Warmup Wednesday!

Directions: Write a scene or an entire story of 100 words on the nose (no more, no fewer), inspired by this photograph. No judging. All fun. (Normal Flash! Friday guidelines regarding content apply.)
Don’t forget to add your Twitter handle & link to your blog, pretty please.

And a few words on how your week’s going would be so very marvelous!

 This week’s Warmup Wednesday challenge: Include a dream or reference to a dream (sleep-story, not aspirations).

Petit-déjeuner Hotel de la Paix. CC2.0 photo by Hotel de la Paix Genève.

Petit-déjeuner Hotel de la Paix. CC2.0 photo by Hotel de la Paix Genève.

17 thoughts on “Warmup Wednesday!

  1. Title: “Remind Me Not To Write Stories When I’m Super Duper Tired.”
    By: Deanna Fugett

    Food. Lots and lots of food. And me. On a diet. Ug. This sucks.
    Why can’t I have food? I need food. We all need food, right?
    To live, am I right? Tell me I’m right.
    I’m so tired of my belly jiggling and wiggling.
    Sometimes I think my new name ought to be Santa Claus.
    Oh, the smell! I can’t stand it. And a gourmet chef to boot.
    Why does every dinner meeting have to be so tempting? It’s simply not fair.
    “Life’s not fair.” Mom’s words echo in my head. Shove it mom.
    Saliva fills my mouth. EAT.


  2. Self Destruction
    (100 words)

    Folds of flesh melt away. Heavy limbs slenderize, cankles disappear. Jowls no longer hide chiseled cheekbones. The mirror has become a best friend. Payoff after months of deprivation.

    Vengeance should have stopped with the dream. But the chef’s knife found its way out of the dream and into the hand. Payback for unkind words whispered behind the back.

    Prison walls are colorless. Dreams of colorful food displays persist, with lots of time for visions of that gastronomic heaven of indulgence – a well-stocked buffet.

    Without the escape from realty that food provided, folds of flesh cannot hinder the self-propelled shiv.
    As last weeks Grand Champion of Finish That Thought (http://bit.ly/1LCdb2a), I’ve provided the first sentence and will be judging this weeks entries. It’s quite the challenge. And here’s the link to my interview with author Davis Bunn (http://exm.nr/1efGhHy).

    P.S.. I often post this early because I’m a real night owl.


  3. Smorgasbord

    My pillow droops beneath my head, crushed by the weight of the chocolate cake. Chocolate cakes slip into the pillow case and mush up like rice pudding.

    This blurry escapade is not going well. It needs substantial revision; the cake needs to be brighter so that I can read the instructions; a sunburst of lemon meringue perhaps, or a candle, burning like a laser, like something sharp, solid, a blast of fire bolting in from the sky, scortching the cake beyond recognition.

    I could stay up all night but the diner is melting and the burger is permanently onioned.

    100 snacks

    I have spent the past two days fishing in the stream of consciousness…with barely a nibble.


  4. CURRENTS OF AIR (word count 100)

    Overlapping smells drift outside on currents of air. I look across the room and run to the table. Servants in multi-coloured turbans bow, step forward and offer sweets with thin slivers of gold, silver foil and almonds on top. I munch on pastries with spicy fillings— eat rice, flat bread and hot curries until my mouth is on fire. They serve me desserts with nuts and sultanas in glass bowls. From tall glasses, I drink ice-cold drinks with vermicelli and rose syrup.

    Suddenly, the dream ends…rummm…rummm…rumm…rrr…a motorbike drives out of Dad’s throat.

    I lie in my bed savouring my dream.



    Monkeys scream through wounds. Others deliberately hobble to get the most peanuts. I don’t buy a bag. I’ve heard the stories. Guy in robes seems perturbed as two jump his back as he places offerings in the far corner of the cave. I feel dizzy. My shirt sticky from climbing. I suddenly remember the eyes that woke me inside my dream. His face close up. I was downstairs in the fish and chip shop, the crickets from the potato sacks getting louder. Or was it the rainforest still buzzing from breakfast, fighting the native bees with my spoon for honey.


