Sonia G Medeiros’ “February Writing Challenge: Of Love and Leap Years”


Last month I participated in Sonia Medeiros’ writing challenge, which consisted of creating a fifty-word blip using a specific word from a predetermined list.  It was the first challenge of Sonia’s that I had the pleasure of partaking in and all-in-all I had a terrific time.  I loved throwing my hat in, but what I really enjoyed was reading everyone else’s take on the task.

This month she is holding a new challenge that asks readers to compose a 250-word short about ‘Love’ and/or ‘Leap Years.’  Within the confines of the piece the writer needs to include five-words from a new predetermined list and upon completing the challenge the writer is then required to add their own word to the list in order to mix it up a bit and vary the posts.

I completed a rough draft of my entry yesterday and this morning I polished it off.  Hopefully everyone like it!  My word to be added to the challenge will be ‘idiosyncratic’ and here is my take on Sonia’s February writing challenge:

A Defective Year

Today was his sixth birthday—technically he was twenty-four, but who was counting?  After all, Leap Year was a variance—an aberration; it didn’t need to exist; yet it did.

In his book lethargy was top priority for the day.  He showered, threw on some clothes, popped open a Guinness, but just as he was about to take sip—he let out a slight cough.  It was minute, but he could feel another building.  Suddenly, he dropped his Guinness and before the can could strike the white-checkered linoleum and the second cough had commenced–he was gone.

Vanished.  Poof.  Non-existent.

For a nanosecond he felt as if he were underwater, but when he opened his eyes he was kissing a beautiful woman.  Blonde-hair, fair skinned, blue eyes, and his heart skipped forward and proceeded directly past ‘Go!’  He blushed, but the kiss was so tender and intense he fell into it like Skywalker tumbling into the Sarlacc.

As the two parted, he smiled and, in return, a smile escaped her lips.  He didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten here, but he knew he wanted to stay.  Love at first sight had never been in his paradigm, but in his heart he—poof.

He was gone.

He was back in his apartment with a Guinness bubbling at his feet.  He immediately grabbed his coat and was out the door before the can could stop spinning.  He would find the girl—that was the magic of Leap Year.

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The Blues


It resided within one of the oldest parts of the city.  It existed to serve, and it had done well for years.  The men and women who came in attendance drank and jested with one another till the night was nigh and the morning was nil.  Frank was the owner and he had a reputation with the woman.  Almost every other week a stumbler was clamoring into the wrong room with Frank groaning and a waitress on her knees.  The piano player had always had an addiction of the Blues and was always creating a musical note storm.  He was talented.  He could have been somebody, but his true passion lay in the Opium dens at the waterfront and unfortunately the long sightedness in him and been burned out of him by the addiction and the hookers.  Marie Jo was his favorite and even she sauntered into the Elk every once in a while.  Usually tweaked out her mind, willing to fuck anyone for a dime bag and a Guinness.  Once and just once a particular surly patron by the name of Patrick, named for near alliteration’s sake, had taken a crooked swing at a man named James over a lost sports bet and a subsequent poor choice of words.  Instead, he ended up clocking Marie Jo in the nose.  A gush of blood and an equally crooked punch later Frank and the house pianist beat the pulp out Patrick so badly that it was unsure whether the street rats would be able tell if it were James or Patrick once the blood coagulated upon his features.  However, these sights were rare and just like the Elk, the Spark, and the Rum Bin the fights were minimal, the hookers were plentiful, and the sadness was perpetual.

The Blues


It resided within one of the oldest parts of the city.  It existed to serve, and it had done well for years.  The men and women who came in attendance drank and jested with one another till the night was nigh and the morning was nil.  Frank was the owner and he had a reputation with the woman.  Almost every other week a stumbler was clamoring into the wrong room with Frank groaning and a waitress on her knees.  The piano player had always had an addiction of the Blues and was always creating a musical note storm.  He was talented.  He could have been somebody, but his true passion lay in the Opium dens at the waterfront and unfortunately the long sightedness in him and been burned out of him by the addiction and the hookers.  Marie Jo was his favorite and even she sauntered into the Elk every once in a while.  Usually tweaked out her mind, willing to fuck anyone for a dime bag and a Guinness.  Once and just once a particular surly patron by the name of Patrick, named for near alliteration’s sake, had taken a crooked swing at a man named James over a lost sports bet and a subsequent poor choice of words.  Instead, he ended up clocking Marie Jo in the nose.  A gush of blood and an equally crooked punch later Frank and the house pianist beat the pulp out Patrick so badly that it was unsure whether the street rats would be able tell if it were James or Patrick once the blood coagulated upon his features.  However, these sights were rare and just like the Elk, the Spark, and the Rum Bin the fights were minimal, the hookers were plentiful, and the sadness was perpetual.