I couldn’t find the time to do the Second Campaigner Challenge. So I’m thrilled to be able to do the third one.
“Write a blog post in 300 words or less, excluding the title. The post can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should show:
– that it’s morning,
– that a man or a woman (or both) is at the beach
– that the MC (main character) is bored
– that something stinks behind where he/she is sitting
– that something surprising happens.
Just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: “synbatec,” “wastopaneer,” and “tacise.” (NB. these words are completely made up and are not intended to have any meaning other than the one you give them).”
Sarah stared out at the growing light hovering on the horizon; the rosy arc gone, overridden by a crescent of gold. Before her stretched the endless ocean, dark and tacise. An onshore breeze assisted the waves, bringing with it the pungent scent of brine and rotting seaweed.
Nearby, a lone seagull screeched. Yawning, she turned her gaze to watch the bird fly over the water, diving at the fish hidden beneath the waves. Each dip and climb brought it ever closer to the shore.
Alighting a few feet from her, it hopped across the sand on one leg. Its head tilted. Tiny, black eyes peered up at her. Expectant. Impatient. At times like this, with the world still, the screech it gave had a human-like quality. Feed me, it demanded. Feed me now.
Sarah dipped a hand into the paper beside her, drawing out a chip.
The seagull hopped forward. A second leg unfolded as she threw the chip at its feet. Despite being alone, the bird swallowed it in one gulp. Then, ever the wastopaneer, the seagull screeched at her for more.
She idly chewed a piece of cold fish, tossing a handful of chips at the bird.
The seagull raced to eat them, its actions synbatec as it scurried about.
The chill wind changed. Sarah held her nose, the smell of the sea infinitely preferable to the stench behind her.
The seagull continued pecking at its feast.
She tipped the paper’s contents of battered fish and chips on the sand. Standing up, brushing the salt from her jeans, she began the trek across the sand. Steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the ravaged the lands on her right. Death and chaos abound. The reasons to both meaningless now.
Behind her, once more alone, the seagull cried out. Its call answered.