Second Challenge of the Platform-Building Campaign

The time has come for Round 2 of Rach Harrie's Fourth Writers' Platform-Building Campaign, which according to Rach is "challenging but not too challenging". Well, I'd hate to be around if she really decided to challenge us, because this was taxing in the extreme. However, I thoroughly enjoyed writing my entry. Clever woman, Rach, to say the least.

Here are the prompts and rules:

Prompt 1:
Two people are sitting together under the remains of a concrete bridge. Their backs are against a rusted bridge support. One person’s leg is cut. The other person has wet hair.

Prompt 2:

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Prompt 3

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Prompt 4

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Prompt 5

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Second Campaigner Challenge

Do one or more of the following:

1. Write a pitch/logline for a book based on the prompts (less than 100 words)
2. Write a short story/flash fiction piece of less than 200 words based on the prompts
3. Write a poem with a twist using the prompts as inspiration (in less than 200 words)
4. Write a story/poem in five sentences, each sentence based on one of the prompts
5. Write a poem/flash fiction piece (in less than 200 words) about the water pear *without* using the words “pear”, “spoon”, or “droplet”.

For added difficulty/challenge:

• Complete at least three of the above activities and tie them all together with a common theme (feel free to either state the theme in your post or leave us to guess what it might be)
• Write in a genre that is not your own
• Ask Challenge entrants to critique your writing.

I did Challenge Number 2. I was going to do more, but I just couldn't come up with more interpretations of the prompts that were different enough. However, it is under 200 words (199, edited down from 303 - slashing over a third of a story is HARD), and it is not in my genre (normally thrillers, and I guess you could call this magical realism, with possibly a bit of YA in there).

And it is open for critique. Why not, eh? ;) The theme of my story is "poverty". Here it is:


Terrible Magic

Three ragged-clothed children were scavenging amongst the rubbish when they heard splashing. They hauled the red-coated boy onto the bank, propping him against the rusted support of the old concrete bridge, so in contrast to the gleaming marble one.

“Thanks for saving me. My ball dropped off that bridge, I went in to get it, but I didn’t know it was so deep.”

“We’ll look for your ball. Come on, Manisha.”

He looked at the remaining girl. “Your leg is cut.”

“There are jagged rocks underwater here. It’s nothing.”

“OK. What were you doing here?”

“Looking for food.”

“I can get you some food. All I need is a wooden spoon.”

Without questions, she stumped off and returned with the required item. The boy filled the spoon with water, then mumbled a few Hindi words and the water bubbled up, materialising into the shape of a pear. Then it was a pear, which he handed to the girl, who bit into it ravenously.

“It’s a trick taught to my great-great-grandfather by his fakir,” he explained. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, no. I forgot. If the food is eaten by anyone not born within the palace, the world will explode-”