Rachael Harrie's 3rd Campainger Challenge- Show Not Tell
I've been having a blast with Rachael Harrie's Campaigner Challenges. It's time for the 3rd challenge. 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:My entry is exactly 300 words, and I've incorporated all three made up words. All five parts of the challenge above have been met, I think! At least I tried.
- 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
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).
- that something surprising happens.
Frankie wakes up on her foldout lawn chair. Cranky, sweaty, and damn sick of smelling trash, she jerks her head up. On the horizon, a rosy glow stretches wide as the sun peeks over. Now, maybe they can leave this retched place. Nothing worse than sand in your panties, sticky saltwater, and grit on your skin.
"Oh, baby, you're up. Wanna fish for a while?" Jed says.
Not no, but hell no. "I'm tired of fishing. We've been here all weekend," says Frankie.
"Just a bit longer, darlin', I promise," Jed says.
That's what he said last night.
Synbatec, the sanitation department several hundred yards from the coast, explodes into action. Banging, clanking, men hollering, and giant dump trucks line up to dump their loads.
Didn't anyone recycle in Texas anymore? Damn wastopaneers is what they are. Shoving trash into landfills, mucking up the state, they oughta be ashamed of themselves.
The Gulf heat boxes in the nauseating Dumpster stench around Frankie. She gags, tasting trash on her tongue. She yanks her t-shirt up over her mouth. A churning in her empty stomach makes her thankful she didn't eat last night.
"Oooh, wee! I got myself anotha one, baby!" Jed says. He pops up, reeling in his line. He's hootin' and hollerin' and carrying on about his big one.
Big one. He thinks he's got a big one.
Frankie spills off her chair when sirens blare behind her. Jed is still wrangling with his big one, as a muscled beach patrol officer struts up. Flashy mirrored glasses conceal his eyes.
"Y'all have to evacuate the area. There's been a sanitation tacise in the water. We're closing the beaches," he says, spitting a brown patch in the sand.
"Awe, man!" Jed says, throwing down his pole.
"Oh well," Frankie says, smirking.