I cannot say how difficult it has been to chose. So many great entries. And I kept having to run to the bathroom to hug the bowl. Never again will I touch that clear stuff in hand-labelled Mason jars. (Kids, let that be a lesson to you).
But I can say how wonderful all the entries have been and how magical and thrilling it has been to read along as people posted their entries. Thank you all for posting and for reading. Hopefully we can keep adding to the thread, even though the Competition is closed.
First, of course, there is the small matter of picking the winner. I've had a hard time paring it down to 10, so hard in fact that I've added a little list of runner-ups and some honorable mentions, as well.
Here, in the order posted are the finalist entries. Cast your vote for the best one, the creme de la creme.
cskinner: I Married A Beatle
Oh there was this whole complicated legal agreement, what a pain. I had to promise not to tell about the marriage until today, which is kind of an anniversary but I can’t say why. And even now, all I can do is say “a Beatle,” not say which one. Cripe.
I can tell you, though, it was all pretty exciting when it happened. I mean, I went from laying on the eyeliner in the girls’ bathroom at Roosevelt High School and showing off a ring wrapped in angora PRETENDING it was from “a Beatle” to actually marrying the guy. A girl’s dream, no kidding.
At first, I can tell you, it was incredibly cool. Of all the girls in the world, “a Beatle” picked ME! I wanted to believe I was something special—who doesn’t—but to be honest I never really did believe it. And the night we met after the concert in “a city,” I was dressed nice, sure, but nothing amazing or anything. But there was a look in his eye when he saw me (standing there, yeah, that was me), I could see it, for real. And suddenly I felt like I went from Ann Marie the plumber’s daughter to, I don’t know, like Princess Ann Marie, except cooler. The way he looked at me—and then as we got to know each other, I don’t know—I just felt like I was different, like I MATTERED. A Beatle married me, for godsake.
Funny though. You’d think that would make you the happiest girl alive. Thing is, it didn’t. After a while, things just kinda went downhill. I mean, he never vacuumed ONCE, stuff like that. We ended up getting a divorce, and by then I didn’t even want the money he said I could have. (Was that stupid or what?) I just felt kinda empty and, well, not worth it.
So, I’m pretty old now. I got a nice old guy for a hubby now. He never really looks at me the way “a Beatle” did that night, never has, really. But we been together a long time now. Sometimes when I’m putting on my eyeliner I look hard in the mirror for what “a Beatle” saw and try to get that girl to come out. But all I see is Ann Marie.
* * *
emmline: Love in the Ragweed
“Get a job,” says Kerry, “Or I’m changin’ the locks.”
She says it. I believe her. And royalty checks for Love in the Ragweed aren’t exactly rolling in.
So I try. But I swear, if you’re going to serve yellow curry to priggish women in overstuffed white dresses, don’t scatter Turkish rugs all over the floor, even if if your belly-dancer has cold toes.
I say I’ll pay for the drycleaning.
Fazou says, “No. You are a klootz. I cannot employ a klootz.”
Kerry should lighten up. She knows I can’t stay with with Bif and his ginseng habit. But I know she means it about the lock. Rooms in Cape Yasmin rent fast.
The tinkling bells make me look twice. It’s a help-wanted sign. On the door of Little Buddha’s Bargain Bazaar. “Tarot Reader--weeknights.”
The counter lady raises an eyebrow at my polo shirt.
“I read tarot,” I say. I play clock solitaire, I’m thinking.
“Good,” says the lady. “Ten bucks an hour. That’s your table. Start now. Here,” she says, handing me a purple embroidered shawl. “Wear this. Next time dress better.”
My first customer is a guy. Scrawny. Almost knocks the chair over. I make a confident show of shuffling my deck, and deal the cards in a circle, one to twelve, with the stack in the middle.
My customer sneezes. “Looks like a clock,” he says. His voice is deep. Almost smoky. He must have a cold.
“It’s the circle of tarot,” I say mysteriously. “Pick a card.”
The shop lady glares at me, but I look at my customer and nod encouragingly. “Pick a card.”
He turns over the five o’clock card. His hands look strong. Weather-worn.
I give the card a meaningful look. “It’s the 4 of Discs. See that lady by the fire? She stays inside too much. She needs to get out more. It means you need to get out more.”
“I do need to get out more,” says my customer. His eyes are velvet brown. His nose is slightly runny. “I’ve been reading.”
He places a book on the table. A tattered copy of Love in the Ragweed.
“It’s a good book,” he says. “But I do need to get out more. Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow.”
My customer smiles at me. The shop lady smiles at me. Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow, too.
* * *
FJohnSharp: At the Wedding
At the wedding you sit in the back. Uninvited. Lots of people. No one will notice.
The music starts and everyone turns and you keep behind the guy in the tight fitting suit, peeking over his shoulder a second at a time until she passes. You feel dizzy. The music, the organ, the white, white dress. The veil.
And the father, whoa, the father.
She was smiling. Almost real. Like when she used to see you. Bright, bright smile. Warmed you like microwaves from the inside out.
White and pink rose petals dot the red, red carpet on which she glides. To him. Rebound guy. You met him once. In an alley. Okay, you stalked him. Easy to push. Didn’t scare for long. Wedding six months later.
You see everyone smiling, at her beauty or at their remembrances. Flash popping. Bridesmaids chafing in their flouncy pink taffeta. Mother-of-the-Bride weeping. You feel no smile on your face.
Father—angry, foul-mouthed, over-protective father—takes her to the alter. “Who gives this bride?” “Her mother and I.” Sure, after he stole her from you. Called you a “(bleep) druggie asshole.” You think he kicked your leg but you were wasted.
“For richer and poorer, in sickness and in health.” You went to rehab. Got healthy, which is what you tell people. Could get rich if things work out, you know, just right. Too late to win the father. He made threats. Believable ones.
“Till death do you part.” You can arrange that. Different methods occur to you. Grieving widows need comfort. Throw in the dad for grins.
“Does anyone present see any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony?” Well, yeah. How do you do this? Just raise your hand? Like in school? Or shout out? The silence is interminable. Like they’re waiting for you.
You’re sweating. Shaking. You feel a pulling. Everyone is waiting for you and the pressure is crushing. You think you can do this one thing for her but your internal calendar resets to your needing days. You try to raise you hand, your voice, but they are chained to you and you’re sinking.
You stand. Everyone looks. You lower your head, turn, slip out the side exit.
You feel for the little bag in your pocket, and slink to a place where you know you will not be disturbed.
* * *
susnfx: The Martians. Relax.
We sat on the floor in the pantry in the dark, backs against the wall - five dusty kids in Keds with broken shoelaces. David held a transister radio, moving the tuning knob back and forth while it emitted screechy static. The older boys had told Randy and me there were people from Mars trying to contact us. They wanted to know more about Earth.
As the radio screeched out its message, David translated. The Visitors were going to come to a field near our home that evening and we could see their ship. They wanted a gift - something they could take back from Earth.
The communication didn't last long and the older boys left us two little kids to ponder what had happened and decide on a gift. We walked around our home. What would be of interest to Martians? Rationally enough, we decided on a handful of grass - very helpful to their biologists, I'm sure. We wrapped it in waxed paper and waited for the sun to lower.
