I just finished a conflict workshop today, hosted by Beachwalk Press, and I have to tell you, it was fun and exhilerating to dabble in areas I haven't considered before.
The best parts of the workshop were the writing prompts, where we were asked to continue in our own words to show the type of conflict for that particular exercise. I loved it! I'd like to share what I turned in. Hope you enjoy them. I'll mark the writing prompts in red so you can see what I started with.
1.
As soon as she opened the door, the white curtains billowed
inward and a chilly gust raised the hairs on her arms. Her heart pounding, her
hand flew to the light switch, frantically toggling the switch. Nothing.
Stifling her sob of dismay, she warred with herself about going in or fleeing
like a coward. The baby stirred in his crib, deciding the matter. She ventured
in, quietly, cautiously, and almost screamed when the door slammed shut behind
her. Then the child sat up, his eyes glowing an unnatural green, and she heard
a low, guttural chuckle.
Her footsteps faltered and though her voice shook, she stood
firm when the child floated out of his crib.
“Now stop that. I know you
understand me. Your mother said no levitating. If you don’t behave right now,
you can just sit in that wet diaper until your parents come home and change you
themselves. It’s up to you. I don’t care.”
The baby’s eyes returned to their normal blue and the lights
flashed on as he sank back to the mattress, a look of disappointment on his
face.
2.
He was running out of time. If he didn’t
get the bike going again, there was no way he’d stop the wedding. Gritting his
teeth, he cranked back on the gas and kicked ‘er down once, twice, three times.
His heart racing, he took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down.
“Come on baby, you can do this. Come on.
Purr for daddy.” Closing his eyes, he lifted up off the seat one last time, his
muscles hard with tension. “Now!” Slamming his heel home, he gusted out a deep sigh
of relief when the engine fired. Sliding his sunglasses into place, he folded
in the kick starter with his foot and murmured a grave vow of his own, “Time to
make things right.”
3. For this one, which pertained to backstory conflict, I chose to continue from the previous prompt.
If it hadn’t
been for the car accident they were in four years ago, he wouldn’t be crashing
Mandy’s wedding now. Turning his wrist on the handlebar grip, he glanced at his
watch. Had the ceremony started yet?
He approached
the church from a side street, his heartbeat surging when he saw members of the
wedding party milling around on the dappled lawn outside. Then he saw Mandy and
he forgot to breathe for a second. She was a vision in white, standing in the
rose garden between her parents. All three were smiling for the photographer.
Leaning back on
his seat, he jerked the front tire up over the curb and hit the grassy incline
at an angle with a single-minded purpose. All those standing around spun at the
scream of his engine as he leaped the narrow sidewalk and continued on a direct
path right for the bride.
Mandy’s smile
collapsed and her jaw dropped open. Her mother looked faint, her father,
livid. Leveling off at the top of the
lawn, he brought the bike to a hard stop and killed the engine. Kicking down
the stand, he dismounted and sought her out, ignoring the rush of tuxedos
coming toward him to block his way.
Her father
stepped in front of her, but she moved around him and held up her hand in a
silent plea, holding him back. The older man relented, but he glared as the
unwelcome flash-from-the- past closed the distance.
Mandy walked
forward, her flawless skin pale, her lovely eyes brighter than normal. Please don’t cry, sweetheart. He didn’t
want to upset her. Then he noticed how she moved and couldn’t stop himself from
smiling. She’d mastered her prosthetic leg.
Her arm dropped
slack at her side, the bridal bouquet raining petals on the stones at her feet.
“Tony?”
She looked like
she was seeing a ghost. But then, he’d learned only two weeks ago that no one
thought he’d ever wake up. Fucking coma.
“Yeah, honey.
It’s me.”
Her fingers
trembled in front of her lips. The rock on her finger flashed brilliantly back
at him as if to drive him away. Screw that.
“But you’re—”
Her soft voice shook.
He stopped and
held out his hands, low and hopeful, barely conscious of their audience and the
buzz of voices in the background, like bees on the flowers.
“I remember,
Mandy. Everything. Especially you.”
With a
heartbreaking sob, she tossed the bouquet and threw herself against him. He
grabbed her, hard, and kissed her wonderful face as her veil slid down her back
and to the pavers amidst gasps of shock and outrage.
