Happy New Year from My Weekly Writing Challenge! It’s had a bit of a break, so now my weekly series is back. So it’s time to put Christmas and New year behind you and to take up the challenge once again. Well…perhaps you oughtn’t to put Christmas and New year behind you just yet, as they’re part of this week’s challenge! For next Thursday, I’d like to see your stories and poems containing the following five words:
- Christmas
- Happy
- New
- Year
- Resolutions
Your entry doesn’t actually have to have anything to do with Christmas or the New Year; it just needs to contain those five words somewhere.
Here are all the 100 word stories and poem you’ve been busy sending in over the past three weeks:
Keith Channing sent in a sad story:
Poor little chap
The farmer’s dog, larger than a German Shepherd, hated our small terriers instantly, on first sight, four years ago. Following a few attacks, the farmer shuts his dog in his tractor when he sees us passing.
Earlier this week he didn’t see us. His dog did. We were on the main road, but his dog found a way out and homed in on one of our terriers. There was no snarling or barking, just a very efficient attack, seizing our dog by the neck.
A 200€ vet’s bill later, he is mending. His stitches and staples come out on Monday.
Keith followed this up a week or so later with an uplifting story:
“What makes you think this year will be any better?” he asked. “Are you still, after all we’ve been through, relying on so-called ‘hope’?”
“No, my love,” she replied. “Hope has never worked for us. Neither have resolutions, plans or expectations. Every device we have used in the past to better ourselves has failed. Always.”
“What is going to make this year any different, then?”
“This year we are going to make decisions. Specific, targeted, focussed decisions. No resolutions, no plans, no hopes, no dreams. Decisions.”
“And then?”
“And then, my sweet, we are going to implement those decisions.”
Geoff (not George!) Le Pard sent in this great story – make sure you read on to his comments!:
Dream Home
After Pete and Marie bought number 22, we said we’d help. Everything was a mess – they told us it had been a squat. The smell inside was too awful so we opted for the garden.
When my fork hit the lump I thought ‘broken brick’, but under the plastic and oily cloth was a sawn-off shotgun.
Marie’s scream called us inside; in the attic she’d found a box of bloodied clothes – both women’s and children’s. Pete stared at the rockery. ‘The neighbours told us they built that last month.’ He looked at me. ‘Whoever heard of squatters building a rockery?’
The first part is based on fact; when my brother in law moved house my wife and I said we’d do the garden. Digging in an old bed I found a well wrapped sawn off shotgun. We took it to the police who took it without a word – they didn’t even ask our names!
It was great to see Steven S. Walsky back with a story to make you smile:
It was a cold and windy December day, as I stood in morning formation with my fellow apprehensive soon to start Army Basic Training classmates. Then, to our amazement, we were informed that we would be sent home for Christmas; Basic Training would start on January 1st. And so, Steve arrived back in the neighborhood, coincidentally a few days after his friend and, unwed, neighbor had given birth; attention-grabbing. More than one neighbor ‘knew why’, and nothing I could say would change their minds. One would remind me that his son “was not sent home from Basic Training for Christmas!”
Ayo Oboro sent in a fun, quirky poem:
I knew a man
Lived by my house
I used to think that he was sane
And then one day he danced.
I craned my neck
And pulled my ears
Thinking that something I could hear.
He changed the steps
He changed the dance
And yet his drums were silent to me.
Butt a-shaking
Waist a-twisting
Doing jigs and sometimes tango
Looking at his face,no expression
But his feet refused to surrender
Thinking that he would soon tire
I waited for him to retire
The steps changed
Becoming hip hop
Arms flying,head rolling
Now I know not what to think.
Jasdeep Kaur understands children well!:
My Colour
“Carla won’t change, neither would Isla. No one’s like me. Will I ever have a friend?” Elle said stamping her foot.
Pamela, her mother, picked up the brush and water colours, “Come Elle, let’s paint your dolls. What’s your favourite colour?”
“Red…you know, Mum. Don’t you?”
“Then, what about a red frock for Barbie,” her brush started never to stop, “a red frock for Disney Princess, for Dora
…and what about red hair…and red cheeks…and red nose…and red eyes…”
“Eeks…what are you doing, Mum? They’re looking so ugly.”
“But isn’t it exactly what you want to do…paint everyone in your colour?”
Pat Hemstock sent in three thoroughly entertaining stories:
1) A case to answer
Their eyes met across the railway carriage. Rick smiled, and she smiled back blushing prettily. He passed his biscuits for her to share. She accepted and blushed again.
‘Can someone pick this up, I can’t lift it.’ Rick looked up to see an elderly lady struggling with a case. In a show of exaggerated gallantry he picked up the case and followed her. Arriving at a taxi, she turned saying, ‘Oh, that’s not my case dear, it was just blocking the passageway.’
Rick turned and ran back into the station to see the train pulling away.
2) A very Nice Man
Becky dragged herself wearily into the cafe. There was one free table; going over she put down her shopping and handbag. At the next table a man was sitting alone.
‘Do you mind keeping an eye on my bags?’ she asked him.
‘How could I say no to such a beautiful lady?’ he winked at her.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled; it was a long time since anyone had called her beautiful.
With excitement she bought extra cake to share with him, but on returning to her table the man was gone and so were her bags.
3) The Confession
‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned.’
‘Bless you, my Son.’
‘Are you sure you can’t see me, and don’t know who I am?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ve always been a joker, but recently I’ve done bad things.’
‘Go on.’
‘I got involved with a street gang, I got into knife crime, I thought nothing of knifing someone, just for fun.’
‘Yes … ‘
‘It gets worse, I killed someone. The Police are after me. I don’t know what to do. But Father, I have done something worse.’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘I’ve told a pack of lies to a Priest.’
Esther Chilton 
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