2019 Spec Faith Summer Writing Challenge Finalists
Special thanks to all who entered the 2019 Spec Faith Summer Writing Challenge and to all who gave their feedback in the preliminary rounds.
As in other writing challenges, we had more than three 2019 entries that received a high number of thumbs up. Clearly these were strong submissions, many from writers who haven’t entered this contest before. I hope the writing challenge has encouraged and inspired each to continue developing their storytelling skills. In fact, that’s my hope for all who entered.
We had a good variety again, some that were clearly story beginnings, others that were complete stories of flash fiction. We had some comedy and some serious, sad stories. It never ceases to amaze me that from one sentence we can create such varied, unique stories. Again, well done, all of you.
Now for the all important last step. As you all can see if you view the entries, we have a close finish, but the top three, receiving the most thumbs up, are Sophie, Sarah Daffy, and C. S. Wachter.
Here are their entries again (in alphabetical order by FIRST name—since Sophie only entered a first name), followed by the poll. Choose from these three entries and vote once for the one you think is best.
Voting for the 2019 winner will last until midnight (Pacific time), Sunday, August 18.
C. S. Wachter
Jag couldn’t be a part of the rebellion any more—not with what he knew now—but could he convince the other rebels to lay down their arms?
His head threatened to split open and spill his overwrought brains onto the floor.
Marissa would never understand.
Trolls’ code stated the king must be a descendant of Warbane, and now Jag knew their uprising was based on a lie, the king was of the line. They had been deceived by Nelcor, the troll seeking to steal Warmaker’s throne.
Jag thumped up the central passage to his home cave. He flung the door open with enough force it rebounded off the wall.
Marissa turned; her murky green eyes wide. “You know?”
Jag pulled up. “You knew?”
“Of course, she knew. We have been planning this for years.” Nelcor’s powerful frame filled the doorway to the kitchen.
Marissa moved toward Jag. “Please, Jag, understand. Nelcor will be a stronger king. Even you said so.”
Jag’s roar shook the cave. “The line of kings is ordained! This is wrong!” His gaze shifted between Marissa and Nelcor. He roared again, turned, and bounded out the door, grabbing his warclub as he ran.
Nelcor, the troll who had been like a father to him, was a traitor. The thought soured Jag’s stomach.
Jag didn’t stop until he reached Eagle’s Flight, an opening to the outside world high above the cave system he called home. What was he to do? Warmaker’s reign had been plagued with weakness and excess. Nelcor would be a wise king. Was the line of kings truly ordained?
Jag had always been a simple troll and these thoughts turned his brain to mush.
Stepping out onto the ledge, Jag made his choice. The wind rustled his clothing as he dropped his club and faced the rising sun. One lone tear leaked from his eye, preserved for eternity, as he turned to stone.
###$&$&###
Sarah Daffy
Jag couldn’t be a part of the rebellion any more—not with what he knew now—but could he convince the other rebels to lay down their arms?
He had to. He must.
But then again, he was the only one armed with a paperclip.
Now he knew that a paperclip was not strong enough to defeat the enemy. He also knew that when they reached contact with the outside world where it was raining, they would be stripped bare of everything they had ever known. Why, oh, why did he have to be a paper doll?
He aimed his paperclip at the pointed pen caps of the opposing party which was making its way toward the cracked window.
He had to stop them. He had to. He must.
How? He hadn’t figured that out yet.
He was just focused on aiming the paperclip.
###$&$&###
Sophie
Jag couldn’t be a part of the rebellion any more—not with what he knew now—but could he convince the other rebels to lay down their arms?
No. He couldn’t. Because that meant defeat.
The lair was filled with hot smoke from the boy’s pipes, and their laughter turned the hardiest player to shame.
The Black Fox’s emblem on his arm burned like the sparks from rebel eyes. He couldn’t say why he had allowed himself to be stamped. The heat had cut razor marks into his smooth skin, but nothing hurt worse than the rebellion in his chest that now lay dead. This meant that in order to keep his life and rid himself of the stamp, he must convince the gang to heed him.
How?
They wouldn’t lay down their arms. Their muscles were taut; elbows nailed like tar into the round barrel tables. Their opponents, the Brunch gang, sat opposite to each Black Fox boy, hands interlocked with a death grip. The process of elimination was well underway.
Jag felt the heat of the smoke pipes grow warmer as one by one, the Brunch member’s arms fell to the wooden table top with a defeated thump, and the Black Foxes cursed for their victory.
Two tables left of boys arm-wrestling. He looked to the confining emblem on his arm.
And then. . .
Yes. He could. Because that meant victory.
###$&$&###
Be sure to share this post and the 2019 poll on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or wherever you hang out on social media. In fact, share it with your face-to-face family and friends. The more voters, the better.
Congrats for making it to the finalists, you three! 🙂
Great job Ellie