May 2009
Challenge:
In May, award-winning, multi-published author, Debra Mullins was our guest judge. The challenge was to submit the first three pages of your unpublished manuscript. In addition to the cash prize, Kathy Lloyd will receive a critique of her first chapter by Ms. Mullins.
After much consideration, we decided not to publish the first three pages, but rather a blurb of the whole book. The reason is to protect Ms. Lloyd in her quest for an agent/publisher. We wish her the best of luck! The first three pages were fantastic!
Winning Entry:
Kathy Lloyd sent this winning entry:
Violet Get the Blues – Urban Fantasy with Romantic Elements
Following a lead on missing elemental witches’, shape-shifting P.I. Violet Snow ends up naked in the Angel City SPCA, flashing hunky Veterinarian, Shaun Green. Naturally, he offers to buy her breakfast.
Violet’s bad karma continues. After a snitches call, she breaks into a warehouse triggering a magical trap that changes her into what she fears most, a furry rabbit. As a child, Violet innocently shifted to play with pet store rabbits and then barely escaped being bunny-banged by several amorous males.
Polly White, Violet’s kitchen-witch aunt concocts a reversal potion. While still furry, Shaun calls Violet for a date, she accepts—crossing her floppy ears. Within twenty-four hours, she’s two-legged again. But--not soon enough. Violet is fired by her client. Now, she can’t pay her five-figure property taxes or feed her retired magical familiars.
Bad karma strikes again.
Samantha, Shaun’s teen water-witch niece is abducted by demon brothers, Jake and Elwood. To follow them, Violet is forced to reveal her animal nature to Shaun. Turning into a white owl, she tracks the SUV until she’s snatched by a larger bird of prey. She escapes with only a broken wing, but it is too late.
Shaun and his uncle, Hal, research dark spells involving elemental witches-- if the witches are sacrificed at midnight, California will follow Atlantis, granting the executioner unlimited power. Violet’s mother, Teresa, and a teen wind-witch are kidnapped by the demon brothers.
Upon finding the missing witches Violet goes undercover as a rabbit in a demon poker game. She’s discovered by the demons’ human boss, Evan Clark, Teresa’s ex-fiancé. While Violets imprisoned the city erupts into madness. Hells-Angel spirits guard Clark’s mansion while Indian spirits attack Shaun, Hal and Polly at the cabin. Shaun sports a kitchen-towel loin cloth, infiltrates the war-whooping natives then releases Violet’s familiars. The over-powered Indians run into the nearest tunnel of bright light.
Teresa and Violet escape and lead the witches’ into an abandoned jazz club. Clark and his supernatural thugs are waiting for them--all except Elwood. He arrives at the cabin to help. He and his brother are tired of Clark’s demeaning treatment.
Through the jazz club floor a deadly Sin Demon and his flashy female entourage make a dazzling entrance. Clark breaks a teen witches arm to gain Teresa’s cooperation but she only pretends to fix it. A battle ensues between the familiars and Clark’s goons. After midnight, the Sin Demon freezes the combatants, informing Clark he’s voiding the deal. He should have read the fine print on his bloody contract-- a damaged sacrifice is not acceptable.
Later, Evan Clark suffers a breakdown, believing he’s Napoleon. Hal and Polly pack for a Hawaii vacation. Teresa begins teaching the elemental teenagers’ magic. Jake and Elwood open a micro-brewery. Violet’s client pays her fee in full.
Shaun and Violet plan their second date, hoping for a nice, quiet Saturday night in Angel City.
Kathy Lloyd has always loved to write. She’s a member of the Romance Writers of America as well as the Orange County and Fantasy, Futuristic and Paranormal Chapters. Kathy has taken award-winning author Maralys Wills Creative Novel Writing classes and has participated in writing workshops, conferences and critique sessions.
***Back To Top***
April 2009
Challenge:
In April, we asked you to “Talk It Out” and write a scene using only dialogue.
Winning Entry:
Michael A. Kechula sent this winning entry:
TELL YOU WHAT I’M GONNA DO
“Hey, Kid, give it a try. Ten chances for a dollar. Toss a ping-pong ball in the basket. If it stays in, you win the best prizes on the Midway.”
“But your shelves are empty. Where are the prizes?”
“In your head.”
