I love Twitter writing challenges. Late at night, someone has an idea, makes an off-hand comment, and us writers, we think, “That’s a great idea!” Sure, we’ll write a sonnet about murderous robot fish, or a story that doesn’t have the letter “e” in it, or, in the case of the latest challenge, the longest sentence which tells a coherent story. We threw some ideas out about rules and organization and ultimately decided to post them on our blogs, and mention it on twitter with the #1ss hashtag. There’s still time for you to join in if you want – deadline, we did decide, is Wednesday at midnight EST.
Though that morning as she made her preparations she had suspected that she might, one day, break into the world above again, or be dragged there on the end of a fisherman’s line or caught unexpectedly by a rower’s oar, she didn’t think it would be so soon that what she looked like would matter to anyone but those with a morbid and prurient interest in the way a body decomposes in water, so she didn’t dress for beauty (not, she thought, that she ever really did) but for storage, having selected an outfit made mostly of pockets – faded, olive-colored cargo pants with pockets all down the legs, a gray sweatshirt with big pockets in the front, even a little pocket on the chest of her royal blue tank top – at that particular moment, pulled slowly downward in an oddly unfocused way, as if “slow” were no longer a word that meant anything, and “down” could have meant the direction that is the opposite of “up” but might just have meant that she was still traveling in the direction she had started out in and hadn’t yet floated back up to the surface, she didn’t think about the stones in her pockets, or the way she had started off carefully feeling the weight of each one in her hand, as if each were a gift, a lover’s kiss, a goodbye present, until she’d panicked a little and started to gather as many as she could and stuff them into whatever spaces she could find and couldn’t, just then, remember what color the final stone had been … instead, in that instant after all of her breath had worked its way out of her lungs and before she could no longer think or care or wonder about anything at all, she thought about the insects that crawled and buzzed and flitted around her as she had sat on her deck every afternoon, basking in the warm sun, watching the cars go by, the world go by, even the fat bumblebees and dagger-shaped wasps and big black ants and the birds that flew by without stopping (red cardinals, and blue jays and robins and a little gray bird with a long white tail that she didn’t know the name for), who all had places to go, and the deer and the little bunnies and the red and black chipmunks with their fat fuzzy faces, who could be seen from her vantage point on her deck that she shared with no one, in the apartment that she shared with no one, in the little town in the woods that she shared with ten thousand other people who didn’t know her name, who all had somewhere else to be, until she finally knew, deep inside, with no uncertainty, that she had no where else to go but down.
(If you’re counting, that’s 476 words)
So far, the others are:
Jake Kerr: The Bloodline Is Only As Strong as Its Last Generation (133 words)
Anatoly Belilovsky: De Gustibus Non Disputandum Est (289 words) and “Good Thing I Did Not Tell Them about the Dirty Knife” (242 words)
Matthew Bennardo: À Vos Souhaits (168 words)
Don Pizarro: Mr. Fix-it (350 words)
Silvia Wringley: Untitled (no wordcount listed; it’s handwritten so may be a little hard to read)
“Epic Win” by Anatoly Belilovsky (a slim 55 words – and yes, it’s his 3rd entry)
“One Thousand and First” by Alex Shvartsman (243 words… or is it?)
“The Ghost and the Machine” by Suzanne Palmer (534 words)
“Untitled” by Spencer Ellsworth
I’ll update the links once there are more.