We knelt on the sofa and watched out the front window for the signal from across the street that the Visitors had arrived.
Finally, we were motioned across the street. We were told to stop at the pasture fence and watch the shed. The two of us stood on the rails of the fence and stared at the dark doorway of the shed, Randy clutching the wrapper of grass in his hand, his eyes huge.
Out of the shed door, walking very slowly, came the boys. All three of them were holding on to a round silver spaceship, about the size of a paper plate, with a clear dome on top and a red light flashing from within. It was an incredible moment. They walked toward us - then moved back a little as if some Power within the ship was fighting them. They stepped to the middle of the pasture and stopped. David said quietly it was as close as the Visitors would come. We were instructed to leave our gift on the top rail of the fence, bow, and leave immediately. We did so with a great deal of solemnity.
We never saw the Martians themselves, but Randy and I know they exist.
Relax. They're not nearly big enough to worry about.
* * *
Dibe': Old Manheads
The motel room was irritating in a completely impersonal way. From my vantage point leaning against the window sill I had a clear view of a circle of old manheads. Dewlaps and wrinkles, patchy beards, beatific but empty expressions: twenty or so in all, circled up on the floor between the two queen-sized beds. Muzac softly played and then stopped, played and then stopped, at about the volume of an elevator opera. I began to notice that when any two looked at each other they looked as if they might smile and the music played. Their gazes never held and the music always stopped. I recognized the tune: “Creep”/Radiohead and I realized I always thought “creep, noun, unpleasant person” when I should have been thinking “creep, verb, move on your stomach”. I began listening as hard as I could so the tune would help me remember the words now that their meaning would be clear, but those damned old men couldn’t keep their heads still. Every time the muzac cut off my irritation increased, I had the lyrics right on the tip of my tongue…The old men unfolded their stringy bodies from the floor, got in a line and filed right past me to climb out the window. As the last one threw his leg over the sill he looked right into my eyes and said: ‘go ahead and laugh, you know it’s funny.” From the corner of my eye it looked as if they were all wearing diapers.
* * *
Ron Kiley: Boys In Summer
The two boys hurriedly climbed the tree. They went through the small opening in the tangled Honeysuckle vines that covered the tops of the trees in the small patch of woods next to the school. The intertwined vines looped from tree to tree forming a natural hammock. This was their secret place.
They kept their pipes there and a can of tobacco carefully sealed to protect from the rain. They could lie back and have a smoke and talk about the things special to twelve-year-old boys. The small birds flitted and sang around them. They had been friends for many years, at least many as perceived by boys their age. There was comfort and reassurance resting in the embrace of the vines.
This would change in the fall. They did not realize that now. There was only the present. In the fall they would go to a new much larger school where they would make new friends. They would meet girls. Their lives would no longer be weaved together like the comforting Honeysuckle.
Now they watched the smoke curl up from their pipes and laughed. A hawk effortlessly circled over their head.
* * *
dubhlinn: The Letter
She had been the supervisor of the sewing room for twenty years.In that time she had seen many girls come and go,some to husbands,some to better jobs.
Five years ago the management had erected a glass partition along the front of the gallery where her office was situated and every now and then she would have a look along the rows of machines to check on the progress of her girls.The girls were the closest thing she had to family.
The most recent addition to her family was an Irish girl who today ,on three separate occasions, had furtively removed a letter from her pocket and quickly read it while shaking her head from side to side.
The Supervisor could remember when she worked on a machine many years ago and had pulled a letter out from her own pocket,
" My dearest sister,I am so sorry to have to tell you this but last night ,our dear mother.....",the figures on the order sheet in front of her blurred as the tears came back.
She vowed to have a word with the Irish girl at the end of the shift.
"Molly,could I have a quick word,wont take a minute"
Molly blushed but before she could say anything the supervisior touched her arm gentlyand assured her there was no problem.
"I am not prying but is everything all right with you and your family"
"Grand" replied Molly,perplexed.
The Supervisor mentioned the letter that Molly had been reading from time to time. Molly stared back for a moment then burst into laughter
" Ah God no,no,no." She spluttered through the laughter " that wasn't a letter,it's a song.I sing in a band and I really need to learn the words for tonight ye see."
"Listen to me now ,we're playing tonight in the Dalesman off the Main street and all the girls are going.Sure ye must come along it'll be a great crack"
"Oh, I see well i am sorry..."
"Dont worry,you just get yourself there for about eight and I'll get ye a lift home n'all. Ye dont want to be sitting in on a friday night wondering if your phone is broken do ye?"
"Well, thank you..."
"Right so, see ye there.."
As the Supervisor walked towards her car the security guard,who had worked there even longer than she had,noticed a spring in her step that he had not seen in a long,long time.
* * *
Nanohedron: No Longer the Same
On a walk through the evening calm, as the heat unstifles itelf and shadows stretch to cool the day, a flow of twittering not far overhead slowly awakens my attention, moving and changing like the sparkles of light that dance about on a pond's surface. I look up, and mark them: not birds after all, then.
I watch them as they swoop and dive, careening above me to feed on insects I cannot see. A flock of winged mice! I am mesmerised by the bats' hungry ballet, and then notice their wings and how surprising twilight shows through the fine, thin skin of them: dark small things with pairs of glowing wings, tumbling riskily in the dusk after a prey beyond sight.
After a time I seem to remember a destination, and start out once again toward it, the bats' staccatto slowly dimming behind me until it is finally gone.
I am no longer the same.
* * *
Geraghty: She Blinks Sleep
She blinks sleep from her eight-year-old eyes as the door opens unexpectedly. A warm maternal figure is silhouetted against the spreading pool of light spilling in from the hall.
"Hi, Grandma," she whispers with a drowsy smile.
Her grandmother walks in softly, and sits on the edge of her bed.
"Hi, sweetheart." she croons. "You're such a good girl. I love you so much. You'd never misbehave, would you? No."
The little girl smiles as her grandmother strokes her silky hair.
"Yes, you are a good girl. You'd never hurt me. Not like your mother has. Oh, she was a bad little girl. She never listened to me. She still doesn't listen to me. But you listen to me, I like that. Your mother was horrid. I don't want you to be like your mother. Promise me."
The girl's reply is cut off by a second silhouette in the doorway.
"Ma, I asked you to leave her alone. Please come back downstairs."
The change in those ancient eyes is startling, and the little girl dives for her flowery blankets as the crooning voice becomes harsh and angry. She's not sure how much time passes before the door closes again. A burst of volume from the room below her tells her it is over for another night.
This time was easy. She smiles, hugs her teddy bear and goes back to sleep.
* * *
scottielvr: Hick-Pop
“Drink this wedding toast/drink, O drink this toast/to the two we love the most!” Harry Belafonte’s jovial voice filled the car. Lisa loved the joyous rhythms of calypso. For long trips, she always took lively, upbeat music, good driving music. That was another thing they argued about…no congruence in their musical tastes. Paul liked top 40 country, which drove Lisa wild.
“That’s not real country music, it’s ‘hick-pop.’”
“You can’t stand any pop music, can you? And I suppose your opinion is the only one that matters?”
