Write...Edit...Publish August challenge - REUNIONS. My #flashfiction, The Reunion.

It's time for Write...Edit...Publish again. This month of August, the challenge has been set by Nilanjana Bose--Reunions. I've asked for early posts as I'm busy with the Romantic Writers of Australia conference, then packing for a trip to Europe soon after. So...I'm posting early myself!

I've been inspired into a magical foray for this one, a flash fiction piece, as always. My first thoughts were of The Kiss by Rodin and checking out the backstory for all those The Kiss statues in various places--St Pancreas station, Times Square, Milan, Paris--but the stories weren't what I was looking for. Here's my story instead ... sorry it's slightly over 1,000 words ...

The Reunion

Charlotte scarcely remembered the long bus ride from the city through the rugged countryside, so focused was she on seeing Jack again.

‘We’re here,’ the driver said. ‘You’re being met?’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte said, as she slashed her lips with the bright red shade Jack loved.

Slinging her black tote over her shoulder, she thanked the driver who’d come to the door to help her alight.

‘Are you sure about this, lady?’ he asked. ‘People who wander into the bush often never wander out again.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘No luggage then, love?’

‘Not this trip.’

‘Are you sure you’re at the right place? There’s no one here.’

‘He’ll come.’

‘But no one lives here. All the houses were bulldozed years ago. There’s nothing left.’

Charlotte smiled and turned away, slipping a pill under her tongue. ‘Thanks for bringing me this far, young man. I know it’s out of your way.’ She handed him a tiny red rose from the posy she carried.

He twirled the flower. ‘I’ll come back. One? Two hours?’

‘Thanks, but no. You can be on your way now.’

Charlotte walked away, tugging her bright red coat around her shoulders. The last leg of her journey stretched ahead.

The track was once a well-maintained gravel road and there’d been shacks amongst the trees, but now it was no better than a goat track.

It was hard going, but she made it to Gulliriviere, the tiny settlement where she once lived with Jack. It’d been named by Irish ex-convicts who were used to plentiful rains in their home country. How flummoxed they were by a river that bore nothing but gravel year after bitter year.

Further into the bush she trudged, her steps slowing, away from the desolation of the little street where houses were sacrificed for a lumber mill that was never built.

Logging.

Controversial even then.

As she passed by, the eucalyptus trees rustled their arms in salute.

Home.

But home had left. Only the scraggly beauty of nature remained. Where once their cabin stood smugly, framed by the white picket fence Jack built and the fragrant flowers she planted and lovingly tended, there was … nothing.

‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘there’s no clue we ever lived here … Oh … but I’m wrong. Look!’

Charlotte creaked to her knees before her tatty rose bush, hanging on after all these years. She tugged out weedy grasses, revealed tiny closed buds, then inhaled the earthy smell. ‘Not everything’s gone, my darling Jack.’ She lay the posy beside the rose bush, memories flooding her head.

She recalled her twenty-three-year old self following her love to his rough-hewn shack in Outback Queensland. It was two hours’ drive to the nearest town and a light plane trip to Brisbane twice a year. She loved the koala who lived in the tree nearby, she loved the solitude and yes, she even loved the big red kangaroos who nibbled the green shoots in her garden, looking cheekily at her over their shoulders as they loped away.

She’d set her easel amongst the trees and paint miniatue bush flora until the sun set on the faraway horizon. Her paintings would hang in art galleries in Australia and the Musée du Quai Branly in Paris long after she was gone.

Living in the bush had been good.

Leaving it had not.

After their cabin had been razed to the ground, they’d relocated to Byron Bay. Plenty of flora for her to paint, but Jack had to fly in/fly out to continue his work on the western Droughtmaster grazing property.

‘Hello, Madam Charlie,’ Jack would greet her at the airport. Tossing his duffle bag in the *boot, he’d hurry to the passenger door, wrench it open. ‘Come here,’ he’d growl, kissing her over and over much to the delight of the traffic inspector.

Their only argument was over his retirement.

 ‘No, Charlotte, I won’t retire. I’m only sixty-five. Our experiment with the new Droughtmaster breed is ongoing. Perhaps when it’s done …’

***

Midnight.

Phone call.

Frank Mangin, Jack’s boss.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sandilands ... Jack’s gone ... Heart attack.’

The bed caught her as she fell.

‘He wasn’t alone. We were working in the study.’

Only garbled noises came out of her mouth.

‘Can I call someone?’

Clunk! The phone hit the floor, but she could still hear Frank screaming at her. 

