NEW! .4K Writing Competition: A Season to Be Brief

[Fopah]

I suppose I shal come out of my troll bridge.

Lost

Quinton glanced at his map. He did not want to make it seem as if he needed to look at it, but he did. Quinton was too proud to admit that he couldn’t find the old camping spot his father took him to every year until he was 18. He passed a large oak, Quinton recognized the “Old Man” as his father called it. Unfortunately his girlfriend in the car recognized it to, and she had never been up these mountains.
Quinton was the younger of two children, his older brother was in the military and was only given enough leave for the funeral, then had to return. So the duty of taking their father’s body up the mountain rested upon Quinton. There father made his boys promise to be burry him near the lake where they had buried their mother.
Quinton found the old road that led to the hunting cabin where they used to lodge. He must have passed it four times already; it was over grown and some branches hung down from a large willow beside the entrance concealing the path. The leaves brushed the tops of the precession as they followed Quinton’s car into the long dirt road.
“Told you we weren’t lost.” He said.
“’bout time” mumbled his girlfriend.
“huh?”
“nothing” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

The hole had already been dug when they arrived. The gravediggers had been waiting for a couple of hours and were about ready to leave. Quinton had to pay them a little extra to stay longer and fill the pit. A ceremony had already been held in town, and there was not much for anyone to say; regardless the pastor said a few words, and prayed. Quinton did not hear the words the man said. A tear traveled down Quinton’s cheek as he thought about his father in the ground. The pastor no sooner said “amen” then the diggers were already filling in the hole. They made quick work of it. And placed the headstone that had been carved the day before.
It Read “Here lay a man,
Who loved his wife,
Who loved his kids,
And loved his Lord
And may those who remember him be blessed”

Quinton wondered what he had done with his life, and if he would be remembered when he passed. But he knew the answer.

[susnfx]

Nice story, Fopah. And unusual - I mean right off the bat you admit Quinton had a map!
Hope more of the lurkers are going to post.

Susan

[FJohnSharp]

Hope more of the lurkers are going to post.

Susan

I think this is the very best thing about the contest. That, and the writing.

[Bloomfield]

Maybe it's too late for this, or maybe this just isn't a good idea to begin with, but might I make a suggestion on the judging? To keep this a writing contest and not a personality contest, would it be possible to perhaps submit the entries by PM to either Bloomfield or Dale, and then when the entry is posted for all to read it would be presented annonymously? That way only Bloomfield or Dale would know who the real authors are and it would prevent favoritism by the Chiffers at large when they vote. I'm not saying that the people here would consciously do such a thing, but I remember a study where essays were mixed up and given to English teachers with the incorrect student names on the papers. Some of the writing grades reflected how the teacher felt about some of the students rather than how well an essay was really written. It showed that some teachers were swayed by the name at the top of the paper over the paper's content.

I've given this some thought. It's a bit tricky because this contest isn't the sort of thing that is big enough to warrant a lot of procedure. Also, it seems to me ultimately it much more about community-building and delight in good writing and in sharing, then it is about winning. Making all the entries anonymous would reduce it to a competition level only. On the other hand, I understand that it isn't fun if it isn't fair, and that it can be intimidating to be surrounded by people with thousands of posts (*cough) who seem to have known each other for years.

So, I'd like to offer everyone the option of submitting their stories to me, and I'll post them anonymously. I think that will work because anonymity will be available both to the familiar regulars who don't want their story associated with their posting past and to the newcomers or relative newcomers.

I hope this will work for everyone. Please let me know if you have thoughts on how to run this competition.

[susnfx]

NOW you tell me. Well, since I'm counting on the judges being swayed by my unbelievable and well-known popularity on the board :roll: , it's just as well that I posted my story pre-rule change.

Susan

[Bloomfield]

NOW you tell me. Well, since I'm counting on the judges being swayed by my unbelievable and well-known popularity on the board :roll: , it's just as well that I posted my story pre-rule change.

Susan

Don't stop sending your bribes now. I really liked the lace doilies.

[susnfx]

Oh, you liked them? What about the purple knitted whistle cover? I really liked that one, but wondered about fuzz in the fipple.