“Well, if I have better taste, my opinion should matter more,” –a snobbish remark of the kind that always erupted when she was provoked. Then she got excited and kept interrupting him. Then he got furious and shut up. And so it went. Long trips brought out arguments…politics, music, what color to paint the living room. They had nothing at all in common, nothing, she thought. After six years of marriage, she still wondered why they could find nothing to agree about. How lovely to be in perfect harmony, like those couples who finish each other’s sentences and smile quietly at each other. “Will his love be like his rum?” Harry asked rhetorically, “Intoxicating all night long?/yes it will, yes it will.” She shut the car off with a frown, and slammed the car door.
They were still glaring at each other when they walked into the restaurant, one of those faux country-homey, “y’all come in and set a spell” joints that dot the interstates, “As bogus as that damn crap he listens to,” Lisa thought as they sat. Uncomfortably close at the next table, an elderly couple were finishing their meal; they ate in silence, gazing in different directions at nothing in particular.
Paul and Lisa ordered quickly. They got excessively busy with silverware and condiments, then with their meal, saying nothing. The couple next to them sipped silently at their coffee, not looking at each other. Paul lit a cigarette. The other couple, still without a word, rose in unison as though to an invisible cue and collected their coats.
As Lisa watched their wordless course to the front counter and then out the door, she turned her head and caught Paul watching them too. It was impossible to tell which of them exploded into laughter first, or which reached first across the table for the other’s hand.
* * *
.4K Writing Competition: Vote the Winner
-
Bloomfield
- Posts: 8225
- Joined: Mon Oct 15, 2001 6:00 pm
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- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
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.4K Writing Competition: Vote the Winner
/Bloomfield
-
Bloomfield
- Posts: 8225
- Joined: Mon Oct 15, 2001 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Location: Location: Location:
NOTE: To read the entire thread with all entries, go here: C&F Writing Competition
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here are the runner ups.
FJohnSharp: Sparks Couldn't Play
Sparks couldn’t play today, his hand was killing him. Damn vise. The clarinet is a two handed instrument.
He called the leader of their little cocktail band, who told him tough luck, find a replacement. He called all three of the players he knew. One was sick, one had an anniversary, one had smashed his hand in a vise too.
“No way!,” Sparks said. “Where?”
“In the basement, my workshop.”
“I did mine at work. Machine shop.”
“So yours was a metal vise then?”
“Yup.”
“Mine was a woodworking vice.”
They paused.
“Not the same thing, really,” said Sparks.
“Nope.”
So Sparks called the musician’s union who found a young man fresh out of college who was looking for work. It would cost Sparks a hundred but he was desperate. The player met him at the gig, where Sparks introduced him around, then showed him the music. The player waved him off, “I can sight-read it.” Sparks found a seat.
The player was good, too good to Sparks’ way of thinking. The leader smiled at all the players’ solos, and even changed the set list to include a piece he never let Sparks play anymore. Sparks’ applause, such that it was with an injured hand, dwindled with each piece. On the finale, he only waved his fingers joylessly in the direction of the band.
The player was packing and Sparks folded a stack of five twenties in half, and tossed it in the case. The player reached in to take it and Sparks ‘accidentally’ tripped, slamming the lid on his fingers.
“Hey!” the player screamed, massaging his injured fingers.
“Sorry,” said Sparks, in a way that sounded pre-meditated. “I slipped.”
“Right,” said the player, glaring as he quickly took apart his instrument with his good hand and his armpit. “I’m playing Vivaldi tomorrow.”
Sparks held up his hand. all bandaged and painful. “We’re playing a wedding Saturday.”
The player clicked shut his case and smirked. “Not the same thing, is it?” he said, leaving.
Sparks stood for a moment. The director came over. “Where’s the other guy?”
“He had to go.”
The leader nodded thoughtfully. “Is he playing Saturday?”
Sparks detected hopefulness in his voice. “No, I’ll be ready to go.”
The leader nodded again, slower, sadder, and walked away. Sparks wiggled his hurting fingers in the motion of an arpeggio, winced, and did it again. Then again. Then again.
* * *
Muscical_Midnight: The Gathering
We sat beneath the willow tree that stood at the top of the greenest hill. Together in silence we gazed in the distance. I glanced at her. Her eyes were bright with unspilled tears. She stared unblinking as if she were keeping watch, and the moments passed like eternity. Finally she spoke.
"We made a promise, all of us. You and I are here, but the rest…" She faltered, dropping her head downwards.
Gently, I replied, "They are with us now, as they always will be. If we think of them, and remember, they won’t ever really leave.”
“That’s not good enough. We vowed that nothing would keep us from gathering. But look what happened. They failed their promises. And now...” Silence once again filled the air.
She and I spoke of our dearest friends. While we were in school together, we were inseparable, six friends closer than family. We would gather every weekend at someone else’s house, but after we left school and went our separate ways, once a year, on this same summer day, we gathered here. We met at sunrise, and parted at sunset. At the end of each gathering, we would say, “See you next year--same time, same place.” This was our day, like a day of magic.
But the magic turned tragic. Each year that one among our group did not make it, they were taken from the physical world the following day. I kept saying it was coincidence, but each year it happened, they believed it was connected. Only I did not see the connection.
The steady wind dampened our mood as the dark clouds gathered. I stood.
“It’s time we go. The storm is coming, and the sun is setting. See you next year—same time, same place.”
She stared into the sky. “No, you won’t.” A sudden thunderclap echoed across the hills as if to emphasize what she just said. The rain started to fall, and she remained on that hilltop as I made my journey home.
I remember that day like it was only yesterday, when in fact it was exactly 366 days ago. Yesterday, I revisited that day as I sat beneath the willow tree, by myself. That was the last day I saw her, for she did not come this year. And when I woke this morning, I found out she had joined our friends in the night.
* * *
thurlowe: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night
It was a dark and stormy night. Quit messing with the windshield wipers, he said. What is it with you and windshield wipers. She kept her hand on the speed selector. I don’t like the squeaks when it gets too dry, she said. I’m trying to avoid the squeaks. This is the kind of rain that needs me to do this by hand. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Yeah well, he said. Reaching over to mess with the controls is noticeable.
He moaned. Aagh, why does Saskatchewan have to be so flat. Is an S-curve too much to ask. A hill. She looked away from the windshield for a few beats. Let's pretend we’re Columbus, she said, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world.
I think he knew the world was round, honey.
I know, I’m too tired to think of any explorers before him.
Huh.
...Okay, we’re Joe & Janet medieval explorers, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world. Tell me, Janet, how does it feel. Well, Joe, it's really dark out there and I can't even see the edge of the world. But entering a spiritual dimension, that'll be nice. I’m feeling icky from eating McDonald’s all day.
...Icky from McThighBones & Ale, you mean, fair maiden.
I stand corrected, kind sir. She adjusted the wiper controls from slow to intermittent. She gave a little smile. You know, I’m pretty sure I can’t technically be called a maiden. What you and I do at night, when we’re not on the most monotonous road trip of our lives, disqualifies me. Oh ho, he said. Well I’m not sorry about that. I know, she said, my only regret is I can’t call the unicorns out of the woods anymore. She switched back to the higher setting. Alack, she added.