“Whadda ya mean?”
“If you win, you get whatever you want. Name it, and you got it. But you gotta tell me within one second after the ball settles in the basket. If you take longer, you lose.”
“I bet if I win and say Mustang convertible, you’ll give me a little toy car.”
“No way. See all those trailers parked over there? They’re loaded with prizes. New cars. Designer clothes. Gold jewelry. Anything a teenager like you could ever want. You name it, I got it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. See that gal in the tight red jeans at the hot dog stand? She won a solid-gold watch a few minutes ago. Ask her to show it to you.”
“Excuse me, Lady. The guy over there said you won a gold watch from him. Is that true?”
“Yep. Look at this beauty. I’ll bet it’s worth ten thousand bucks. I won it on my eighth try.”
“Wow! I’m gonna go back there and see if I can win a car.”
“Good luck,” she said.
“I see you’re back. How many balls do you want?”
“Ten.”
“Here you go. Good luck.”
“Hey! I won!”
“Forfeit,” he said. “You didn’t name your prize within a second.”
“Aw hell. Well, watch closely, because I’m gonna win again. Yahoo! BUBBLE GUM.”
“We got a winaaaa! Here’s a piece of bubble gum, Kid. Chew it in good health.”
“Wait. Something weird just happened. I was gonna say Mustang convertible, but somehow I ended up saying bubble gum. That sure as hell ain’t gonna happen again. Gimme ten more balls.”
“Here you go. Good luck. Hey, don’t lean over the counter like that. It’s against the rules.”
“Sorry. Okay…watch this. PLASTIC COMB.
“We got a winaaaa! You’re a very lucky kid. Here’s a nice comb for your curly hair.”
“Dammit! It happened again. I don’t know why I said plastic comb instead of Mustang convertible.”
“You must be over excited. Tell you what I’m gonna do. Next time you win, I’ll name the prize for you.”
“Really?”
“I swear. What color convertible do you want?
“Candy apple red.”
“Okay, Kid. Win again, and I'll name it for you.”
“Damn! I can’t seem to get any balls in the basket.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky with the next one.”
“Hey! I won!
“Your immortal soul,” he said
“What? You were supposta say Mustang convertible.”
“Sorry. My mistake. Tell you what I’m gonna do. Whadda ya say we make a trade. I’ll give you a Mustang convertible right now for your immortal soul.”
“What's that?”
“Nothing compared to a beautiful new car. Think of all the hot chicks you’ll be able to pickup. Is it a deal?”
“Hell yeah.”
“We got another winaaaa!”
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer whose fiction has been published in 107 magazines and 30 anthologies.
***Back To Top***
March 2009
Challenge:
In March, we asked you to write a scene describing the “lucky charm” your main character has found and the events that follow.
Winning Entry:
Derek Ivan Webster sent this winning entry:
“Lucky Charm”
She chewed quietly at the pencil. From time to time, between bursts of frenetic key banging, she would yank the gnarled wood down from its familiar perch to scrawl some illegible note across the cluttered page. Screen, keyboard, pencil and paper; they were all tied together in a sort of circulatory system for the same primitive, hot-birthing creature: her story.
It had been this way, the same process, the same components, since that very first publication. She could still recall herself sitting, bathing in the warm glow of the magazine’s electronic acceptance for so long that her face began to flush. That’s when she noticed the pencil for the first time. It was brand new then, and only barely gnawed from its first story. It smiled back at her, matching her euphoria with its own hungry indentations. It was love at first bite.
A dozen written journeys soon followed, all of them chewed down into the welcome wooden body of her creative partner. Each shared piece had found its place in magazine, chapbook or e-fiction. It was miraculous, stupefying. Magical. Sitting at her desk, firing up the computer for another go, she knew she would never put the pencil down again.
Until that day when her totem-self snapped in two. It happened as she approached the climax of her most recent story: our heroine chained to a guillotine, no escape in sight. The blade descends. And. The pencil splintered between her teeth. Her mouth filled with the potent mix of blood and stale graphite. She spat the shrapnel into the wastebasket; was forced to stare down at her mangled accomplice. She wanted to cry, but that felt too silly. Too contrived.
She finished the story with an empty mouth. Her tongue felt dry and the prose came out flaccid. She told herself it was in her head. She sent the story out anyway. Rejection.
