Posts
Challenges
Portals
Authors
Books
beta
Sign Up
Challenge
Challenge of the Month XXXV
R.I.P Challenge: This one is from our social media director, and it's a staff favorite. In our fashion, the winner takes the $100, and this one is judged solely by the social media department. 500 word minimum. We can't wait to read these! In this writing challenge, you will be tasked with creating a story in which the old version of yourself is killed off and a new character is introduced. This new character should be a transformation of the old you, representing the growth and change that you have undergone. To begin, you will need to think about what aspects of your old self you would like to leave behind, and what qualities you would like to cultivate in the new version of yourself. Consider what events or experiences led to your transformation, and how you have grown as a result. Next, you will need to develop your new character, giving them a unique appearance, personality, and backstory. As you write, be sure to incorporate elements of your own life and experiences, as well as any symbolism or themes that are important to you. Finally, you will need to craft a story that brings your old self to an end and introduces your new character. This could be a tale of redemption, self-discovery, or personal growth. Whatever direction you choose to take, be sure to make it a compelling and meaningful journey for your readers.
Profile avatar image for BJLeCrae
BJLeCrae
48 reads

Serina and Grace

Hers was a beauty uncontestable, adorned with jewelry and lace. Never worked a day in her life but she was all business--never giving a moment to anything that couldn't make her money or make her come. Where others merely threw their riches, their promises, their luxurious temptations, I threw my heart (along with... riches, promises, and temptations). I would have given anything, everything--all I had--to win her smile. The way her eyes looked on me in favor was worth any favor I could supply. They were a deep, penetrating blue, almost unnatural in brilliance. Lips not full, but full of passion. Her nose was small and cute, not pointed or round, but somewhere in between. I remember the way her nostrils twitched when we passed by the bakeries and she'd lift her face to the sun, close her eyes--breathing it all in. She'd catch me--breathing her in as well. "See something you like?" her coy lips would ask. "I'm still looking for something I don't like."

To touch her bordered on sin. Her hair was silk in my hand. I remember her shoulders--gentle and smooth--Bahamian tan from floor to cieling. And the way her stomach quivered under my fingers when I "accidentally" touched her too lightly. Breasts tantalizing and full, nipples on high alert with every inconsequential brush. Every curve, every inch of flesh--warm and alive and ready.

She wasn't one to steal men's hearts, but she owned their eyes without ever asking. High heels and French manicures, spa days and champagne. Only the finest, only the best, nary a blemish would do. The promises made, she held me to task. Whatever it took. My days were long, but these eyes of mine were very, very pleased.

I spoke to her of Epictetus, Aquinas, and Locke; jested at the expense of Pericles or Don Quixote or even Freud. Unwaveringly, she'd look me straight in the eyes...

"Who?"

Hers is a beauty hidden beneath denim and flannel, leather and sweat. Her hair shimmering in the setting sun as she brushes her Friesian mare. Her eyes are steel and see through people like glass. Friendships are few but also steel. Fake doesn't last. She neither gives nor accepts excuses, and rarely has the occasion to do so. She taught me the difference between being confident and being aggressive... and the importance of having both at the ready. She hadn't paid enough attention to the pain to recall the origins of her scars. She cares not for philosophers, knows little of lore, since most of life's problems can be solved with things that runs on diesel, a good pair of Ariats, and an honest evening prayer. I'd give anything, everything--all I have--to win her smile. My days are long but this heart of mine is very, very pleased.

She's not keen on people's judging eyes. Most men don't give her a second glance... if they know what's best for them. But, like I did, some still do. Still, the reward is worth the regret. "See something worth dying for?" she threatened. "Yes, Ma'am," I said, "I do."

The trouble with wild animals is they can tear you limb from limb, but I've never been one to find complacency at safe distances. Every moment with her was like winning the trust of a something untamed. One wrong move and she'd vanish on the wind. It took a great deal of time, but eventually, she let me come near. And since then, she's torn me limb from limb more times than I can count. What has grown back, in place of the man I used to be, is unrecognizable. I wouldn't have known for sure, but an old friend happened my way, and she knew in an instant (as women always know in an instant) that I was nothing remotely similar to who or what I was before finding Grace.

I'm still creative, still chivalrous, still playful inside. Mischief is now cynicism. Vengeance now pity. I will not claim that the foul things are no longer inside me. I only profess that this new me has the will to keep them from manifesting. They say to forgive and forget, and especially yourself, but as difficult as is the former, the latter is as much unwise. Try as we might to forgive our own sins (as we must try), and regardless of our success in doing so, we must not forget, ever. It is our regret, that sense of guilt, and our deep lamentations--the incessant and brutal reminders to never repeat those beautiful sins. "Did you see the gorgeous girl at the table across from ours?" and I look, genuinely, straight into her eyes...

"Who?"

7
3
0