‘Mrs Sandilands? I’m calling someone.’

‘No!’ No one could put her back together. 

‘Mrs Sandilands! Jack had a message for you. He said, and I wrote it down—um—Tell Charlie to come to the shack.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I know your home at Gulliriviere is long gone. But that’s the message.’

‘Thanks, Frank.'

If Jack wanted her at the shack, then to the shack she would go…

***

Still kneeling at the rose bush, she took the gold fob watch out of its pouch and let it drop into her palm. She’d bought it years ago to give to Jack when he retired. It was a work of great artistry, with minute patterns painstakingly etched into every chain link. She read the inscription: 
To Jack, my wild Colonial Boy! Yours ever, Charlie. XX

She brought it to her lips, kissed it, just as the first pain hit.

***

The rose bush bloomed with blood-red roses. The fragrance enveloped her as it mingled with sweet summer smells.

‘Charlie!’

With the sweet fragrance of roses whirling around her, she ran through the tall grasses, trailing her fingers over the white, silky flowers. He’d be waiting by the creek just ahead, beyond the grey houses.

She hesitated at the stand of weeping willows, their lush tendrils like dishevelled hair as they caressed the surface of the water.

Then she saw him—her Jack—running through the willows, pushing aside the graceful drapery. He hurried towards her—arms outstretched—welcoming her home.

She held out the fob watch and beckoned her love.

They gazed into each other’s light-kissed eyes, marvelled at their sun-painted limbs, overjoyed at the beauty they saw in each other. He took the gold object from her soft, smooth hand, then they strolled away hand in hand across the sparkling water, fading from sight in a gentle swirl of silvery mist.

 *trunk

The End

Words: 1037

FCA

©DeniseCCovey2016

  

Thanks to Olga Godim for the badge!

If you would like to join us, sign up in my sidebar or at the Write...Edit...Publish website. Click on entries with DL (Direct Link) after the names.

Don't forget--our next challenge is in October--Halloween! Wooo hooo...

  

#WEPff entry--flash fiction for Utopian Dreams--Venice's Black Cape

Greetings of the season to you! Those of you who haven't shut down for the holiday season, thank you for coming by. Write...Edit...Publish (WEP) is happening this month when we post our responses to the prompt, Utopian Dreams.

I hope you will enjoy reading my response, a flash fiction set in Venice at the time of Carnevale. 

Venice’s Black Cape

 ‘Francoise, I’m going to Carnevale. Every year I dream of the parties, the dancing, the beauty of Venice, but you refuse to accompany me. This year I’m going. Alone.'

‘Ma chérie? Your home is here in Place Vendome. Is Paris not enough for you?’

‘Paris is a dream which I’ve achieved. Venice is a dream I’ve yet to attain. My Utopia. I’ve read so much about Carnevale. I must experience it for myself.’

‘Ma chérie, I beg you, stay.’

‘Pouf! I’m going.’

‘But Anouk, I must warn you. I went one time before I met you. The men…’ He took out a handkerchief and rubbed a spot from his Ferragamo loafers.

Anouk refused to let this man in his three-piece charcoal bespoke suit, his crisp white Dior shirt, and his Louis Vuitton tie, prevent her from reaching for her dreams. 

     Darkness floated over Venice like a black cape, its edges reflecting the glint of the moon. Anouk watched from her hotel balcony as gondolas floated as in a fantasy world, dipping above the water like slick black swans. The gondolier’s serenade drifted across the water, calling her. The vaporetti hummed as they navigated the icy waters of the Grand Canal, disembodied voices of the passengers bouncing atop the waves. The baroque palaces along the canal dazzled, grand residences of past glory, now inhabited by revelers. Anouk shivered. She was part of this night. Her dream was about to unfold. 

     She dressed in her purple and silver satin gown. The fabric rustled deliciously as she flounced her skirts. Glancing into the Murano glass ornate mirror next to the door, she admired the way her long blonde hair curled past her shoulders, entwined with silver ribbons. Then, the pièce de résistance, the mask, decorated with ermine, gems and feathers to which she added a deep purple floppy hat trimmed in lace. Slipping her feet into black satin slippers, she spritzed herself with her favourite Borsalino perfume.  Opening her black lacquer fan, she swished it over her face, a face hot with excitement.

She was decadence itself. 

Anouk drifted outside into a frosty, starry world. She was ready to lose herself in Carnevale, where the power of the mask lured party goers into lurid rites of celebration. Tonight, no rules applied. 