She tried every sort of pencil after that. All colors, designs, and lead grades. She even tried a mechanical version. Nothing. Pens. Quills. It was no use. The words would no longer sink past the surface of the paper. Her fingers could not press them onto the screen so that they held.
Finally, desperately, she took the fractured limbs of her old friend and ground them up in a sharpener. All that remained was a pouch of grey-tinged sawdust. She would use it as snuff. Conjure the old magic a lip-full at a time. It tasted bitter as it mixed with her saliva and ran rough streaks down her throat.
And so she writes now. Even dictating these strange events to you. She chews slowly, lovingly, on her old charm; hoping the magic will resurface. Knowing it is all in her head. And no longer on the paper. Nor screen.
Derek Ivan Webster was raised in a tiny Alaskan fishing village, educated at Yale University, and is a writer that appreciates a good contrast. The freelance lifestyle would have surely driven him mad by now, if not for the sane balm of his sage wife and two precious little girls. See more at ivanhope.com
***Back To Top***
February 2009
Challenge:
In February, we asked you to write an “Unhappy Valentine’s Day” letter.
Winning Entry:
Beth Overmyer sent this winning entry:
Dear P. Rinter,
Although we've had a good run together, I'm afraid it's time to pull the plug on our relationship. It takes two to keep things running and, honey, you haven't been pulling your weight lately.
I've always been the one to empty the recycling bin, do maintenance work, and keep everything running. You never once volunteered your services. But that is the least of my complaints.
I have to keep telling you things over and over, and you just never seem to get the message. Instead, you shoot out a bunch of gibberish and grunt all the time. Seriously, you can't think I'm the only one who'd be turned off by this. And the other day, when I asked you if I was hot, you shut down completely.
You also seem to know all the wrong buttons to push. When you said I needed an overhaul, that really broke our connection. And don't get me started on the time I broke down. Where were you? Off at the shop? Getting injections? I don't want to know.
I have spent many sleepless nights thinking on our many issues, and came up with this answer: I don't think we're compatible anymore.
The special spark is gone. Where's the magic? Where's the love? I'm tired of waiting around for you to clean up your act. So, I'm trading you in for a newer, younger model. He's colorful, sharp, and answers my every request. I would say this is a match made in heaven, but I don't want you to blow a fuse. You should be happy that I found someone who keeps me purring.
I'm sure there's someone out there for you, who will put up with all of your faults; but, baby, I am no longer the one.
Oh, happy Valentine's Day.
Yours truly,
Maiya Computer
Beth Overmyer has been published in various ezines, and will be published in an upcoming issue of AlienSkin (ezine). Her screenplay won best comedy at Gotham Screen's 2008 contest. To learn more about Beth, check out her blog – Chocolate Stitches.
***Back To Top***
January 2009
Challenge:
In January, we asked you to write nine ridiculous writing resolutions for 2009.
Winning Entry:
Shannon Toussaint sent this winning entry:
My Ridiculous Writing Resolutions for 2009
By Shannon Toussaint
1. In 2009, I plan to write ten (yes, 10) words for every breath I take. If I happen to get behind in writing those words, I will hold my breath until I catch up.
2. I resolve to type every work on a typewriter, then personally count all words, keeping a running total in my head. If I lose count, I will start over from page one and try again until I finally finish. Then I will go through and count all the words again just to make sure I didn’t miss any. I will pause for no reason. I will not eat or relieve myself and will throw paperclips at all people that try to interfere with my work.
3. I will write in one new character for every person I see. Therefore, if I am in a crowded place, I will count every person there and create that many new characters.
4. I resolve to talk in only the dialogue I have written for my characters that day. Thus, if I have not written any dialogue that day, I will cease from talking for a whole twenty-four hour period—much to the relief of the people around me. I will also speak in a different voice for each character, so that all may know who is talking.
5. They say (I've never been sure who exactly THEY are, but THEY say) a picture is worth a thousand words. Therefore, I resolve to write exactly 1000 words about every picture I see, not 999 or 1001, exactly 1000 words. And in regards to resolution number one, these words do not count.
6. I resolve to throw a fit in a public place for every bad critique I receive this year. I will lie on the ground crying, screaming, and pounding the floor until I am thrown out of said public place.
