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If you missed last week’s episode, you missed a great one. You can watch the replay here. As always, the ladies of the podcast created some great pieces of writing from this sprint prompt. Today’s Prompt is five words: like, fascinated, massive, cough, tall.  We really enjoyed Tina’s take on the prompt, and we think you will as well! Enjoy, and make sure you reach out to her to let her know you want her to finish this story!

Winter nights in the wilderness were not what Ivan expected. Having spent his life in the city he couldn’t remember ever seeing a sky so vivid. The stars hung in the sky like a child’s mobile, some invisible strings longer than the others, so it seemed as if he could reach up and touch them. He came out every clear night he could, and stood looking up in awe at the beauty of the stars. But tonight was different. Tonight took his breath away. He knew scientific facts about the aurora borealis, seen pictures and videos, but none of that prepared him for this. 

As he gazed into the sky the many colored particles danced across the sky in a ribbon that reached from the eastern horizon to the west. In his mind, Ivan heard Mozart as he watched the particles dance in perfect time. It made his chest ache so that each breath seemed almost painful. 

His body shuddered from the cold and he knew he’d been standing out here too long. He should go back inside and check on his sleeping son. As he turned toward the cabin a new sensation crawled up his spine, making the hair stand up on the back of his head. He stopped to listen. The night was completely silent. He turned in a slow circle, examining every shadow among the trees. No movement. Alarm coursed through him as he realized. It was completely silent. No shrill calls of the night birds. No hooting from the owls nesting nearby. No rustling or scurrying of the many small animals that lived in the forest. They’d all gone silent. 

Before he could react he saw them. Dark shadows in the shape of men  rising as if spectors and emerging from the treeline. He tried to run but they were on him before he took a step. He heard the sickening thump from the back of his head more than felt it. As the sky shrunk to black in his vision he called out.

“Joshua!” and the sky faded to black. 

Christina Cattane is a Christian Indie Writer who writes stories set in Alaska and other exotic locales. She is the author of a novel called ‘Lost in the Land of the Midnight Sun’ which falls in the Christian Dystopian Fiction genre, but she also writes in many other genres. Tina grew up in Alaska, has lived in Saudi Arabia, and currently resides in Michigan with her husband and youngest 2 of 4 kids. Her travels around the world often influence her writing. Visit her website at http://christinacattane.com where you can see the progress she is making on her novel. Or catch up with her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/cmcattane

Tina Cattane

christinacattane.com/

If you missed last week’s episode, you missed a great one. You can watch the replay here.

Once again, our 15 minute word sprint produced some great works. This week, the prompt was: “What are you eating?”

“What are you eating?”

So lost in his own thoughts, Cade hadn’t heard Colleen approaching and the sound of her softly lilting Irish accent tinged with disgust made him jump. “Where’d you come from?”

“I was out back hanging the wash. What is that?” she asked, motionining her head in the direction of his lunch. 

Jenifer Carll-Tong

Jenifer Carll-Tong is the best-selling author of historical Christian romances and co-host of the Christian Indie Writers’ Podcast.

jenifercarlltong.com

If you missed last week’s episode, you missed a great one. You can watch the replay here.

Jamie put her heart into today’s prompt, which is to use the following in your story:What are you eating? Enjoy, and make sure you reach out to her to let her know you want her to finish this story!

Joanie looked down at her plate. Several crumbs had fallen away from the graham cracker crust and formed what her mind saw as a smile face on the plain white porcelain, or what she assumed was porcelain—this was a swanky sort of place after all. Didn’t all swanky people eat off porcelain? Or was that only in the olden days?

Joanie had grown up with corel ware—dishes that were virtually indestructible, especially in the days before granite countertops became the default for the suburban set. As her mind took a walk down memory lane, re-living several occasions in which either she or her sister had managed to explode a corell plate in spectacular fashion, She continued to stare at the smattering of crumbs, longing to press her fingers into them. The keylime pie had been a delicious indulgence that hadn’t lasted quite long enough in the microscopic portion it had been served. 

“I could go for another slice,” a voice croaked from her left side, and Joanie looked up in surprise to meet the gaze of Mrs. Vanderpool, who hadn’t spoken a word to Joanie throughout any of the equally miserly courses the two had sat through together. Joanie had been seated on the end, leaving her with no other opportunity for conversation, and she and Mrs. Vanderpool had been placed immediately across from the perpetually drunk Olsens. Joanie looked across at them now, and saw only the same red-faced man, grinning at everything being said at the other end of the table, where those with good breeding or at least some potentiality for entertainment which overshadowed potential for embarrassment—had been sat, and his washed out blonde wife, who sat as still as she’d seemed to the entire evening, one arm hugging her body, the other a stand for a wine glass which she lifted with rhythmic regularity to her overly powdered face, sipping at it through lipstick that seemed intent to create an entirely new upper lip, this motion only interrupted by a lifting of the empty hand to wave away each offered course, not even bothering to look at the server with her heavily mascara-d vacant eyes. Joanie wasn’t sure if Mrs. Olsen saw her now, or if she had noticed Mrs. Vanderpool’s comment. As far as Joanie could tell, Mrs. Vanderpool hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since arriving at the estate two days previously, merely gesturing to everyone with shakes of the head and points of her walking stick. Her silence and refusal to join in the party’s hilarity had only been matched by that of the perpetually stoned Mrs. Olsen, and Joanie had actually wondered whom she would hear speak first. She wondered now if Mrs. Olsen would smile, were she to understood the nature of her victory.

