Each drop battered against the ground, flinging chippings of bark into the air.

The slide, under which Jake had chosen for his hiding place, had become a tool for the rain to amplify its drumming. Each drop pounded against the metal surface sending a furious hammering sound straight through Jake’s ear.

His feet were planted firmly to the only remaining dry space in the whole of the park and he was crouched right down in the way only children could manage for any longer than a few seconds. The problem was that the ground was already beginning to swamp around his dry haven. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d be crouching in a puddle that would all too soon creep past the base of his blue and white trainers, beyond his laces and up towards where his bum hovered just a few inches from the ground. There was no way he could go home with wet pants. How would he explain that to Uncle Ken.

He’d count to one hundred. That’s how long he would have before he would just have to make a run for it. But he’d barely made it into the teens when the wind shifted. At first, he didn’t notice because he was concentrating so hard on what number came next. But then the cold pin pricks began to irritate his skin. It was as though the rain had sought him out and was throwing itself right into his hiding place.  

He squeezed his hands closer around his folded arms.

The original prompt

Flo bent down to pick up what she thought was a half-buried seashell. The smell of salty water swirls around her and the wet sand prickles at her toes as she bends to her knees.

‘What’s this?’ she asks herself running her fingers across the bumpy surface of the shell. It is a mossy green colour with a small patch of deep blue which shines under the sun’s rays.

Flo digs her fingers into the sand trying to feel for the edge of the shell. ‘This shell is ginormous,’ she says, excitement in her voice.

‘Where does it –,’ Something to her right drew her eyes away from the shell. A brown, pointed shape like a small rugby ball begins emerging from the sand. It sways left and then right.

She stops her digging and watches. Two eyes blink on either side of the shape. It isn’t a rugby ball at all. It’s a head.

‘What are you doing here?’ Flo asks the sandy creature.

The creature lifts his head a little higher in response to her voice. Flo looks from the head to the seashell in front of her, realising what she’s found.

‘This is your shell, that’s why I can’t pick it up. You’re a turtle!’ The proud feeling of solving the mystery bubbles inside her.  

‘Don’t worry, I’ll help you get out,’ she says. ‘How did you get stuck here anyway?’ She begins pulling the sand away with her hands. She doesn’t have to dig for long before she sees the answer to her question.  

Here’s today’s prompt for you

Last night I dreamt I was fighting aliens again. This was the third time this week but something was different this time.

It started with me being pulled out from under my duvet until I was flying across my room and everything was a blur as I whizzed past my wardrobe and my desk and my telescope. I saw a mix of colours and shapes as I was sucked out my bedroom window.

And then I was on board Plantinium, my fighter ship sitting in the captain’s seat.

‘Captain Billy, the Wargs are closing in on us. What do you want us to do?’ The Wargs? Not these guys again. They were intent on capturing every leader on every planet so they could control the universe. Well, I was about to let that happen.

‘Cadets, load all shooters, engage all defence systems and hold on…’ I pulled the joy stick towards me and Plantinium lifted its nose in response. Flying this ship was like walking; I didn’t have to think about making it do what I wanted it to. The Warg’s ships were scattered around us, trying to flank our every defence. I knew that was a battle tactic that usually worked for them but they hadn’t gone up against me before. Tonight, they had Captain Billy Gotobed to contend with.

‘Fasten your seatbelts, cadets. We’re gonna get rid of these guys once and for all.’ And with that, I was steering the ship – my ship – left, right, forward, over, under.

Check out today’s inspiration here

So, I suppose you want to ask me why I spared the zombies. Why would someone like me spare the zombies?

But what you need to know is, it wasn’t for the zombies. It was for Sam.

See, I’m a vampire and vampires aren’t supposed to be friends with zombies. It’s dangerous for vampires and zombies to be friends because… well I don’t know why actually. And no one has ever been able to give me a straight answer in the year I’ve been like this. Probably because no one knows why. It’s just what we’ve always been told. But nothing bad has happened since I met Sam so we’re not really sure what all the fuss is about.

“What do you want to do tonight, Raymond?” Sam asked me. The sun had set over an hour ago now and we still hadn’t moved from the gravestone of one Donald Stewart. According to his engravings he died in 1938. I’ve met Donald Stewart. He insists I call him Sir Donald even though he wasn’t a Sir when he died. It would have said so right here if he was. He lives in the Manor House with the rest of us vampires. He has the third left room on the sixth floor, opposite Constance Anderson. If he ever found out I was spending time with a zombie his fangs would probably fall out.

‘We could go and find Fredrick?’ I suggest without trying to sound too keen.

Click here to see this week’s inspiration

It snowed for twenty years and still, not a single snowflake settled on the ground. The people who lived in the town of Downbury had adapted their routines to allow them to live with the constant powder that fell from the sky. The days were shorter and the nights were longer, with chilled winds that bit into the cheeks on every face of the town’s residents. When the endless fall began, and those in charge began to trip and fall over their decisions, a curfew was enforced and roles were assigned to all those able to work.

Almost everyone from Downbury could share knowledge of electricity and the workings of the heating machines. For those were the machines that allowed the town to keep running and it was essential that they never falter. Without the heating machines, pipes would freeze, doors would seal and life would come to a halt. The snow had not come alone, it came with everything winter had to offer and used it all to steal memories of summer. Even though no shovelling was needed and no roads or pavements needed to be cleared, there was an ongoing battle against the snow for light and heat.

For two decades the snow was silent and not a single boot had ever crunched on an icy blanket. Its maker would not allow it for every snowflake was precious and not to be harmed.

Until, one day, one her twelfth birthday, Bethany wandered to the roof of her father’s shop.

Some of my favourite beginnings…

“All children, except one, grow up.” – Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie

“In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, live twelve little girls in two straight lines.” – Madeline, Ludwig Bemelmans

‘When you wish that a Saturday was actually a Monday, you know there is something seriously wrong.’ – Boy in the Tower, Polly Ho-Yen

All of these opening lines are like a spell that hook you, the reader, into the pages of the book.

Below is a beginning piece I’ve written.

Writing a beginning

The beat of a soft drumming hid in the forest. The steady rhythm had a calming nature that disguised the beings that followed it.
But it wasn’t the drums that Hazel heard first. It was the piercing screams that woke her from her sleep. The painful sound of them hauled her eyes open.
Her ears tuned in to the panic around but the dark was engulfing the scene. Her eyes were still not as alert as her ears.

Something cold and wispy brushed her back and she whipped round in response. Her pulse raced under her skin and each hair prickled across the surface of her body. She froze and held her breath, giving all her attention to her eyes, trying to push through the dark and spot the intruder that had come through the trees.
There was no one there. No one visible at least.

Within minutes, the night’s darkness was pushed back by the sudden lighting of the village torches which mimicked the weak light of dawn.