7. I resolve to write a novel completely backwards this year. In this novel, the sentence you just read would read: .sdrawkcab yletelpmoc levon a etirw ot evloser I
8. I will learn to type in my sleep . . . for if I do not, I will not be able to accomplish resolution number one. They have a commercial of someone texting in their sleep, why not learn to type in my sleep? And hey, if I could learn to control my fingers with my subconscious, maybe I could finally remember all the dreams I have.
9. And last of all, I have decided that everyone will stop calling me by my given name and will be known as simply “The Writer.” I will fill out all paperwork with first name: The; last name: Writer. Any person that calls me by any other name will be completely ignored and have chocolate pudding poured over their head, whether friend, enemy, family, or stranger.
Shannon Toussaint became interested in writing after her first semester in college. She’s now in the process of editing her novel before sending it out. She lives in West Virginia.
***Back To Top***
December 2008
Challenge:
Your December Cool Contest Challenge was to write an ad for the hottest gift of the season.
Winning Entry:
Justus Bowman sent this winning entry:
“The Dreamcruncher”
Have you ever prayed for peace during the holiday season? Has someone ever offended you? Have you ever wanted to retaliate? Have you ever wished you could crunch an enemy's dream?
Now you can, with our new product Dreamcruncher!
The technology and application is simple: Find where your adversary sleeps, place our steel Dreamcruncher on his head and wait for the fun to begin!
Imagine this happening to you: A coworker bumps into you on Christmas Eve, spilling coffee all over your new blouse. You say "excuse me," and he gives you the finger.
What do you do now? Is there anything you can do? You betcha! Simply believe in the power of Dreamcruncher and get to work!
You follow your coworker home and watch him drift off to sleep in his lonely bed. You know he's hoping for a good night's rest, but what he doesn't know is you're placing a Dreamcruncher over his head.
He's enjoying his dream, those droopy eyelids start flapping over his beady, little eyes. Bam! An electrical discharge wakes him and gives his dream a fistful of ouch! You can bet he's perturbed; you can bet he's dreamcrunched.
An item like this is priceless. You're probably thinking, "I can't afford a Dreamcruncher. It's like trying to buy a miracle." We'll agree on the second part, but is $100 too much to ask to destroy your opponents' dreams? Is $50?!
Don't worry! There are no annoying monthly fees or hidden charges. With Dreamcruncher, what you see is what you get.
Maybe you still have misgivings. "What if my opponent was having a nightmare when the machine woke him?" you ask. Don't worry. If he smiles after being crunched, we know he's thinking he got off easy. The machine detects his quirky smirk and crunches him, again and again.
Dreamcruncher: ultimate revenge for only 10 $5 bills.
Call 555-PWNT now to order your Dreamcruncher and get a pocket knife free!
Remember, call 555-PWNT and start getting the rest you deserve this holiday season.
Justus Bowman is an aspiring author and recent addition to the online writing scene. He lives in Arkansas with his wife and newborn son.
***Back To Top***
November 2008
Challenge:
Your November Cool Contest Challenge was to create a recipe for writing.
Winning Entry:
George Akerley sent this winning entry:
“Recipe for Writing”
One needs the following ingredients: a dash of inspiration, a modicum of selfishness, a bale of freedom, a distinguishing palate, an eye of newt (after all, this is an essential part of many brews), one pot of gumbo (choice of chicken or seafood), 2 pounds of grammatical excellence, 4 quarts of sensitivity, 1 instance of acceptance of guidance, one inquisitive spirit and 7 days’ hibernation from otherworldly cares.
Set aside the gumbo for those most hungry moments.
Season the freedom with the dash of inspiration and the inquisitive spirit, and add the mixture to the selfishness; boil for a minimum of one day, until reduced to an opening.
Once the opening has been revealed, take the 7 days’ hibernation and the instance of acceptance of guidance to a quiet location. There, heartily mix in the modicum of selfishness with the sensitivity until it all comes to a roiling mass.
Bake for 3 days in a temperate climate to a crisp interior with a warmly welcoming desire for inclusiveness. At that point, use the grammatical excellence and the distinguishing palate to create a masterpiece of delectability.
Keep the eye of newt separate until convinced it is no longer needed.
