Collaboration opens us up. Writing is often a solitary pursuit as we wrestle with words and a sense of our own frailties. Hunched over drafts, chopping and changing, fretting and fussing. How much better would it be to draw others in and see how their words flow, to see how your ideas work in someone else’s hands?
Erica Drayton started it off with a season of collaborations (we fashioned a dark tale together, shivers down the spine in 100 words).
I was delighted to be asked by Debs Stott to create something with her. 100 words. I start, Debs finishes [her words in bold].
If you are sitting comfortably, then we’ll begin …
The tension weighed heavily. She hoped but the dread was ever-present. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed. Maybe her details were buried in bureaucracy. Too small a fish to fry. Off the hook and thrown back. It had been weeks now. Safe, surely? She began to relax, look forward even. Knock, Knock.
Instantly motionless.
She’d jinxed it, thinking she was safe. It’s over, they’d come to lock her away.
Persistent knocking.
Run or be silent?
Surely, they’d hear her ragged breathing.
Palms sweating; her heart rate skyrockets.
She crumples onto the carpet.
.
An eternity passes.
“I’m done for”
.
“Amazon delivery for you-hoo!”
Much of my writing recently has been short form flash fiction; many of the stories that pour out have a twist in the tail (or the tale). I love that my opening 50 words led Debs down a pathway of continued tension suddenly released with a lightness of touch that - in parallel and unknown to Debs - was a path I followed in a version of the tale I decided to finish myself.
{My Version}
The tension weighed heavily. She hoped but the dread was ever-present. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed. Maybe her details were buried in bureaucracy. Too small a fish to fry. Off the hook and thrown back. It had been weeks now. Safe, surely? She began to relax, look forward even. Knock, Knock.
Heart pounding, eyes widening. How could they have tracked her? Cameras everywhere. Who had they asked? She’d been a fool to trust anyone. Sighing deeply, pushing past the inertia, past the terror pinning herself to the chair. Feet like lead, hands shaking.
“Delivery for No 32”.
Quavering voice, “Next door”.
You might like to …
Check out more of Debs’ micro-fiction
Read about Erica’s Free Writing Fridays
Dive into my words at Just Write, Right?
Well done both - clearly you enjoy those twists in the tales...
Loved that ending! 👏