There would be
no wedding today.
4.
He stalked into
the room, intending to have a word with the museum curator, but what he saw
made him draw back in surprise. Phillipa Marsh had already beaten him to the
punch.
Her voice was
raised, her fists clenched, posture rigid. The reverse image of her lovely
figure in her dark gray suit was reflected in the polished floor, as was the
ornate frame he knew so well from her father’s estate. The painting itself,
however, was conspicuously missing.
She was
gloriously pissed. He’d never seen a woman more beautiful than Phillipa in a
temper. It was nice to admire it from the sidelines, when her fury wasn’t
directed at him. Although, there was a lot to be said for all that heat and
passion. That could be exquisite too.
Now he knew why
the exhibit never opened today.
She had the
curator backed against a marble column, his head turned slightly as if she was
going to strike him. She wouldn’t. Still, the whites of his eyes were clearly
visible, even from a distance, and he wore a look of outright panic.
How would she
react at seeing him now, here, eight
months after their romantic implosion? There was going to be fireworks. At
least he knew for a fact she wasn’t armed this time. She wouldn’t have gotten
through the metal detectors. Reassured of that fact, he gave his left bicep an
absent rub then stepped out of the shadows and cleared his throat.
5. An internal conflict prompt.
She knew if she dove into the ocean, he’d be right behind her,
trying to save her. That’s the last thing she wanted. Couldn’t he understand
that? How many times had she tried to explain the torture of simply getting
through an average day? She was bringing him down. She saw it, how it affected
him too. Depression spread to those you love like a virus and she was toxic. It
clung like an odor, a hideous stink that didn’t wash off no matter how much you
scrubbed or how much perfume you spritzed on.
He was a good man and deserved to be happy. She felt pity whenever
he argued that he was happy with her.
How could she believe it? Impossible. She was the anchor around his neck,
dragging him under with her. To save the man she loved, she had to cut him free…and flee, go where he’d never find her.
It would be so much easier that way. No more fantasies of swallowing pills or
the barrel of a gun. No more contemplating likely tree branches or the tensile strength
of rope. She wouldn’t close herself in the garage with the engine running and
have him find her like that. Razor blades were out. She couldn’t. No. No razor
blades.
It was time to disappear, for his sake. Her mind made up, she sat
at the desk and pulled the pad of lined paper toward her then picked up the
pen.
6. An external conflict prompt.
He dove into the ocean and immediately felt the powerful
waves shove him to the depths, his body thrown into a wild roll before the
current caught him up and spat him out to sea and away from the dangerous cliff
face. He broke the surface with a gasp, his ears still ringing from the roar of
the violent undertow, the screams of the gulls hovering overhead muffled for a
moment.
Stifling the raw edge of panic that always hit him at this
point, he let the current take him out, far from land. It was suicide to try to
fight your way back from here. Even seasoned cliff jumpers could suddenly fall victim
to the terror of seeing the distance grow between them and land and do the
unthinkable. Delay was a tragic mistake. The next incoming wave would break a
body apart on the sharp rock walls. Getting away from the point of entry as
fast as possible was critical if he was going to survive, especially with
scavenging sharks patrolling this spot.
Not wild about ending up on the menu, he swam hard for
calmer waters, putting distance between himself and immediate danger. He’d done
this before. No sweat. Just follow the coastline then head in at the next
beach.
He’d just found his rhythm when something solid struck him
in the calf. Pitched sideways for a moment he righted himself with a gasp. His
heart racing, he looked frantically around. There was an ominous lack of sound
when the dark dorsal fin rose cleanly out of the water. He watched in horror as
the tail fin eventually broke the surface behind it. This was a big fish. It turned
in a wide circle and came around to make another pass. Only now did he see the
great body, like a terrifying shadow, glide by.
“Oh god,” he sobbed softly, afraid those words were the last
he’d utter.
7.
She lifted her nose and breathed
the air, her heart racing as the familiar scent wafted to her.
Closing her eyes, she visualized the simmering pots of red
sauce, flecked with fresh basil and oregano on the huge stainless stove.
Garlic, oh god, the smell of freshly minced garlic would still cling to her
father’s favorite cutting board. Her lashes swept up and feeling a tug of
nostalgia at the sight of the old pizzeria, she reached for the door, already
tasting the sliver of fresh parmesan she was about to steal when she crashed
their kitchen.