Finally, enjoy an exquisite meal of gumbo with jalapeno cornbread on the side and a favored wine, as a celebratory last rite.
George Akerley is a freelance writer and editor, with his writing specializing in poetry and essay formats. He’s had extensive experience in sportswriting, but his full-time careers as mortgage loan officer, husband, father and grandfather exceed his time limits to practice the art.
***Back To Top***
October 2008
Challenge:
Your October Cool Contest Challenge was to write a humorous obituary for a horror movie character or Super Hero.
Winning Entry:
Art Carey sent this winning entry:
Batman's Partner Passes
Word has been received of the death of Robin, the Boy Wonder, long-time companion of Batman.
Robin's death at the Hollywood Home for Retired Television and Film actors was announced by friend and fellow actor,The Riddler.
“He was an original, that kid,” recalled The Riddler. “Always joking around on the set. One time he put a whoopee cushion on Commissioner Gordon's chair and cracked up the whole crew.”
Robin's career took off when he made the leap from the comic pages to TV in the 1960s, appearing in the Batman series with Adam West. It reached a peak in the 1997 film “Batman and Robin,” in which he had a co-starring role.
Still, like the late Steve Reeves who saw his movie career limited by his identification with Superman, Robin felt playing junior sidekick to Batman lessened his chances of obtaining meatier roles.
In a 2004 interview in the Los Angeles Times, he complained about his exclusion from other opportunities. “I'm a method actor,” Robin groused. “I studied under Lee Strasberg in New York. And how do I wind up? Dressed in crotch-strangling shorts that make me look like a male hustler. Then there's the mask,” he fumed, “the kind a holdup man would wear! Now Batman had a nice outfit-coordinated gray and black with that cool bat thingy. What did I get? A cheesy red jersey with stitches across the chest that made me resemble an autopsy leftover. And a big letter R! What's with that? Like people wouldn't know who I was?”
Working in the TV series didn't thrill him either. “I had to put up with dialog like, 'Holy cow, Batman!' I mean, what super hero talks like that? Then they introduced a broad to play Bat Girl. Bat Girl! No wonder the series tanked.” Worse, he said, was the advent of videotapes and DVDs. “Now that crap will follow me to the grave,” he said, perhaps prophetically.
“Poor Robin harbored some dark thoughts under that upbeat, public persona,” recalled The Penguin, informed of the his death. “We were drinking once after a late-night shoot and he said, 'I'll never get a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I'll always be the kid getting bailed out by the pointy-eared guy in the black cape. Him they call the Caped Crusader; me they name after a bird.”
When his acting career ended, Robin could be seen on late night TV as a spokesman for incontinence aids. He gained unwanted attention two years ago after showing up drunk at a super heroes convention and was videotaped hitting on Wonder Woman.
In declining health during his later years, Robin answered a diminishing number of fan letters and wrote an unsuccessful autobiography, “Bat Boy, My Ass!”
Cremation followed a brief service attended by The Riddler, Mr. Freeze, Two Face, Mad Hatter, and Poison Ivy.
Art Carey is a former newspaper reporter and journalism instructor living in California. His grandson masqueraded as Batman on Halloween.
***Back To Top***
September 2008
Challenge:
Your September challenge was to write a scene from the point of view of Lady Luck. She could have been arriving or departing someone’s life. Either way, her subject was about to experience a windfall or a downfall.
Winning Entry:
Linda Olson sent this winning entry:
Luck Be a Lady
“He’s singing to me again,” she said. Luck closed her cell phone.
“Who was that?” asked Destiny from the next cubicle, “Maybe I can help.”
“Nobody fated, just a working Joe bought a copy of Guys and Dolls last week. He’s been calling and singing “Luck Be a Lady” daily. I’ve been ignoring him, but this is the most staying power he has ever mustered on anything. I suppose I better swing by later and take a closer look at his request.”
Of course he lives in a trailer court, Luck thought as she threaded her red Corvette through the speed bumps and potholes. And a chained Saint Bernard next to the door protecting what? Okay, so I sprinkle a charm on the dog, knock on the door, and Joe, with a mouthful of meatball sandwich, greets me. Bits of sauce and bread trace a path down his shirt.
“Hmmph, whr,” he said.
