The 2nd Challenge

Right, well last week Rach Harrie (she of the 3rd Writers Platform-Building Platform Campaign) posted her second challenge. I didn't win the last one (did you notice?), but I did get through to the second round. Because of that I was determined to give this second challenge a try. Humph, but did she make it easier? To say this challenge is a stinker is understating things. See what you think: 


The Challenge is:

Write a blog post in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should:

• include the word "imago" in the title
• include the following 4 random words: "miasma," "lacuna," "oscitate," "synchronicity,"

If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional and included in the word count), make reference to a mirror in your post.

For those who want an even greater challenge (optional), make your post 200 words EXACTLY!

(taken from Rach Harrie's blog)


So after scratching my head for a few days. This is what I came up with. What do you think? If you like it  I am number #153 on the linky list. 


Changing Imago


They sit in silence on either side of the desk.

“No, too many letters.” His eyes scan the next clue. “You bore me beyond the Latin word?

“Latin for yawn.” He taps his forehead. “Oscitare, no, because that word is definitely synchronicity. But wait, it’s beyond latin, so in English, yes, that’s it, it’s oscitate.” He looks up, his eyes sparkling. “Am I right?”

“Absolutely.” She yawns.

“OK.” He squeezes his hands. “Los Angeles gap in the United Nations ABC. Lacuna, yes? Am I right?”

She nods and yawns again.

“Right, last one. A smelly foreboding of something unpleasant to come.”

She takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one, inhales deeply and exhales. He looks into the smoke confused, then a smile cracks across his face.

“Of course! Miasma.” He slaps the paper down on the table. “Yes! I did it again. I am the king. Say it, I am the king of the killer crossword.”

“You are.”

“Aren’t you going to say it?” He frowns. “Since when did you smoke?”

“I’ve always smoked.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“I know.” She nods. “One across?”

“Imago.”

She picks up her handbag and flicks ash on the floor. “You aren’t mine.”