  6. I know better than to eat so much right before bedtime. The dream that always follows is frightening and surreal, dragging my darkest fears, the ones buried deep beneath years of careful concealment, into my consciousness.

    I don’t want them there.

    The hands come for me, looming out of a darkness blacker than any night. I see no arms, no body, no face. Just the hands, reaching and reaching.

    I wake as they touch my face, my heart pounding, gasping for breath, my arms flailing to fight them off.

    It’s just a dream, I tell myself. It’s just a dream.


  7. The Nightmare after the Halloween Haul
    100 words

    A lobster tail bridge spans a crystalline creek of bubbly champagne, my boots tapping crisp crackling sounds in time with the staccato beat I coax out of my cinnamon-stick drum.
    I march across fields of kale, hedged in with trees of broccoli and cauliflower. A sunny-side up egg shines the light of Sol across my back.
    The meatball mountain (all covered with cheese), is where I shall stop, to rest my weary turkey-legs.
    I do not wish to be lost in the sweet, sticky now of aching tummies and decayed teeth. This is why I don’t dream of dessert.

    Getting used to new tech at work – they upgraded our Office Suite with Skype for business…and dropped new phones on us. For the first time in **forever** I get a headset to make calls. NO MORE PHONE NECK!


  8. “If food be the music of soul, feed on.”

    The room filled with filtered skylight. The chandeliers sparkled in the reflected light. The buffet sprawled out before me with a come-hither look. Yet, no one came. Apparently I was the sole invitee and the beneficiary of the feast.

    “Go easy on the pie,” “Stay on the green side,” “Watch for those sugar spikes,” the words floated from the deep crevices. “Shut up, Martha,” I hollered, but Martha wasn’t there. Phew!

    “If food be the music of soul, feed on!” I smacked my lips and rushed to the table.
    The light suddenly became bright. Martha shook me. I woke up.

    100 un-gluttonous words.

    I am still alive and kicking, consuming my equitable supply of oxygen and space on earth.
    What, you want to know if I am productive? Well let’s see…
    Oh, and my apologies to Shakespeare!


  9. Masala and Melkkos

    The smells of the spices drew me closer. Tucked between packed stalls, the heaped spices looked exotic here at the market of fruit, vegetables, biltong, and homely handcrafts. Masala of different hues, turmeric, jeera, anise, bay leaves, cinnamon quills, ginger, cloves. They are an immediate transportation back to shared meals of waterblommetjies, bobotie, turmeric-stained rice with raisins, and melkkos sprinkled with cinnamon.

    Long-ago meals eaten by someone so different from the person standing here. Long-ago meals that seemed only dream. Perhaps they were only a dream. Perfect snapshots airbrushed to perfection in memories too often returned to.

    Words: 100

    Now that I’ve made myself hungry… This week has been filled with moving offices at work, writing an article about Pluto (yay), translations for a UI, and working on my Camp NaNoWriMo projects. I’ve also updated my website a bit (www.carinmarais.weebly.com). So, all in all, a productive week!


  10. Year 99 of the Curse and the Mice Wake Up First
    100 words
    Nancy Chenier

    It’s like a dream.
    The clatter of porcelain and pewter arouses the palate. We scurry from shadow to shadow, skirting warm pools of chandelier light.
    Quail plumped with sage-butter stuffing, glazed sweet potatoes dusted with nutmeg, cheeses oozing over steaming slabs of bread.
    We scamper below for scraps.

    Jolted awake!

    We scamper up top for remains.
    Carcasses crawling with plump larvae, moldering tubers twisting with worms, slime skidding over cold soup.
    The hush of utensils and sleep-slouched bodies arouses boldness. We stride from platter to platter, gnawing fleshy remnants off dormant bones.
    We never dreamed it could be this good!


    Drizzly, dreary Vancouver has been having a gorgeous year, but the reservoirs don’t share human enthusiasm for constant sun. Though not as bad as California (my home state), the city has been placed under “Stage 3 Water Restrictions”, but since I’ve grown up in drought-prone San Diego, I’ve already internalized Vancouver’s version of restrictions.


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