He took her hand from the windshield wiper wand and held it between them, over the cupholder still protecting long-cold Starbucks takeout. Please promise me we’ll never start dressing up and going to Renaissance Faires and speaking to each other in fake olde English, he said. And I’ll let you work the windshield wipers all you want. She squeezed. All right, my love, she said. For you. I promise.
* * *
Franfriel: Not Mentioning Sex
She wasn’t like other girls. When Dave Brennan was anywhere in her vicinity his temperature rose, his skin felt electric, his mind raced seeking the right words to help him avoid sounding like an idiot. She always smiled that tantalizing smile at him in the halls. And once she had touched his shoulder when talking to him. Then one day her breast “accidentally” brushed against his arm in the lunchroom. He broke out in a sweat and thought that his heart might stop. The pounding in his chest and his ears passed but the “rising” danger subsided more slowly. Was she purposely trying to make him lose his mind? He could focus on little else and his grades were slipping.
In class, she glided by his desk in a short skirt and a halo of golden hair. A paper dropped in front of him. Flushed, he quickly folded it and stashed it in the pocket of his jeans. The thick square of paper pressing against his thigh just about drove him mad. It seemed to be radiating the potential of its message very close to home. Unable to concentrate on class, he fidgeted, fantasized and worried. Should he mention sex or not mention sex and just let things happen? Surely her message was clear. There were no declarations of love, but written in curvaceous sexy red letters, Meet me after class.
The longest forty minutes of his young life finally passed. But when the bell rang, he found that his fantasizing had left him a bit stiffly challenged. The classroom cleared but he remained seated at his desk.
From the front of the room the teacher glanced up benignly at Dave.
“I’ll see you now, Mr. Brennan.”
He stood up “firmly” and thought eagerly to himself, Well, at least I don’t need to mention the sex.
* * *
Nanohedron: Nihilistic Dada
What is past is Prelog: forewarmed, fair-armed, and harmed to the deeth, he stands force quire, breve swart on high. Bring on the Girliemen! Now we shell sea. Vladimir what eye have to say tuum, saz he: juckay are law. But he is two hawked on phoenix, and, Joan zing, culls dumb Anne for another fax. Willette ever and? Cucking the spewn, he size, and the nettle sikhs its vane, sharp Ho-Ming pidgin of knot. His blister eggsauce tad and the unbattle forgot, he sidetracked dreams now a beg Notting dream, bagger than the whirled. An other waisted deign the life, a lass, approaching mean Ng Zea Rowe. End suet goes.
* * *
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Here are the runner ups.
FJohnSharp: Sparks Couldn't Play
Sparks couldn’t play today, his hand was killing him. Damn vise. The clarinet is a two handed instrument.
He called the leader of their little cocktail band, who told him tough luck, find a replacement. He called all three of the players he knew. One was sick, one had an anniversary, one had smashed his hand in a vise too.
“No way!,” Sparks said. “Where?”
“In the basement, my workshop.”
“I did mine at work. Machine shop.”
“So yours was a metal vise then?”
“Yup.”
“Mine was a woodworking vice.”
They paused.
“Not the same thing, really,” said Sparks.
“Nope.”
So Sparks called the musician’s union who found a young man fresh out of college who was looking for work. It would cost Sparks a hundred but he was desperate. The player met him at the gig, where Sparks introduced him around, then showed him the music. The player waved him off, “I can sight-read it.” Sparks found a seat.
The player was good, too good to Sparks’ way of thinking. The leader smiled at all the players’ solos, and even changed the set list to include a piece he never let Sparks play anymore. Sparks’ applause, such that it was with an injured hand, dwindled with each piece. On the finale, he only waved his fingers joylessly in the direction of the band.
The player was packing and Sparks folded a stack of five twenties in half, and tossed it in the case. The player reached in to take it and Sparks ‘accidentally’ tripped, slamming the lid on his fingers.
“Hey!” the player screamed, massaging his injured fingers.
“Sorry,” said Sparks, in a way that sounded pre-meditated. “I slipped.”
“Right,” said the player, glaring as he quickly took apart his instrument with his good hand and his armpit. “I’m playing Vivaldi tomorrow.”
Sparks held up his hand. all bandaged and painful. “We’re playing a wedding Saturday.”
The player clicked shut his case and smirked. “Not the same thing, is it?” he said, leaving.
Sparks stood for a moment. The director came over. “Where’s the other guy?”
“He had to go.”
The leader nodded thoughtfully. “Is he playing Saturday?”
Sparks detected hopefulness in his voice. “No, I’ll be ready to go.”
The leader nodded again, slower, sadder, and walked away. Sparks wiggled his hurting fingers in the motion of an arpeggio, winced, and did it again. Then again. Then again.
* * *
Muscical_Midnight: The Gathering
We sat beneath the willow tree that stood at the top of the greenest hill. Together in silence we gazed in the distance. I glanced at her. Her eyes were bright with unspilled tears. She stared unblinking as if she were keeping watch, and the moments passed like eternity. Finally she spoke.
"We made a promise, all of us. You and I are here, but the rest…" She faltered, dropping her head downwards.
Gently, I replied, "They are with us now, as they always will be. If we think of them, and remember, they won’t ever really leave.”
“That’s not good enough. We vowed that nothing would keep us from gathering. But look what happened. They failed their promises. And now...” Silence once again filled the air.
She and I spoke of our dearest friends. While we were in school together, we were inseparable, six friends closer than family. We would gather every weekend at someone else’s house, but after we left school and went our separate ways, once a year, on this same summer day, we gathered here. We met at sunrise, and parted at sunset. At the end of each gathering, we would say, “See you next year--same time, same place.” This was our day, like a day of magic.
But the magic turned tragic. Each year that one among our group did not make it, they were taken from the physical world the following day. I kept saying it was coincidence, but each year it happened, they believed it was connected. Only I did not see the connection.
The steady wind dampened our mood as the dark clouds gathered. I stood.
“It’s time we go. The storm is coming, and the sun is setting. See you next year—same time, same place.”
She stared into the sky. “No, you won’t.” A sudden thunderclap echoed across the hills as if to emphasize what she just said. The rain started to fall, and she remained on that hilltop as I made my journey home.
I remember that day like it was only yesterday, when in fact it was exactly 366 days ago. Yesterday, I revisited that day as I sat beneath the willow tree, by myself. That was the last day I saw her, for she did not come this year. And when I woke this morning, I found out she had joined our friends in the night.
* * *
thurlowe: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night
It was a dark and stormy night. Quit messing with the windshield wipers, he said. What is it with you and windshield wipers. She kept her hand on the speed selector. I don’t like the squeaks when it gets too dry, she said. I’m trying to avoid the squeaks. This is the kind of rain that needs me to do this by hand. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Yeah well, he said. Reaching over to mess with the controls is noticeable.
He moaned. Aagh, why does Saskatchewan have to be so flat. Is an S-curve too much to ask. A hill. She looked away from the windshield for a few beats. Let's pretend we’re Columbus, she said, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world.
I think he knew the world was round, honey.
I know, I’m too tired to think of any explorers before him.
Huh.
