Third Campaigner Challenge: Show Not Tell

I'm a participant in Rachael Harrie's Third Writer's Platform Building Campaign and I've decided to throw my hat into the ring for her Third Campaigner Challenge!

Here are the requirements for the Third Campaigner Challenge:
Write a blog post in 300 words or less, excluding the title. The post can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc.
The blog post should show:
that it’s morning,
that a man or a woman (or both) is at the beach
that the MC (main character) is bored
that something stinks behind where he/she is sitting
that something surprising happens.
Just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: "synbatec," "wastopaneer," and "tacise."   (NB. these words are completely made up and are not intended to have any meaning other than the one you give them.)


My official entry follows every guideline above. This was a fun write!! Hope you like it. If you do, it would be awesome if you went and "Liked" it over HERE - since this is a contest and all ; ) I'm entry # 30


The barking dog wakes me up, and I grin with my eyes still closed. I love my dog. My arms and legs shoot straight out in my normal morning stretch, and that’s when I feel the sand.

I am not in my bed.

I instinctively rub my eyes. Bad idea. The tiny, synbatec pieces of sand attack my eyeballs. “Damnit!”

I blink and sit up. And blink and blink and blink and blink. Tears run down my cheeks as I try to see where the hell I am. I pull my sleeve over my hand and use it to dust the sand from my face, more importantly, from my eyes. The smell of dog crap suddenly registers in my nostrils and I wince. My sleeve does double duty. I use it to provide a smell barrier over my nose and mouth. I continue shaking the sand from, well, everywhere. I look behind me.

The steam is still rising from the tacise pile. Lovely, just lovely.

“Hey,” a guy’s voice whispers. I whip my head to the left, sand flying, and it all comes back to me. The party, the dancing, the vodka. The guy—Vance.


Despite my sand-filled eyeballs I can see him. No shirt, jeans, combat boots. Yeah, Vance.

“When can I see you again?” He’s still lying on his back with his forearms crossed underneath his head—his muscled, bare chest slowly rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

I roll my watery eyes. Never. The damp chill of night continues to lift as the sun rises. I wish Vance, his soft lips, warm hands and impossible promises could be lifted back into the heavens where he belongs.

I instinctively reach for my wastopaneer. Vance is on his feet, wings open wide. His sword to my neck.

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