Masked and costumed figures ran through the cobbled streets, tugging her into their band. They hurried alongside the Grand Canal, past candle-lit icing-cake palazzos dusted with snow before stepping over an arched bridge, heading deeper into mysterious caverns and back alleyways of the city. 

The happy band entered a baroque apartment, so opulent Anouk gasped. Lifelike black statues stood in homage around the pillars that edged the magnificent vestibule. The cold of the floating city melted away in the heated rooms as she danced with a succession of gloriously-dressed masked men who pressed her close to their bodies and plied her with wine from silver goblets. She was passed from caped stranger to caped stranger with a flourish and a kiss.

Back on the street, she slipped and slithered at the back of the long line, ignoring her damp dress that threatened to trip her up.

The line stopped to watch fireworks exploding above the Grand Canal. With each burst, light traced patterns across the inky sky. Then out of the foggy darkness came a man, a man who clasped her hand and drew it to his chest. While she stood uncertainly, the crowd ran off, leaving her alone with the masked stranger. He began to run, tugging her along in his wake.

Through passages and beneath arches they ran until they came upon a magnificent doorway which appeared burnished in gold. He brushed snow off their cloaks and shoes before he led her up a flight of stairs to a luxurious apartment. He hurried her through a warm sitting room where a log fire blazed. She longed to sit close to the fire and thaw her numb hands and feet. Instead, she was tugged into a huge bedroom dazzled by moonlight, its rich furnishings the colour of the Burgundy she’d been drinking all night. 

The stranger unfastened her buttons and her dress rustled to the floor. She would offer herself to the allure of Carnevale and her mysterious seducer. This was her dream. Her fantasy.

They fell naked onto the bed, bodies now warmed, hungry, fired with the lust that decadence brings. They surrendered themselves to the madness of the night. The mouth that plundered hers, tasted like the wine that had flowed all night, enhanced by sea and smoke.

Then he tensed. 

Footsteps.

Slipping and sliding on the stairs. 

The occasional curse word, ‘Merda. Merda.’

‘My Contessa comes,’ he said. ‘Go. Presto! Presto!’

He gathered her clothes from the carpet, thrust them into her arms and pushed her onto the balcony. Shivering with cold and shock, she huddled, uncertain. The lapping of the water against the pylons were slaps to her freezing face. The fog’s tendrils reached up and whirled around her misery. Fool! Fool! Is this the dream you imagined?

The Contessa’s Borsalino fragrance hung, trapped, in the freezing air. My perfume. Is that why he chose me?

‘Ah, Contessa, come, I’ve been waiting. I’m desolated we lost each other in the frenzy of the chase.’

‘I, too, my count.’

Is this a game they play on this one night of the year when there were no rules?

Tears running down her frozen cheeks, Anouk struggled down the dark stairs, gripping the ornate balustrade. She hid in the darkest corner of the carpeted foyer and dressed herself with agonising slowness. Her frozen hands fumbled with the intricate clasps and zips. What a joy it'd been to fasten them earlier tonight. Now, her joy had become terror and abandonment.

Wrenching the heavy carved door open, her ruined slippers stepped into the bewildering night.

Stepped into a nightmare. 

She was lost in Venice's black cape.

WORDS: 984
FCA

If you'd like to read more entries for the WEP challenge, click on the names on the list at the top of my sidebar with DL (Direct Link) next to their name or go to the WEP website.

Thanks for coming by.

Merry Christmas!

Happy New Year!

Denise 

Writing about CONSTELLATIONS or HALLOWEEN. And the Write...Edit...Publish team expands.

Hello there! Wow, it's nearly October. Lots of exciting things happening in October. Firstly, it's birthday month for a few of us...Roland Yeomans, Donna Hole and myself...anyone else?

And on October 1, the inLinkz list goes up, with calls for submissions for the Write...Edit...Publish (WEP) October challenge. So you can help us celebrate our birthdays by joining us for the WEP October challenge where you have a choice:

You can respond to the CONSTELLATIONS challenge, or
you can respond to the HALLOWEEN challenge, or
you can be very clever and combine the two.

Go HERE to read more about these challenges.

We accept flash fiction, non-fiction, poetry, photographs/photo essays, artwork. Written work needs to be 1,000 words or under to help with reading time.

We award 3 places for the best entries: overall WINNER (who receives a $10 Amazon Gift Card), the RUNNER UP and the ENCOURAGEMENT AWARD.

If you are the winner, you are offered an opportunity to write a guest post before the next challenge.