8. And here's a conflict with a little twist. This one is a total departure for me, contemporary writer that I am. It's also in first person. I never write first person!
The
hero’s brother is in a dungeon in his enemy’s castle. How does he get him out?
It had taken three days, and a
hell of a lot of whiskey, before Colin and I were finally able to separate two
of the guards from their coins and tunics. Unfortunately, there was no time to
get a third tunic for Geoff. We had to move, now, or run the risk my brother
would never see another sunset.
We approached the fortress on
horseback, mixing in with the flow of wagons, beasts, and peasants passing
through the intimidating archway. Once inside, we quickly peeled off and made our
way toward the dark tower. Seeing every window blocked by rough metal bars made
our escape seem even less likely, but we had to try.
“On the left there,” Colin
pointed then nudged his horse ahead.
I followed, trying not to be
intimidated by this massive structure. The guards we’d…detained were sleeping it off in the woods. Their heads were going
to hurt from more than the alcohol when they eventually woke up. I didn’t particularly
enjoy clocking the one, but it had been necessary. Stripping another man, then tugging
on his warm clothes, was even less appealing, but also unavoidable.
Colin pulled back on the reins
and I came to a stop beside him, my horse stepping two or three more times in
place.
“There’s the door they
mentioned,” he said quietly. I nodded.
Finding somewhere to leave the
horses, without risk of theft or arousing suspicion proved a challenge, but we
eventually managed it, the pilfered coins of the one guard coming in handy at
the nearby tavern’s stable. Slowly circling back to the tower, we made sure to
approach the unassuming door while the street bustled with activity. The
tower’s main door was on the opposite side. Just the thought of entering
through there had chilled my bones. Learning there was a second, unobtrusive
door used to bring food in and waste out, was welcome news.
I pulled the ring of keys from
under my borrowed tunic and quietly eased the most likely key into the lock.
Colin and I glanced at each other, both holding our breath, and let it out when
the key turned in my hand. I pushed the door in slowly, waiting for a creak
that didn’t come, and looked into the dim interior. Empty.
“It’s clear.” I snuck in, Colin
behind me, and we made a hasty search for the staircase. He found it first and
waved me over.
“I’d feel better if we could
pull our swords,” he whispered as we stared down the narrow flight of stairs.
“You know we can’t. We’re
supposed to be guards. It would look suspicious.”
Relenting to my logic, he led
me down. The smells grew stronger as we went deeper. Mold, damp and decay,
vomit, the tang of urine, and the overwhelming odor of shit. Wincing from the
foul air, I was forced to pinch my nose closed and breathe through my mouth or
start to retch myself.
The smell was less intense once
we reached the lower level. Apparently, the staircase funneled all the
unpleasant gases upwards.
We split up, Colin peering into
the cells on the left, while I paused at every peep window on the right. Most
of the cells were empty, though not all. Then Colin grabbed my shoulder from
behind and I swung around. He jerked me forward and I looked through the thick
door and saw my brother, Geoff, sitting on a bare floor, his neck and ankle
shackled to the stones. His chin rested on his chest and his dark, unruly hair
hid his face. Seeing his posture, I wasn’t certain if he was asleep or
miserable. Likely both.
I slid the same key, the master
key, into the door and tripped the lock. Geoff’s head shot up, his eyes wild
with panic.
When he saw us in the door, he
leaped to his feet, drawing back from us in fear. He didn’t recognize me at
first.
“Geoff, it’s me, and Colin. We’re
here to get you out.”
Clearly incredulous, my brother
stepped toward us, as far as the chains would allow, and asked in a weak, raspy
voice, “How?”
“Disguise.”
He turned his head, looking up
so I could spring the collar around his neck. Colin caught it and set it
carefully, soundlessly on the floor while Geoff stuck out his foot for me next.
When I straightened up, he was rubbing his reddened throat and breathing a
little more freely.
Colin began to fidget under his
tunic, wriggling his body for a moment and then pulled the spare garment out.
He gave it a good shake.
Seeing what it was, Geoff’s
eyes widened and he stared at us, stunned. “Are you out of your bloody minds?”
I snickered softly. “Put on your
dress, pretty boy.”
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