Keep on task girl, slobs are not my department. “Hi, my name is Luck. I’m here to listen to your request.” Wow, the place is a solid mat of dog fur with some old furniture underneath. This red silk dress will have to go to the dry cleaner. “Don’t choke on my account, please chew. I’ll wait. I take it your arm swinging is an invite.”
Joe finished flapping his arm, turned, walked two steps, and washed the mess off his face at the kitchen sink. Luck stepped onto the brown furry carpet of the living room and waited, careful to touch nothing.
Why not help a regular Joe? I could bump him a raise at the factory. He has a distant rich relative in the file. How about a large inheritance for listening to the old guy rant about the last great war? I can get Joe out of this dump. Set him up with a small fortune. Yes, I think I’ll smile on him.
Luck had a cramp. She grabbed the nearest hairy chair, an overstuffed dinosaur from the last century and sat. Joe began singing “Luck Be a Lady Tonight”. An odor most foul rose from the chair as proof the dog was not housebroken. Joe stopped singing.
Luck ran to the bathroom, peeled the red dress off, pulled on a hairy bathrobe and walked back to the living room. She looked Joe in the eye and said, Luck Be a Bitch Today.
As she drove out of the trailer court Joe’s phone rang. His boss fired him. The chair fell through the floor. The mailman stopped by with a letter; the distant relative gave everything to his private nurse. The dog broke it’s chain and under Luck’s charm hopped into the dogcatcher’s truck without a fuss. Joe had an allergic reaction to the meatballs and was rushed to the hospital. He had no insurance. The paramedics that came to his house called the health inspector, and the place was condemned, as Luck would have it.
The End
Linda Olson lives in North Dakota with her fantastic husband and three geriatric cats. She graduated from Bismarck State College this year. Linda owes her luck to her husband, cats and teachers.
***Back To Top***
August 2008
Challenge:
In August, your challenge was to write about your summer vacation – through the eyes of a child/teenager – this child/teenager also has a vivid imagination and will probably grow up to be a writer! Make the teacher and class either listen in awe or roll their eyes.
Winning Entry:
Mercedes Yardley sent this winning entry:
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
By Mercedes Yardley
My grandfather’s a member of the mob. No, seriously. Out in Jersey. Only now he’s hanging tight in one of the prisons out there. They got him for something completely non-mob related, something to do with salami, I think. That’s how it works for these guys.
So my mom, she’s all, “He was not selling bad salami, and Pops cannot got to the slammer!” So we all hop in the car and ditch this place, drive for Jersey. Dad’s listening to NPR and Mom’s all screaming about laws and dirty cops and how she’s gonna have Uncle Lester really take care of the whole salami deal.
Me? They give me a gun. They really do. I’m good with it, too. I’ve been shooting at aluminum cans behind the Sonic every day. Just ‘cause this is Ohio doesn’t mean that a boy doesn’t have to protect himself, because I do. The mob ties, and all that.
So we end up in Jersey, and Mom leaves us out in the car while she goes to talk to Uncle Lester. Dad’s napping in the front seat, but I have my eyes open. I can feel it, you know. The danger. I know that the bad guys are gonna make a hit. I know that Mom’s got them on their guard, asking questions. “Who sold the salami? Who did it?” Those are the kinds of questions that she’s gonna be asking. And the bad mobsters will be all, “Uh oh, that dame’s snooping into our racket.” And then they’ll shoot her with Dick Tracey guns. Only they won’t because I’m there.
So I see a bunch of guys, they go into the grocery store after my mom. They don’t look right, so I hop out of the car and go after them. I’m wearing my gun jammed down into my underwear, and I’m walking all quietly. They don’t see me. But I see them, and they’re watching my mom.
“That’s her,” one of them says, and he grabs out this noose that he must have made earlier. He’s all lassoing it through the air like a cowboy, and I know that if it lands around Mom’s neck, it’s all over for her. So I go into action. I’m flying through the air all ninja style, and I gun them all down. Pow! Pow! Pow! Like that. Mom’s all, “Oh my goodness!” and Uncle Lester calls me a hero. And this hottie in line, she’s buying a bunch of candy bars; she gives me a huge kiss. And a Snickers. Because I saved them.
Grandpa called us from prison, told us not to really spread it around. It’s okay if I tell the class and everything, but Mom and Dad are supposed to deny it. Grandpa told them to tell everybody that we spent the summer looking at butter churns in the museums, but that’s not really true. But we’re supposed to say that.
