detail about the character at the center of the scene. The character could have cancer or just have won the lottery. Don't make us guess - play more with the idea that whatever you are leaving out will naturally flow in around the edges of this description of character in action. Pay attention to the other important details about character than the largest and flashiest ones. Demand of them (and yourself) a range of other traits and confusions.

Word count: 700 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 179: The middle of Nowhen.

I live in Nowhen, an attic above a clock tower. I stare out my window sometimes, watching the people of my city, frozen in the middle of their conversations - or supping cups of tea. Moments, like pictures, hover every 'where' I look, but the when is all up to me. It takes some practice.

Blink.

There is Mrs. Harper and her old black poodle Tabitha, wandering down main street.

Blink.

Oh, there she is at her house - Christmas Day - her daughter holds wee Tabitha as a puppy.

Blink.

And there is Mrs Harper at her daughter's funeral. Tabitha is only a few years old, head on her paws in the drenching rain.

Nowhen is a lonely place. Sometimes I wish I could return...

See, there I am. Over there in the school yard, waiting to go into bat. Or there, sitting at the edge of the school dance, hoping someone will notice me. And there I am, staring up at the clock tower, wondering why the hands have never moved. If only I could tell myself to turn around. Go home, Lily. There is so much of life to live.

I could have been like Kiera, down at the lake, head on Michael's shoulder watching the sun set. Or Susan, trading a frozen moment of pure agony in the hospital over by the theatre for a family full of smiling faces.

There are more than a hundred thousand paving stones in the street below my window. Go back far enough, it is mud. Go forward and it is overgrown with weeds. People leave and never come back. The clock tower stands all alone, hiding its secret. Hiding me.

Mama never knew where I went.

Blink.

There is Tabitha, sniffing. She barked up at the clock, once. Mrs Harper had stopped to buy tomatoes at the grocer in central park. That was when she lost her dog, and I stopped being quite so alone.

Tabitha and I will never get any older. She is a terrible conversationalist, but then I am not that attentive. Mostly we sit, and I wonder. Maybe I can leave. After all, this is Nowhen, not Nowhere. If I can be here, I can be not here, but how?

Perhaps it is as simple as walking out the door. But that would mean accepting that my 'when' will some day end. I don't know if I am ready... maybe I will watch just a little longer.

Challenge 179: Seal heads

'Too many damn refugees, that's the problem.'
'I haven't seen any,' I said.
'Yeah, but they all get off the boats and stay by the port, of course. Since when do you go down to the port, eh?'
'Is it very different then, with them around?'
Regent adjusted his wreath and shook his head. 'It's crazy. You know they wear seals on their heads?'
'Whats?'
'Seals, of course. It's a small breed, they're not so heavy. Looks ridiculous. The kids have baby seals and the adults have grown ones – though when they die I guess you have to start from the beginning again, of course.'
'Is that why they stay by the ports? To feed the seals?' We reached the end of the street and turned around again.

‘We're in modern times, aren't we? Not like it's that hard to get fish.'
'How do they keep them wet? Tubs in the streets, and in their houses?'
'Yep. They don’t have problems here, of course.'
'Least you can tell who they are, of course. Can't hide with a seal on your head.'

'Actually, there's so many of them these days you'd be better off with a seal on your head than a walrus on your ankle.'
'Phew.' I adjusted my own wreath. ‘Can’t believe I haven’t seen any.’

‘They’ll be taking over the city soon. Already wanting their own schools, can you believe. Privately funded – not sure how refugees can even afford that.’

‘Crazy, I thought our schools couldn’t cope with the numbers as it was.’

‘Mmm, they’re putting pressure on everything…schools, housing, water…’

The other end of the street, and I paused briefly to adjust my trouser leg before turning. ‘Water?’

Regent looked a bit edgy. ‘I heard something interesting the other day. They’re saying…they’re not just here because of the war. Maybe that’s why they started coming, of course - I don’t know…but what I heard was that they’re here because of the seals. Not enough water where they come from, and it’s getting too warm.’

‘Er, eh? So they’re coming to take our water instead?’

‘Apparently it used to be like here – green all year – and now it’s practically a desert. Sad business.’ We’d reached the intersection again, and I took my wreath off, looking for a spot to drop it. ‘Time to go, I think. I’m late as it is - Rex needs a bath and I’ve got a load of housework to do, of course.’ Regent took his own wreath off and was about to trample it into the ground, but suddenly changed his mind and placed it on my head, then took mine gently out of my hands and put it on instead. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I smiled, and bent to give a tug at the chain around my ankle, pulling my walrus out of the shade of a bench and into the evening heat.

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Word count: 480