...Okay, we’re Joe & Janet medieval explorers, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world. Tell me, Janet, how does it feel. Well, Joe, it's really dark out there and I can't even see the edge of the world. But entering a spiritual dimension, that'll be nice. I’m feeling icky from eating McDonald’s all day.
...Icky from McThighBones & Ale, you mean, fair maiden.
I stand corrected, kind sir. She adjusted the wiper controls from slow to intermittent. She gave a little smile. You know, I’m pretty sure I can’t technically be called a maiden. What you and I do at night, when we’re not on the most monotonous road trip of our lives, disqualifies me. Oh ho, he said. Well I’m not sorry about that. I know, she said, my only regret is I can’t call the unicorns out of the woods anymore. She switched back to the higher setting. Alack, she added.
He took her hand from the windshield wiper wand and held it between them, over the cupholder still protecting long-cold Starbucks takeout. Please promise me we’ll never start dressing up and going to Renaissance Faires and speaking to each other in fake olde English, he said. And I’ll let you work the windshield wipers all you want. She squeezed. All right, my love, she said. For you. I promise.
* * *
Franfriel: Not Mentioning Sex
She wasn’t like other girls. When Dave Brennan was anywhere in her vicinity his temperature rose, his skin felt electric, his mind raced seeking the right words to help him avoid sounding like an idiot. She always smiled that tantalizing smile at him in the halls. And once she had touched his shoulder when talking to him. Then one day her breast “accidentally” brushed against his arm in the lunchroom. He broke out in a sweat and thought that his heart might stop. The pounding in his chest and his ears passed but the “rising” danger subsided more slowly. Was she purposely trying to make him lose his mind? He could focus on little else and his grades were slipping.
In class, she glided by his desk in a short skirt and a halo of golden hair. A paper dropped in front of him. Flushed, he quickly folded it and stashed it in the pocket of his jeans. The thick square of paper pressing against his thigh just about drove him mad. It seemed to be radiating the potential of its message very close to home. Unable to concentrate on class, he fidgeted, fantasized and worried. Should he mention sex or not mention sex and just let things happen? Surely her message was clear. There were no declarations of love, but written in curvaceous sexy red letters, Meet me after class.
The longest forty minutes of his young life finally passed. But when the bell rang, he found that his fantasizing had left him a bit stiffly challenged. The classroom cleared but he remained seated at his desk.
From the front of the room the teacher glanced up benignly at Dave.
“I’ll see you now, Mr. Brennan.”
He stood up “firmly” and thought eagerly to himself, Well, at least I don’t need to mention the sex.
* * *
Nanohedron: Nihilistic Dada
What is past is Prelog: forewarmed, fair-armed, and harmed to the deeth, he stands force quire, breve swart on high. Bring on the Girliemen! Now we shell sea. Vladimir what eye have to say tuum, saz he: juckay are law. But he is two hawked on phoenix, and, Joan zing, culls dumb Anne for another fax. Willette ever and? Cucking the spewn, he size, and the nettle sikhs its vane, sharp Ho-Ming pidgin of knot. His blister eggsauce tad and the unbattle forgot, he sidetracked dreams now a beg Notting dream, bagger than the whirled. An other waisted deign the life, a lass, approaching mean Ng Zea Rowe. End suet goes.
* * *
Last edited by Bloomfield on Thu Aug 19, 2004 2:57 pm, edited 3 times in total.
/Bloomfield
-
Bloomfield
- Posts: 8225
- Joined: Mon Oct 15, 2001 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Location: Location: Location:
Here are some Honorable Mentions: These Entries and "Entries" stood out for some reason or other and deserved to be re-read.
BEST FIRST ENTRY
Blackhawk: The Elevator
The elevator door opened and the two men stepped on board. It was already crowded, so there was only room for them to turn around and face the doors as they closed.
The passengers were quiet as the lift rose. As they approached the next floor, one of the men said to the other, "She said her husband would be gone all afternoon."
The doors opened, but no one got on or off. They closed again and the lift headed upward. At the next floor the doors opened again. The two men hesitated, then as they stepped out, the first man said, "I had no idea the gun was loaded." The doors closed again and the elevator continued its ascent.
The end.
* * *
FUNNIEST ENTRY
cskinner: A Non-Fiction, Educational Entry
I am so often asked, “What does a textbook editor do exactly?” that I thought I would write up a brief explanation of what has been my life’s work, and a rewarding career it’s been, too. I work mainly in language arts and social studies, but I can safely say that the tricks of the trade cross all disciplines, guaranteeing that students in every class and at every grade level will reap the benefits of the same high quality instructional materials.
Perhaps I should begin with readability. Textbook editors spend a good portion of their time and effort on lowering the readability level of an author’s manuscript. Don’t let the technical terms put you off. The concept is simple: you take a well-written, highly readable manuscript and edit it in such a way that it becomes much less readable, thereby lowering the readability level. This mandate stems from the seminal work of Lev Vygotzky: students must be working in their zone of proximal development, not their zone of actual development. In short, if you give students materials they can already read fluently, how are they ever going to improve? Artificial, super-condensed, and choppy prose is the only medicine: if students can struggle their way through textbooks, there will be nothing they cannot read as adults, including business memos and tax-filing instructions. Our goal, after all, is to nurture lifelong readers.
Nearly as important as lowering readability is stripping away all traces of individuality and personality from the people presented in the books. This standard is especially important in history. Do we really want our children to know that Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton were two different men? Or that Betsy Ross and Rosa Parks were two different women? Of course not. Experience has taught us that children learn better when they learn thematically: presidents are presidents (with the occasional Secretary of the Treasury or General thrown in), and women are women. Students have all the rest of their lives to learn the fine points, but without this firm foundation, how will they ever develop the self-esteem to know that they belong in this great nation of ours, that there is a place for them?
Finally, there’s the all important task of copy fitting. Publishing is unforgiving in its line and word counts. By the time a well-edited manuscript goes into production, it has been precisely honed and calculated to f
* * *
BEST OVERLENGHT "ENTRY"
Walden: The Barren Datu of Bga Bga
A datu of Bga Bga was without child, and in despair. He called upon the elders of the barangay to discern the seasons. After much prayer, and consultation of the astrological records, they came to him.
"Sir, your answer has come to us. You must visit Leleia, an elderly woman who lives by the side of the great Mountain. Take five male dogs, and eight baskets of lansones."
The datu and his party waited till the month was right for such things, and cautiously embarked on the path to the great Mountain. They loaded great treasures upon thirteen carabao, and as instructed, took five of the finest dogs, and eight large baskets of lansones, as presents for the woman who would bring fertility to the ruler's houshold.
As they approached the hut of the old woman, she came out to greet the procession. "Ah! Heaven be praised! You have come at the right time!"
The datu and the elders entered the house silently, while the radiant-faced woman doted, and supped on the lansones, continually offering them to the datu and his party, who consistently, but politely declined.
As time wore on, Leleia addressed the datu, "Is this your wife?"
"Yes, she is my wife," replied the datu.
"She is a very strong woman," said Leleia. "She ought to have borne you a fine progeny. The problem is the water. She must not see rain or bathe."
"Ever?" inquired the wife of the datu.
"You may bathe a month after the child is born," replied Leleia, and then, unexpectedly, punched her, hard, in the stomach.