Poet and fiction author Nilanjana Bose was the winner for the August GARDENS challenge. I'm loving poetry at the moment, so I'm sharing the beginning of her amazing poem, Point me to...

Point me to the earth, always, always,

even one thousand years later,

when all you have is some fragments

and this yellowed, sparse dust of paper.

When words have lost their hundred tongues,

cities have plucked their hundred streets

and thrown them like javelins straight and hard,

when the meek come to leash the elite;

the smoke from rocks is tightly curled,

the sun’s lava a wrinkled-skin moon.

The skyscrapers have their yawns shushed

but still silence won’t carry a tune.

Point me to the Earth even then,

to lost wildflowers, fossils of pollen.

Here is an extract from her guest post, where Nila has researched CONSTELLATIONS to help you if you choose to respond to this prompt...


GUEST POST - WRITING ABOUT CONSTELLATIONS

...The night sky has fascinated humans from time immemorial with its magnificence and vastness.  Ancient peoples looked to the stars as harbingers of seasons and for navigation across featureless lands or seascapes. They wove them into myth and folklore, faith and spirituality.  Constellations are imaginary star patterns the ancient humans drew connecting clusters of the brighter stars. 

The earliest written star catalogues go back to around 1200 BCE in Mesopotamia.  Around the same time, an astronomy system was developed in the Indus Valley Civilisation, though no written records of it survive.  The alignment of various ancient monuments to stars and planetary bodies tells us both of the fascination for them, and the sophisticated techniques the builders employed. Stonehenge in UK and the Giza Pyramids are just two examples where the skies have influenced buildings on earth; there are many others throughout the world. 

...Originally, the study of stars was possible only through what was visible to the naked eye.  Mostly plotting the stars and charting their courses and those of the sun, moon and the planets.  A branch of astronomy that is now called astrometry.  How the celestial bodies slotted into the universe as a whole was constructed through a philosophical exploration.  By the early medieval period, the ideas from Mesopotamia, Ancient Egypt, India and Greece had been pulled together into a geocentric theory which assumed that the Sun revolved around the Earth.

In the medieval period the learning centres shifted from Europe east to Persia, the Levant, India and further into China. Sophisticated mathematics and engineering skills, and the setting up of new observatories in the Islamic Empire led to a manifold growth in knowledge.  The astrolabe was developed in Islamic Spain and introduced to other regions. Scholars identified and recorded new stars and celestial phenomena, and even today many terms in astronomy – azimuth, nadir, zenith - have their roots in Arabic and Persian language. Omar Khayyam, more famously known for his Rubaiyat the world over, was also an astronomer-mathematician and knew more about the ‘flight’ of stars than he let on in his poetry –

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night

Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight

And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught

The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.

...Poetry and stars/constellations go together like…chicken tikka masala and naan. However, constellations and stars pervade not just poetry but all spheres of art and literature, from Shakespeare to John Green via Van Gogh, everywhere you look you’ll see a million examples.  There are innumerable things to do with this prompt. The sky is literally the limit. Constellations can be tweaked to fit into any idea you may have.

Let’s take Romance.  Do the constellations work there? Yup, starlight and serenades, clandestine assignations, candle-lit dinners, I mean, darkened skies are almost a staple in love-stories.

Adventure? Yup. Think night, think navigation, think Ursa Minor or Crux. Constellations chart the course of our lives, they are the zodiac, fate, destiny, karma, repositories of mythology, they peg us to our own place in the vast scheme of things.

Crime/Mystery? Yes, of course, crime happens right under the noses of the stars most of the time!

Fantasy and speculative fiction? Yes again. And don’t let’s even start on Sci-Fi, more than half of which genre is based in inter-planetary/-galactic settings! There are constellations all around in deep space, no avoiding the things. 

And before I go, I’d just like to mention that constellation need not be of stars alone.  The word has been used as a name for paintings, music bands and albums, a cruise ship, an abandoned space exploration programme, books, films and journals.  Endless possibilities.  So bloggers, art-makers and story-tellers, let’s get the pencil points of imagination sharpened and put the prompt to work.  Can’t wait to read the results! Good luck! and see you soon…

Thank you Nilanjana!

Now we haven't forgotten about HALLOWEEN!

It's time to scare us silly! Give us your best 'Booooooo!' 

Have you got a scary story, fictional or real? 

Have you got a scary poem?

Have you got a scary image?

Make sure we can't get to sleep after reading  your entry! Send our scare-o-metre to the stratosphere!

If you can scare us while writing about CONSTELLATIONS, you're a genius of the first order!