“Oh, yes, the pie was very good,” Joanie stammered, and smiled at the plump and fashionably dressed matriarch.

“There was a time when the portions were bigger,” she said, lifting her considerable girth in a massive harumph, as if her substantial size were proof of what she’d said.

Jamie Hershberger enjoys writing shorts (short fiction) under the pen name, J. R. Nichols. She is the creator and curator of www.writingshorts.net and the editor of The Writing Shorts Newsletter.  Her flash fiction has won several contests and has been featured in two anthologies.

Jamie Hershberger

writingshorts.net

If you missed last week’s episode, you missed a great one. You can watch the replay here.

Jamie put her heart into today’s prompt, which is to use the following five words in your story: beat, craft, pass, undermine, woman.  Enjoy, and make sure you reach out to her to let her know you want her to finish this story!

“Not sure, but I think we can get five dollars a piece for ‘em,” Millie said, sucking her finger where it had touched the end of the glue gun.

“Gettin’ a blister?” Cora’s face was scrunched up the way it always did when she was worried.

“She’ll be alright,” I said. “You just put your head down and keep on workin’. These bows ain’t gonna put themselves together.”

But it was no use—Millie’s injury apparently warrented further inspection, and, as a result, a trip to the kitchen for a bit of aloe.

As the girls scurried off to do that, I heard the crunch of feet on gravel and looked up to see Mr. Frank coming up the drive. My insides made moaning protestations I could feel in my muscles and reflexively I gripped the staple gun I was holding a bit harder than I meant to, but I kept working and managed to keep my face stony as I greeted him.

“Fine day we’re having,” he said, looping his thumbs through the loops of his levis and turning to look up at the sky, as though I had asked him to produce a personalized weather report. I thought about telling him he ought to remove his aviators and get a real and right look at the beautiful sky but then decided not to bother. My staple gun misfired and I suppressed the urge to curse or to even make like I’d intended for things to go otherwise, instead casually setting down the gun and picking up the glue gun the girls had left behind.

My heart gave a bit of a panicked flutter as the girls came to mind but they’d retreated into the safety of the house and so, again, I remained passive, even as Mr. Frank came to the table where I worked and picked up the staple gun. I didn’t like having him so close to me, close enough I could tell his wife cared to spend enough of his hard earned money to buy the fancy fabric softener, close enough to smell the pipe tobacco he kept rolled and tucked into the chest pocket of his flannel.

I wished I could tell him to leave.

“Mommy, do we have any bandaids?” It was Cora’s voice. The two angel faces peered out at me from the slice in the screen I’d been meaning to replace. My eyes instinctively flicked to Mr. Frank, and his eyes were exactly where I knew they’d be, even though he’d tried to shield ‘em with those aviators. He wore the same, sickening smile he always put on whenever he saw my girls. 

“Go on back inside,” I said, as calmly as I could, though my mind was on Mr. Frank, looking for even a singular twitch of a muscle indicating intention to move and calculating who between us could reach that screen door faster, or if the staple gun could be put to some sort of good use after all, should it come to that.

“Where we keep the bandaids, though?” Cora insisted.

“Got some under my sink. In the little bathroom. Go on, now.”

I could breath again when the little faces retreated into the cool darkness of our home.

“Shouldn’t let ‘em undermine your authority like that,” Mr. Frank said, with a cluck of his tongue.

“You’re right,” I said, and made movements like I’d been just about to be wrapping up for the day and go inside. “I think I’ll go on in there and give ‘em a good beating.”

He barked out a dry laugh and swiped a finger across his eye. Stalling. Like I might invite him inside. But I’d put a beating on the table and not a luncheon, so he’d have to go on home to his woman and his coon hound.
I’d won this round.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

I didn’t respond. I just reached up and pulled down hard on the cord to shut the garage door behind him.

That’s all for today!

Jamie Hershberger enjoys writing shorts (short fiction) under the pen name, J. R. Nichols. She is the creator and curator of www.writingshorts.net and the editor of The Writing Shorts Newsletter.  Her flash fiction has won several contests and has been featured in two anthologies.

Jamie Hershberger

writingshorts.net