Leleia moved her arm around, with her hand inside the woman's stomach, and then pulled her hand out, holding a large stone, which appeared to be grey limestone.
"This rock was the problem," Leleia said matter-of-factly to her stunned guests. "It is a water deposit. It was obstructing the womb, so that no child could form."
"Will she be okay?" the datu questioned nervously, as he hovered over his seemingly-lifeless beloved.
"She is fine," said Leleia, in an odd tone of voice. "She is resting."
Leleia went outside and squeezed some kalamansi into a basin, and some juice from the lansones, and brought it in, and cleaned up the wounds, saying, "Wrap her in white cloths, and have her home before nightfall. I cannot stress that enough. It must be before nightfall."
Months passed, and though she seemed to be in good health, the datu found that his wife never really came to full consciousness. She just was able to be fed soup and other liquids.
Though only semiconscious, she was clearly becoming great, with child.
As the ninth month drew nigh, Leleia was seen approaching the datu's house. "The time is here," she said.
"Time for what?" Said the datu suspiciously.
"Time to deliver the child."
"But Nine months aren't up. The baby will be premature." Said the datu. "Now go away."
"Have you no hospitality for the woman who gave you a progeny?" Said Leleia, as her face began to twist into a strange sort of not-quite smile.
She opened her mouth, and revealed a mouth full of sharp dog-like teeth! Out came her long inhuman tongue and went toward the woman. Clearly Leleia was no woman at all, but an aswang.
Motherly instinct rose up within the comatose woman and she rose up and began to scream, and lunged at the aswang. "GET WATER!!!!!!"
The household servants immediately came forth with pails of water and began dumping them on the aswang, who turned into full dog form and ran outside yelping.
As dogs are apt to do, she shook off the water and ran into the distance, and, though in her haste she was unaware, was seen by the datu's wife. Leleia stood on her hind feet, and the top of her body disconnected from the bottom half, which remained, as if a stump of wood, while the top half flew off, in the form of a hawk, into the night.
"What do we do, in such cases?" the datu inquired of his advisors.
"Turn the stump around, sir," was the response.
"What?!"
"Turn the stump around, she will be disoriented and never be able to re-connect."
I don't much believe in astrology, and am skeptical of stories of aswangs and other creatures, but, on dark nights, in the isles, it is said you can hear the cry of a large bird going "click click click!" Ever searching for the child that got away.
EDITED TO ADD THE FOLLOWING NOTES:
Bga Bga- pronounced B'nga B'nga.
Barangay- a Philippine village.
Datu- a chieftain or lord in traditional Filipino society.
Aswang- pronounced ä-swäng'- a shape-shifting fiend in Filipino folklore.
Kalamansi or calamansi- a citrus fruit similar to a lemon or lime. Unpeeled, it superficially resembles a key lime, but the fruit inside is not green. It should be noted that aswangs may be thought to be averse to these.
Lansone- pronounced län-so'-ne- a small beige fruit.
Story loosely based on Philippine lore.
* * *
SECOND-BEST OVERLENGHT "ENTRY"
Nanohedron: Swimming and Voting
I never really fit in, not even in what was by seeming default my "circle". I wasn't handsome, burly, talented, a wit, an achiever, moneyed, or a Romeo, but all in all it didn't matter so much. I was me, and it was somehow enough. No one else could properly do the job of being me, and instinctively I knew that. It was all I had, so it had to do, and therefore it was enough. I was excellent at being me.
What I could say for myself was that I was a swimmer. Couldn't hack the football --not burly, remember?-- but I could swim. Sort of. Actually, I was a backstroker. That was my strongest form. I didn't really care for competition; I was a swimmer because that was what my siblings and I did, and our parents encouraged it. But I was secretly pleased with my ability in the backstroke; I had that, if nothing else. Crawl, breaststroke, and butterfly (in descending order, due to a dispropensity --if that is even a word-- toward pectoral muscles): my coaches urged me to develop myself in them to our mutual frustration and eventual parting of ways. But left alone, I would backstroke for hours if I could.
I decided that I could maybe be a lifeguard at the Y, and went to Water Safety Instructor training camp for it. I was up against the better, the stronger, the sexier, as ever. I was used to that, and had to work hard to succeed. At 129 lbs it wasn't a picnic "saving" a near 200 lb hulker from the chop of Storm Lake, but I kept at it, and doggedly went on to earn my WSI certification even if I wasn't star material. Not everybody could say they had that; it was enough.
Now to cap off and celebrate the end of our training (did anyone fail? I only now realise that I don't know), we held a swim meet. Naturally, I mainly entered the backstroking events: no point in flirting with your weak points when it's crunch time, after all. I didn't outright suck, but at the solid-honest-to-God-whatever-meter-it-was backstroke event, I just FLEW, passing even one of my coaches by at least a half length or better. As I was helped out of the pool, I saw the opprobium in their eyes, and heard the mutters chiding me for what I ought not to have done, as if I ought to have known. That's when I realised in full that even in the little things, the race goes not to the swift, but to the popular. I still don't care.
With that in mind, don't forget to vote, kids!
* * *
MOST TOUCHING ENTRY
Caniadafallon: She Danced in the Light
The universe didn’t operate in quite the same way for her as it did for the rest of us. Life for her was a chaotic ride into the cosmos…mundane was simply not in her vocabulary. Creativity ran rampant through her blood, flowing from her hands in the form of art and words; her imagination going places that we could only partially comprehend. She lived her life dancing to a beat known only to her, yet the beat planted a spark of Awen in all that passed through her life.
A glass of Guinness raised in toast, a wild journey to beyond has been undertaken…
To you, S., for living your life as only you knew how.
(in honor of my friend and sister, who journeyed beyond the veil Aug. 1, 2004)
* * *
MOST CONVINCING SUCK-FAWN-LICK-GROVEL
(ALSO: WORST POETRY)
Boomerang: I'll Even Write Poetry
Who dares to critisize?,
who has the ordasity to judge annother souls writing?
did it not come from the heart?
were not the words a gift from its conceptor?
words are words, but in combination they are music,
a flowing assortment of surprises, rolls and crans,
to inspire the mind and elate the soul,
You would dare judge?
would you tear to pieces the undiscovered literary genious, grading it like sausage at a steak cook off?
how dare ye,
do ye not know the worlds most complex system of electrons, neutrons and neurons ordered the creation of inspiration.....
how do you live with yourself,
knowing you have the power,
you and you alone,
is it good? or is it not?,
come on we are waiting.....
judge us as you will,
but know this.....
words are created out of silence,
yet they are loud and strong,
an eternal part of annothers spirit,
the words will live yet its creator will not,
unless they are not read...
then ........
nothing.........
My literary skills should never be taken seriously,
and i really really really, (suck fawn lick grovel)want a bloomie whistle
BEST FIRST ENTRY
Blackhawk: The Elevator
The elevator door opened and the two men stepped on board. It was already crowded, so there was only room for them to turn around and face the doors as they closed.
The passengers were quiet as the lift rose. As they approached the next floor, one of the men said to the other, "She said her husband would be gone all afternoon."
The doors opened, but no one got on or off. They closed again and the lift headed upward. At the next floor the doors opened again. The two men hesitated, then as they stepped out, the first man said, "I had no idea the gun was loaded." The doors closed again and the elevator continued its ascent.