Sign up October 1st

Post October 19 - 21

Now, some exciting news!

Hosting WEP is a huge commitment. So that we can continue this vibrant writing community, Yolanda Renee and I have added two more talented writers to our team, Olga Godim and Nilanjana Bose. If you don't know Olga and Nilanjana, please visit their blogs and say hi.

Please help spread the word for our October challenges. Copy and paste the badges onto your blogs. Share via social media. Encourage your writer friends to take part.

Announce the Guest Post by Nilanjana Bose

and introduce our October Challenge!

We'd love if you'd Tweet one of these:

A WEP Guest post featuring Nilanjana Bose @DeniseCCovey & @YolandaRenee http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2016/09/wepff-guestpost-nilanjana-bose.html #WEPFF

A WEP Flash Fiction Challenge - the prompt is Constellations & Halloween @DeniseCCovey & @YolandaRenee http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2016/09/wepff-guestpost-nilanjana-bose.html #WEPFF

What's your October inspiration? The stars or the supernatural or both? @DeniseCCovey & @YolandaRenee http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2016/09/wepff-guestpost-nilanjana-bose.html #WEPFF

Thanks for coming by...

• I'm so excited about CONSTELLATIONS, I've already got my post ready to go...

• How about you? Would you consider posting something on CONSTELLATIONS or HLLOWEEN between October 19 - 21? 

• InLinkz submissions go up on October 1, so watch this space...

I'm over at Write With Fey being interviewed by Chrys Fey on scintillating subjects like Paris, WEP, blogging and more...

Thanks for coming by!

For the next few days I'll be over at Chrys Fey's being interviewed on topics of her choice. Luckily she was interested in my Paris obsession and my love of WEP. 

Please note Yolanda Renee's and my next WEP challenge...GARDENS. Surely all of you in the Northern Hemisphere are so excited to have winter behind you and the gardens blooming. Been seeing some of your great flower shots on Instagram just as we go into winter Down Under (but nothing like YOUR winter! Bliss!) 

Here's our blurb at Write...Edit...Publish for the GARDENS challenge:

This challenge will be a great opportunity for the photographers, but also for writers attempting to describe the most beautiful gardens ever seen. For example, nonfiction on 'The Best Gardens in the World', or historical--'The Hanging Gardens of Babylon', travel- 'The Lingering Garden at Suzhou' or something similar for travelers. Also, as always our fictional pieces with a romantic/unromantic garden scene, or photographs of mind-blowing gardens to motivate people...

Sign up...August 1st for posting between August 17 - 19. 

So..,if you can afford the time, please click HERE and pop on over to Write With Fey. Both Chrys and I would love to see you!

My sister is about to hit Paris for the first time! Pity about the garbage littering the streets...remember seeing and smelling that in Naples (Napoli) in Italy's south where it is a way of life thanks to Mafia control. But the French always fight back when the government tries to change the status quo...rightly or wrongly.

Sci-fi queen Isobelle Carmody closes the book on a much-loved series.

Hello there!

After you read my post, if you have time to check it out, I'm guesting over at Nilanjana Bose's excellent blog talking about the Gothic Novel and Italy.

IT'S ALL ABOUT SCIENCE FICTION!

WEP has a science fiction challenge coming up where we have to write a sci-fi story set in an alternate world. That turned my mind to the genre, not one I write in. BTW, if you're into sci-fi, I hope your story impressed the judges for the #IWSG Anthology.

Yolanda and I asked Alex J Cavanaugh to write a guest post on how to write sci-fi. I hope you'll pop over to the WEP site and check it out and leave Alex a comment.

Struggling to get that book/series finished? Well, you're in good hands. I read an article by Isobelle Carmody recently where she talks about her series that took 35 years to complete. I never actually knew Isobelle was now a Brisbane-based author, (once winging it between Victoria and Prague) so that explains why she did a book signing at my favourite book store/cafe, Avid Reader at West End to announce the arrival of The Red Queen, the seventh and final installment in her science-fiction series, Obernewtyn Chronicles. She started writing this  series when she was 14 years old (she's now 57!)


I'm not a huge fan of science fiction but I do read some authors in the genre (Alex J Cavanaugh, of course!) and Isobelle is one sci-fi author I like, mainly because students I teach rave about her so I started reading her books.

At her book signing, Isobelle said it was an odd feeling to have finished the series. "It's strange and odd to hand it over, especially after all the pressure from fans begging for a new book over the years." She went on to say that now that it's ended she felt an outpouring of grief. Do you feel like that when you finish a book/series?

