Second Campaigner challenge

 Since I missed the first challenge due to crazy busyness, I'm determined not to miss out again!  This one gives a variety of prompts and choices to fulfill - go here to see the photos and catch up.

Flash fiction - under 200 words

Fighting the Light

It really sucked to be poor. As he sifted through the dump searching for food, Dem remembered happier days before his parents were killed by the lighting strike. Back then, the rain still came, occasionally so hard Dem would watch its glistening funnels dance across the river. Now the river was dried up, his parents were gone and instead of clouds, the sky was webbed with deadly golden tendrils of heat.
"That kid is going to get struck," Lara said, lifting hair wet with sweat off her neck. Dem followed her gaze to see a child chasing a ball across the broken bridge. Tendrils coiled above the boy’s head.
"Hey!" Dem yelled, already running, Lara beside him. The boy kicked and played, oblivious to the lightning above. Dem wanted to run faster but he was too weak; the light hit, blinding him. A hand closed around his arm, pulling him to safety. Something sharp jabbed his leg as he collapsed next to Lara.
"We tried," Lara said. Rust from the bridge piling flaked off on her skin.
Dem thought of the boy-shaped pile of ash above their heads. "But it's never enough."

Emotional moment

The final challenge is here! Emotion is the engine of a story. Pick an emotion and in a flash fiction piece of 250 words MAKE us feel it! We want to connect with your character. 

         People say I have a huge ego, but I need one. Seriously, being an actress is the worst way to build self-esteem. Every audition is a slime-fest of negativity: you're too fat. Too old. Too freckly. Too short. Your voice is squeaky. Your hair color is all wrong. You move like a robot. Your enunciation is straight from the trailer park.

      Next! Next! Next!

     One gum chewing agent gave me the worst rejection ever. "Honey," she said. "You're just not what we're looking for."

        She was trying to be nice but duh. Of course I wasn't what they were looking for. Hence the big fat no. But I keep trying. Actors and actresses - hell, anyone looking for a job - are all just random puzzle pieces trying to find a fit. We search for the spot where our colors blend, our talents merge to create a gorgeous story or picture or song or business.

    And it hurts to be flicked to the side like we're a piece of the blue puzzle sky, where nothing we try stands out.

Monster on the beach

The third Campaign challenge is afoot!! Yahoo! This one sounds like the most fun. The rules are below...let's see if I can pull this off. *cracks knuckles*

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).

It is SOOO hot out here. Seriously, hello global warming. I fan myself and eat a Tacise, which is so cool and pepperminty I want to rub it all over my body. 
Especially the peppermint because something kinda smells.
I peer at the woman sprawled out on the beach towel beside me. She's spilling out of her red Synbatec bikini like an overstuffed bratwurst.  An open tube of coconut-scented sunscreen lies next to her.
On the other side of me, a bunch of kids are making a sand castle. One little boy is crying, yelling something that sounds like 'wastopaneer.' I listen carefully to realize he's saying he 'wants to play here.'  
The smell isn’t from the fat woman or the kids.
I put my hand up to stare at the horizon, where Gull Island is just visible. When I was a kid, horrible smells used to drift inland from that place. Rumors said the government was experimenting on animals out there, turning them into freaks. But that was years ago.
That smell is horribly familiar, though – rancid and greasy, as if someone mixed rotting fat with manure.
Sand grits between my teeth. I should move downwind.
I rise to pick up my towel, snapping it to dust off the sand. And then I scream.
There’s a claw attached to a skeletal hand poking up right where I sat. It’s a human hand…but the claw could belong to a dinosaur. It twitches.
I scream again and the kids come running over.
“Cool!” one of them yells and then the sand erupts. There’s a blur of huge, skinless body, of  a snapping, beak-like mouth and blazing red eyes. Everyone scatters…except the crying boy.
He wasn’t fast enough.
He’s gone.
And I don’t think anyone will want to play here ever again.

Second campaign challenge

From Rachael Harrie's Campaign - The challenge: to write no more than 200 words including the following vocab:

imago— n an idealized mental image of another person or the self
miasma— n an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt
lacuna — n a gap or missing part
oscitate— v to gape; to yawn
synchronicity — n an apparently meaningful coincidence in time of two or more similar or identical events that are causally unrelated

Imago Fail

It was a perfect synchronicity that her train arrived the same time as mine. I disembarked with the crowd, coal dust and smoke settling in my coat, adding to the miasma of confusion in the station. I held her imago in my mind - wide brown eyes, curling dark hair, lips that sat like strawberries in the oval dish of her face.
Then I saw her through the train car window. She was like a Persian kitten in the midst of a baying hoard, so helpless I ached to protect her. Her head drooped, her flawless lips stretched wide in delightful ocitation as the man beside her shifted his weight.
Those arching brows rushed together, her fruity lips twisted. With both hands, she pushed the lout off her foot, snarling a curse that carried clearly to my ears.
Had she called him imbecile, idiot or beast, I could’ve overlooked the lacuna of her decorum. But the epithet was too common, too familiar in her mouth to please me. She was no kitten but a full grown cat with unsheathed claws. I turned and walked away.