Today’s blog features Rachael Harrie’s Third Campaigner Challenge: Show Not Tell,
Here are the rules:
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).
There a list of how you should know if I’m showing or telling here.
This time I’m going down in style, shooting for the bottom of the pile.
Without further delay, here’s my 300 word splay.
Word-splay at the Beach
I watch my hubby wave his medal defector around like a grazed one-armed mobster, I meen lobster. Wite sand krunching underfoot, I walk the wader’s edge. My foot prince wash away with each wav. I’m searching for see shels. I rely love the shiny once.
Chubby is never symbatec to my please for a brake when I’m tried, so I look for my beech towl. There it is, tire where I felt it. It’s sew good to tis and reelaxe.
I pick up my book. Wen I bod it, I thawed it was an exposay about that bakree, “Wastopaneer.” I sound it out. “Was Top an Ear?” What kind of tidal is that? Nard lidxesia. I try rearanging the letterz. “Sweat a Prone?” No, “We Stop an Era.” Grate. A histry book.
I no Ill get broad, I mean board. My bitter haf sez I’m not fat, except in the hedd. I don’t reed or spiel well ether. Can I help it if the tellers swim aground on every gape? When I rite this storee latter, spiel chick will fix motes of it. Two bad I’m collar blind, sew a few mite lips bye.
Now the see brees kisses me, but ewe. What’s that smel behind me? I tern arownd. Theirs a big gob of blak in the sand. Oil lips! No dickslessia this thyme.
“Chubby!” I shreek.
I heer him splashing neerer until the sand vribates with his footpests. Thump, humpt. Now at my side, he retches down to poke the lips with a long stik. It slips between, doun and ound. “What the fluke?” he shouts as the lips open wide and wallsow him hole. Than they smak and brup. Peuuw!
I no wear all the turrists went. No wunder the tohels and tacise are empty this mourning.
If you read this far and understood, either your brain is good at unscrambling, you’re dyslexic, or you’re a teacher used to correcting terrible spellers or maybe you are one. If you also got the puns and think this bad spell of mine worthy of a thumb’s up, please click here to go to the list and vote for number 20.
I thought you might enjoy seeing these gooey little oil spill goobers that inspired my story.
By the way, my chocolate follower contest is open with new winners chosen every month. There’s a tab at the top of my blog. My 100 follower book giveaway
is open until October 31st. Both have gift card options for international entries.