It's interesting to hear the motivation behind the Obernewtyn Chronicles, a long-running dystopian fantasy series.  Being the eldest of eight children, Isobelle found writing a way to deal with the grief of losing her father in a 'horrible car crash'. "What's more like a nuclear holocaust to a child than the death of a parent?" she says. "There's no doubt that I was drawing on that."

Now I can sit down with the complete series and read from beginning to end. I'm one of those readers who grab a book in a series in no particular order, and read it, then am piqued to read the earlier novels.

I wish Isobelle Carmody all the best as she takes a break from deadlines and fan's desperate letters.

Her website will be unwomaned until June...

• How about you? Have you read any of Isobelle's books?
• Do you insist on reading series from the beginning and wish the author would hurry up and bring out the next one?
• Do you write series? How long do you leave between releases

• If you enjoyed this post, please hit my Share buttons!

Don't forget to join the WEP science fiction challenge. The sign up has been quieter than usual. Are people scared of science fiction, or just busy with Christmas looming?

And don't forget to click on over to say hi at Nilanjana Bose's excellent blog.

Let's get this party started! WEP is back! Fire up your imagination for the first challenge!

Hello everyone!

Those of you who came by and caught the #6 Sizzling Tips for Writing Memoir, I thank you. If you have a memoir in you, I hope you found Karen Tyrrell's tips useful. I'll be filing them away for the future.

Now those of you who know me, probably know that I began and co-hosted two online fiction writing groups--RomanticFridayWriters and then WEP (Write...Edit...Publish). These online groups have been successful launching pads for several of our participants--so many have gone on to publish multiple novels, short stories and flash fiction. 

WEP closed down because it just got too much for one person, but thankfully, Yolanda Renee, known to most of you, has agreed to join with me and to breathe new life into this favourite permanent bloghop. 

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, go here for further info. published today. Our first challenge is on August 19th. The inLinkz sign up will go live on August 5th. Don't worry. There'll be plenty of reminders!

Our first challenge will be Spectacular Settings. This challenge allows a wide scope of responses, from sharing a spectacular setting from a favourite novel or a non-fiction tome, to a poem that brings you right into the setting, or a photograph or artwork that speaks to you of setting. You are also invited to write/post your own 'setting' piece in whatever genre you choose! OPEN TO ALL!

Here is an extract from today's WEP post:

WHY WE BELIEVE IN WEP:

Why do we feel so passionately about running an online writing challenge group? Let's try to put our passion into words...

Writing prompts are designed to help us start writing. And I don't just mean fiction. You may be a poet, a creative non fiction writer, an essayist. It doesn't matter. Sure, most who accept the WEP challenge write either flash fiction or poetry, but all writing is creative. Many creative writers use prompts every day to get into the writing groove. Some call these exercises free writing. Once they've jump-started their writing, they often move on to their WIP, energised. 

Not that anyone here suffers from writer's block, but just say you did, a writing prompt can hasten the return of your muse. Sometimes when nothing else works, a writing exercise will! 

The best part of writing challenges such as we host here at WEP, is that your entry could be edited, rewritten, transformed into a longer piece, a short story, or even a novel. Many of us have had this experience. And it all started with a writing challenge, a very powerful tool.

Often someone leaves a comment about how we have improved as a writer with each challenge. It's true. We learn our craft by writing to prompts and editing for clarity and a word limit. Sentence structure, paragraphing, punctuation, grammar, dialogue...all can be improved in this little writer's laboratory.

When you write a story with a beginning, middle and ending in only 1,000 words, well, it's called a challenge for a reason. Cutting, tightening, and rewriting until only the meat of the story remains, is a skill your editors will appreciate. 


Here are our three challenges for what remains of 2015.

We hope you find something that fires up your imagination.

• Thanks for coming by today. If you have further questions about the online writing group, contact myself or Yolanda or follow the link to WEP and read all about it!

We'd love it if you would Tweet one of these:

#WEPFF 2015 Challenges and dates are now up join the WEP Flash Fiction Challenge http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2015/07/wep-challenges-for-2015-why-we-believe.html  @DeniseCCovey &@YolandaRenee  

#WEPFF The first Challenge is Spectacular Settings – join the fun on August 19  http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2015/07/wep-challenges-for-2015-why-we believe.html  @DeniseCCovey &  @YolandaRenee

#WEPFF Winners badges designed by Denise are Perfection! Join the WEP to win at http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2015/07/wep-challenges-for-2015-why-we-believe.html  @DeniseCCovey & @YolandaRenee