The end.
* * *
FUNNIEST ENTRY
cskinner: A Non-Fiction, Educational Entry
I am so often asked, “What does a textbook editor do exactly?” that I thought I would write up a brief explanation of what has been my life’s work, and a rewarding career it’s been, too. I work mainly in language arts and social studies, but I can safely say that the tricks of the trade cross all disciplines, guaranteeing that students in every class and at every grade level will reap the benefits of the same high quality instructional materials.
Perhaps I should begin with readability. Textbook editors spend a good portion of their time and effort on lowering the readability level of an author’s manuscript. Don’t let the technical terms put you off. The concept is simple: you take a well-written, highly readable manuscript and edit it in such a way that it becomes much less readable, thereby lowering the readability level. This mandate stems from the seminal work of Lev Vygotzky: students must be working in their zone of proximal development, not their zone of actual development. In short, if you give students materials they can already read fluently, how are they ever going to improve? Artificial, super-condensed, and choppy prose is the only medicine: if students can struggle their way through textbooks, there will be nothing they cannot read as adults, including business memos and tax-filing instructions. Our goal, after all, is to nurture lifelong readers.
Nearly as important as lowering readability is stripping away all traces of individuality and personality from the people presented in the books. This standard is especially important in history. Do we really want our children to know that Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton were two different men? Or that Betsy Ross and Rosa Parks were two different women? Of course not. Experience has taught us that children learn better when they learn thematically: presidents are presidents (with the occasional Secretary of the Treasury or General thrown in), and women are women. Students have all the rest of their lives to learn the fine points, but without this firm foundation, how will they ever develop the self-esteem to know that they belong in this great nation of ours, that there is a place for them?
Finally, there’s the all important task of copy fitting. Publishing is unforgiving in its line and word counts. By the time a well-edited manuscript goes into production, it has been precisely honed and calculated to f
* * *
BEST OVERLENGHT "ENTRY"
Walden: The Barren Datu of Bga Bga
A datu of Bga Bga was without child, and in despair. He called upon the elders of the barangay to discern the seasons. After much prayer, and consultation of the astrological records, they came to him.
"Sir, your answer has come to us. You must visit Leleia, an elderly woman who lives by the side of the great Mountain. Take five male dogs, and eight baskets of lansones."
The datu and his party waited till the month was right for such things, and cautiously embarked on the path to the great Mountain. They loaded great treasures upon thirteen carabao, and as instructed, took five of the finest dogs, and eight large baskets of lansones, as presents for the woman who would bring fertility to the ruler's houshold.
As they approached the hut of the old woman, she came out to greet the procession. "Ah! Heaven be praised! You have come at the right time!"
The datu and the elders entered the house silently, while the radiant-faced woman doted, and supped on the lansones, continually offering them to the datu and his party, who consistently, but politely declined.
As time wore on, Leleia addressed the datu, "Is this your wife?"
"Yes, she is my wife," replied the datu.
"She is a very strong woman," said Leleia. "She ought to have borne you a fine progeny. The problem is the water. She must not see rain or bathe."
"Ever?" inquired the wife of the datu.
"You may bathe a month after the child is born," replied Leleia, and then, unexpectedly, punched her, hard, in the stomach.
Leleia moved her arm around, with her hand inside the woman's stomach, and then pulled her hand out, holding a large stone, which appeared to be grey limestone.
"This rock was the problem," Leleia said matter-of-factly to her stunned guests. "It is a water deposit. It was obstructing the womb, so that no child could form."
"Will she be okay?" the datu questioned nervously, as he hovered over his seemingly-lifeless beloved.
"She is fine," said Leleia, in an odd tone of voice. "She is resting."
Leleia went outside and squeezed some kalamansi into a basin, and some juice from the lansones, and brought it in, and cleaned up the wounds, saying, "Wrap her in white cloths, and have her home before nightfall. I cannot stress that enough. It must be before nightfall."
Months passed, and though she seemed to be in good health, the datu found that his wife never really came to full consciousness. She just was able to be fed soup and other liquids.
Though only semiconscious, she was clearly becoming great, with child.
As the ninth month drew nigh, Leleia was seen approaching the datu's house. "The time is here," she said.
"Time for what?" Said the datu suspiciously.
"Time to deliver the child."
"But Nine months aren't up. The baby will be premature." Said the datu. "Now go away."
"Have you no hospitality for the woman who gave you a progeny?" Said Leleia, as her face began to twist into a strange sort of not-quite smile.
She opened her mouth, and revealed a mouth full of sharp dog-like teeth! Out came her long inhuman tongue and went toward the woman. Clearly Leleia was no woman at all, but an aswang.
Motherly instinct rose up within the comatose woman and she rose up and began to scream, and lunged at the aswang. "GET WATER!!!!!!"
The household servants immediately came forth with pails of water and began dumping them on the aswang, who turned into full dog form and ran outside yelping.
As dogs are apt to do, she shook off the water and ran into the distance, and, though in her haste she was unaware, was seen by the datu's wife. Leleia stood on her hind feet, and the top of her body disconnected from the bottom half, which remained, as if a stump of wood, while the top half flew off, in the form of a hawk, into the night.
"What do we do, in such cases?" the datu inquired of his advisors.
"Turn the stump around, sir," was the response.
"What?!"
"Turn the stump around, she will be disoriented and never be able to re-connect."
I don't much believe in astrology, and am skeptical of stories of aswangs and other creatures, but, on dark nights, in the isles, it is said you can hear the cry of a large bird going "click click click!" Ever searching for the child that got away.
EDITED TO ADD THE FOLLOWING NOTES:
Bga Bga- pronounced B'nga B'nga.
Barangay- a Philippine village.
Datu- a chieftain or lord in traditional Filipino society.
Aswang- pronounced ä-swäng'- a shape-shifting fiend in Filipino folklore.
Kalamansi or calamansi- a citrus fruit similar to a lemon or lime. Unpeeled, it superficially resembles a key lime, but the fruit inside is not green. It should be noted that aswangs may be thought to be averse to these.
Lansone- pronounced län-so'-ne- a small beige fruit.
Story loosely based on Philippine lore.
* * *
SECOND-BEST OVERLENGHT "ENTRY"
Nanohedron: Swimming and Voting
I never really fit in, not even in what was by seeming default my "circle". I wasn't handsome, burly, talented, a wit, an achiever, moneyed, or a Romeo, but all in all it didn't matter so much. I was me, and it was somehow enough. No one else could properly do the job of being me, and instinctively I knew that. It was all I had, so it had to do, and therefore it was enough. I was excellent at being me.
What I could say for myself was that I was a swimmer. Couldn't hack the football --not burly, remember?-- but I could swim. Sort of. Actually, I was a backstroker. That was my strongest form. I didn't really care for competition; I was a swimmer because that was what my siblings and I did, and our parents encouraged it. But I was secretly pleased with my ability in the backstroke; I had that, if nothing else. Crawl, breaststroke, and butterfly (in descending order, due to a dispropensity --if that is even a word-- toward pectoral muscles): my coaches urged me to develop myself in them to our mutual frustration and eventual parting of ways. But left alone, I would backstroke for hours if I could.