Susan

[Bloomfield]

Oh, you liked them? What about the purple knitted whistle cover? I really liked that one, but wondered about fuzz in the fipple.

Susan

I, um, gave that one to Dale.

[Will O'B]

Ok . . . so I can't count.


Shrink Wrapped

Stanley S. Shrink looked up from behind his pristine white desk at the lank figure standing before him, hidden by his long coat and the hat pulled low across his face.

"Well, what brings you to my office?" asked Doctor Shrink in his best professional voice.

For a long moment the figure peered out silently from beneath the oversized hat, then replied, "Part of my problem is that I have difficulty relating to people." The doctor nodded sympathetically. "But I suppose you could say that my real problems stem from my being a hat rack."

Wildly scribbling on a pad before him, the doctor muttered, "And how long have you had this feeling . . .of being different from other people, so to speak?"

The gaunt body heaved a sigh, and controlling his monotonous voice said, "Actually, it all started back when I was quite young. I was the only kid on the block who after spending a day at the beach would begin to rust."

"I see," said the doctor, giving his client a glance of professional reassurance. "Do you go out with girls?"

"I went out with a girl once in college, but our relationship never went anywhere. She jilted me because I wasn't fast enough for her."

After a bit of thought, the doctor asked, "Tell me about your family. What was your father like?"

"Uh, I don't remember that much about him. He served in the Army Air Corps back during the war and never returned. I was only knee high to a paper clip at the time."

The doctor layed his pencil on his desk, and folded his hands neatly across the pad. "Really? Was he a pilot?"

"No. Not quite. He was a propeller. Not a glamorous job, perhaps, but somebody had to do it."

Doctor Shrink wearily retrieved his pencil then continued his chicken scratch. The scribblings on his note pad were beginning to seem as bizarre as this skinny fellow looming over his pristine desk. This had to be a prank that Beerbaum was playing on him again. Ever since he showed-up Beerbaum at the Psychiatric Department's Annual Chilli Cook-Off And Cake Bake the man had been nothing but an insufferable cad. "Curse you, Henry Beerbaum!" he thought, while rubbing his left frontal lobe with his free hand. These headaches were getting worse and that new lump just under his skin was still tender. He winced as he looked for the desk drawer that contained his big bottle of aspirin. "That's odd," he muttered. It seemed the drawer was hidden by pristine sheets that hung down to the tile floor. He pushed the pain from his mind. Beerbaum and the headache would have to wait.

Now where was he? Ah, yes. He had been interviewing some patient who had delussions of being a hat rack and whose father served in the war as a propeller. So what else was new? He supressed the urge to ask about the man's mother . . . he'd probably discover she was a goodwill box.

Deciding it best to end their session early, Doctor Shrink relaxed the grip on his pencil and suggested, "Well, Mister Rack, I wonder if we might continue with this discussion tomorrow?"

The hat and coat merely stared.

"Mister Rack . . .," the doctor began, but his thoughts were interrupted by the cold clicking of footsteps coming towards him from down the hall. Doctor Shrink wrapped himself tightly in his long gown and quickly crawled onto his pristine desk, then burried his face into the pillow that materialized from nowhere. He knew that if he pretended to be asleep then Beerbaum and his friends would leave him alone. He would have to get even with the good doctor some other time.

[emmline]

Will, that's a cute but oddly disturbing tale. It's also, 200+ words above maximum word allowance. Some nice entries served as window dressing last time because of length-ineligibility.

[Nanohedron]

Who you callin' a window-dresser?

[emmline]

Who you callin' a window-dresser?

Was your story too long Nano?
(Rhoda, on the MTMoore show, was a window-dresser...not a bad recommendation.)

[susnfx]

Will, that's a cute but oddly disturbing tale.

Look who's talking!

[emmline]

Will, that's a cute but oddly disturbing tale.

Look who's talking!

as they say, it takes one...

[FJohnSharp]

I have a story that I started last competition but didn't finish in time. It turned out to be 750 words so I can't use it. It's about a piper, too.

I may post it anyway, for fun.