Category: Fiction Challenge

As requested: Third person – second person – first person. This is more of an exercise in writing than a story.

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For the prose challenge

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Chapter I                     Eira   I have suddenly awoken, breathing heavily. My chest was rising back and forth wildly. I felt a painful sting with my every breath and it took me a little while to find my bearings in the dark of the night. I was lying in the middle of the bed. I felt my nightgown, sticking to my wet body, dripped with sweat. I looked

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Sophie loved these summer days, when the sun was warm in the morning. It seemed to drink up the dew from the grass on the small hill behind where she lived. She imagined the sun slurpling up the dew just like she would use a straw to get the last of the strawberry shakes her mother made when Molly came

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Clammy. Her hands were always clammy right about now, run with sweat she can’t blot enough. Despised her reaction, the guttural, instinctual need to run and hide, to cower in a corner and never, ever come out, to search out the deepest hole she could and grovel until it all went away. She blinked. Already the stench of cordite seeped

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  “She’s a little cracker, that one.” Arthur nodded towards the bar and threw a lascivious wink at his life-long friend, young Bill. The soubriquet had grown less appropriate with passing years. His father “old Bill” had gone to his reward 20 years earlier, aged 89. Bill wiped his greasy glasses on an even greasier pocket handkerchief and followed Arthur’s 

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We were walking across the park, my Aunt Agatha and I, on our way to a fireworks party. It was the 5th of November and well past the clock change but it was still darker than I expected. The path was uneven as tree roots had broken it up, but our way was lit, now and then, by a rocket

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  The Gothic towers appear impressive from a distance. And lit at night the entire building has a recognisable majesty. Yet, up close, it is, in parts, ruinous. Peopled by those, in parts, ruinous. What may begin as veneration can twist to vanity. And vigilance sour to a patrolling paranoia. The crown is brittle: eggshell. A marble and granite temple

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