I decided that I could maybe be a lifeguard at the Y, and went to Water Safety Instructor training camp for it. I was up against the better, the stronger, the sexier, as ever. I was used to that, and had to work hard to succeed. At 129 lbs it wasn't a picnic "saving" a near 200 lb hulker from the chop of Storm Lake, but I kept at it, and doggedly went on to earn my WSI certification even if I wasn't star material. Not everybody could say they had that; it was enough.
Now to cap off and celebrate the end of our training (did anyone fail? I only now realise that I don't know), we held a swim meet. Naturally, I mainly entered the backstroking events: no point in flirting with your weak points when it's crunch time, after all. I didn't outright suck, but at the solid-honest-to-God-whatever-meter-it-was backstroke event, I just FLEW, passing even one of my coaches by at least a half length or better. As I was helped out of the pool, I saw the opprobium in their eyes, and heard the mutters chiding me for what I ought not to have done, as if I ought to have known. That's when I realised in full that even in the little things, the race goes not to the swift, but to the popular. I still don't care.
With that in mind, don't forget to vote, kids!
* * *
MOST TOUCHING ENTRY
Caniadafallon: She Danced in the Light
The universe didn’t operate in quite the same way for her as it did for the rest of us. Life for her was a chaotic ride into the cosmos…mundane was simply not in her vocabulary. Creativity ran rampant through her blood, flowing from her hands in the form of art and words; her imagination going places that we could only partially comprehend. She lived her life dancing to a beat known only to her, yet the beat planted a spark of Awen in all that passed through her life.
A glass of Guinness raised in toast, a wild journey to beyond has been undertaken…
To you, S., for living your life as only you knew how.
(in honor of my friend and sister, who journeyed beyond the veil Aug. 1, 2004)
* * *
MOST CONVINCING SUCK-FAWN-LICK-GROVEL
(ALSO: WORST POETRY)
Boomerang: I'll Even Write Poetry
Who dares to critisize?,
who has the ordasity to judge annother souls writing?
did it not come from the heart?
were not the words a gift from its conceptor?
words are words, but in combination they are music,
a flowing assortment of surprises, rolls and crans,
to inspire the mind and elate the soul,
You would dare judge?
would you tear to pieces the undiscovered literary genious, grading it like sausage at a steak cook off?
how dare ye,
do ye not know the worlds most complex system of electrons, neutrons and neurons ordered the creation of inspiration.....
how do you live with yourself,
knowing you have the power,
you and you alone,
is it good? or is it not?,
come on we are waiting.....
judge us as you will,
but know this.....
words are created out of silence,
yet they are loud and strong,
an eternal part of annothers spirit,
the words will live yet its creator will not,
unless they are not read...
then ........
nothing.........
My literary skills should never be taken seriously,
and i really really really, (suck fawn lick grovel)want a bloomie whistle
Last edited by Bloomfield on Thu Aug 19, 2004 2:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.
/Bloomfield
-
Bloomfield
- Posts: 8225
- Joined: Mon Oct 15, 2001 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Location: Location: Location:
-
susnfx
- Posts: 4245
- Joined: Sat Mar 09, 2002 6:00 pm
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- Location: Salt Lake City
You like me! You like me! 
I'm so thrilled and honored to be nominated in the same company with all these other great folks. I'd like to thank my agent, my whistle instructor, my gullible younger brother, my incredibly creative older brother and friends, my third grade art teacher, my second husband, and, last but not least, Bloomfield, who has proven that a green vegetable can be a source for more than vitamins. 
Susan
I'm so thrilled and honored to be nominated in the same company with all these other great folks. I'd like to thank my agent, my whistle instructor, my gullible younger brother, my incredibly creative older brother and friends, my third grade art teacher, my second husband, and, last but not least, Bloomfield, who has proven that a green vegetable can be a source for more than vitamins. Susan
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scottielvr
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- Location: NC mountains
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glauber
- Posts: 4967
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- Location: I'm from Brazil, living in the Chicago area (USA)
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Damn! this settles it, i have no talent! Nothing that compares to this great stuff. I read all of them now, but the one i had read first was still the one i liked the best. So i voted for it.
On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog!
--Wellsprings--
--Wellsprings--
This was a fantastic idea, Bloomfield. I take my hat off to you for coming up with a cool idea to keep C&F fresh. I think we all got to see interesting new sides to our fellow C&Fers. Congrats to whoever wins!
Nothing is so firmly believed as that which is least known--Montaigne
We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark. The real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light
--Plato
We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark. The real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light
--Plato
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Nanohedron
- Moderatorer
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- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
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cowtime
- Posts: 5280
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- Location: Appalachian Mts.
I am amazed at the talent you folks exibit. All of the entries were great reads.
My vote had to go for FJohnSharp's" At the Wedding".
I have rarely read anything anywhere that spoke so much real truth.
And I do mean ANYWHERE!!
My vote had to go for FJohnSharp's" At the Wedding".
I have rarely read anything anywhere that spoke so much real truth.
And I do mean ANYWHERE!!
"Let low-country intruder approach a cove
And eyes as gray as icicle fangs measure stranger
For size, honesty, and intent."
John Foster West
And eyes as gray as icicle fangs measure stranger
For size, honesty, and intent."
John Foster West
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Walden
- Chiffmaster General
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- Location: Coal mining country in the Eastern Oklahoma hills.
- Contact:
On behalf of overlenght people everywhere, I am honored and humbled to be disqualified in such a resplendently wonderful way.Bloomfield wrote:Here are some Honorable Mentions: These Entries and "Entries" stood out for some reason or other and deserved to be re-read....BEST OVERLENGHT "ENTRY"
Walden: The Barren Datu of Bga Bga
I'd like to thank my mother and father, who have been a tremendous encouragement in so many ways.
I'd also like to thank my sister, who has been one of the few constants in my life, and without whose friendship I'd be a much poorer person, emotionally.
I wish to mention my grandfather and grandmother on the Walden side of the family, and, my grandmother and great grandmother on my mother's side, who not only are great company, but have so many experiences and wisdom gleaned through the years.
I'd like to thank my second grade teacher, Ann, who was more patient than my first grade teacher, Mary. I'd like to thank my first grade teacher, Mary, who taught me how to read, a treasure I have always held dear.
I wish to thank my third grade teacher, Doretta, who taught me to write in, and read cursive handwriting, despite my weeks of ilness, with influenza, followed by pox, followed by another round of influenza, and the depression caused thereby.
I'd like to thank my primary class Sunday School teacher, Lucy, with whom I carried on many a conversation, in a give-and-take learning experience.
Also, I'd like to mention my aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, great-great aunts, and sundry cousins who have served to enrich my life, and provided experience and fodder for the creative processes.
I'd like to thank my many friends and acquaintances in southern Mindanao, without which intercultural experience I might seem even more dull.
I'd like to thank my secondary school teachers, and those postsecondary instructors whose encouragement and critiques helped me to realize I just don't use enough dialogue in my writing.
I'd like to thank the folks on Chiff and Fipple, of course Rich and Dale, but also the many friends and acquaintances I have met here, and last but not least, Bloomfield for staging this writing contest.