You know. For protection.
Mercedes M. Yardley lives in Las Vegas with her husband and two children. They all have blue eyes and zero mob connections. You can learn a little bit about her by going to http://abrokenlaptop.wordpress.com.
***Back To Top***
July 2008
Challenge:
In July, your challenge was to write a beach scene using purple prose.
Winning Entry:
Iseult Murphy sent this winning entry:
First Swim
By Iseult Murphy
The waves crashed in increasing crescendo against the golden silken smooth beach. The sand was as velvety as the chocolate thighs of the vestal virgins that rolled the most expensive Cuban cigars. The green blue aquamarine water scintillated in a coruscation of light due to the mixture of currents and phytoplankton that mingled in the saline H2O.
Terry pushed aside the glittering grains of silica and gazed longingly down the damp ocean kissed shore towards the wetness of the water. A long row of crows stood as black sentinels between him and his goal. Their hungry beaks glistened above their funeral plumage. Their round black button eyes twinkled like black pearls spread across the alabaster bosom of a debutante. Even from such a distance, Terry could hear the slap of their barbed tongues salivating within their narrow mouths.
The warm sand was a mindless womb. It had sheltered Terry, protecting him and cradling him, but now it was time to leave. Beside him his family churned the beach into a cratered pock marked surface reminiscent of a barren lunar valley. Terry struggled to break free of the birth canal he had made and rushed headlong, helter skelter, surrounded by a thong of his squealing free wheeling brothers, sisters, cousins and extended family down towards the welcoming whispering ocean with the line of death bringing, stomach rumbled corvids.
The birds squawked in delight and beat the hot air with their ragged wings. Feathers flew and beaks snapped like thunder claps left and right. Terry closed his eyes and ran so fast it hurt. Slipping and sliding, his relations on either side preoccupied by the crows, he shot between the scaly legs of one of the birds and with a triumphant splash, surged into the frothy coolness of the waves. He spread his tiny flippers and pushed forth through the water, his first trial as a sea turtle complete.
Iseult Murphy writes fantasy, horror and science fiction short stories and novels. She lives on the east coast of Ireland with three dogs, two cats and a bogeyman at the top of the stairs. Find out more about her at www.iseultmurphy.com.
***Back To Top***
June 2008
Challenge:
In June, your challenge was to write a “Book Signing” scene
Winning Entry:
Thursday Bram sent this winning entry:
"The Book Signing"
"That's my granddaughter, you know."
He says it again. And again. He's invited along all his friends, his business partner, the old men from the synagogue.
He tells them, "That's my granddaughter, you know."
I sign each of their books, personalizing with the block letters, the crossed 'z's that I copied from him. His writing had fascinated me: slow, deliberate, European in style. It was the product of eight years of cheder and a thousand years of doing business.
He gets so tired these days — I ask him to come sit next to me, to help me greet readers.
"You can sign a few books, too," I tease him.
He jokes with the next lady in line: "I used to tell her, 'I'll trade you in for two boys.' But, you know, I think it was a better deal, keeping her."
She grins; even young women seem to melt for that thick European accent. So thick, despite fifty years in the States.
I sign her book and thank her. She tells me that I have a real charmer of a grandfather. I wave the next person in line up, joking with my grandfather. He tells each person how proud he is, how lucky.
All this, and he will never read my book.
Thursday Bram spends most of her time writing about small business topics. Her first love, however, is the art of the short story. More information about Thursday is available at her website, www.ThursdayBram.com
***Back To Top***
May 2008
Challenge:
In May, your challenge was to write a scene with WaBoPs – Wandering Body Parts.
Winning Entry:
Jeffrey Morckel sent this winning entry:
Twin Peaks- by Jeffrey Morckel
His eyes rolled across the sand, searching for their quarry. The beach was awash with bikinis, and he had to find just what he was looking for. His corneas hit the brakes. There it was. Without question, one of the most attractive things he had ever seen in his life. Two marvelous twin peaks towered towards the sky. He hustled over with his camera, and began snapping away.
“Um, excuse me?” asked the woman.
“Oh, just photographing next month’s cover shot!”
The woman’s face radiated.
“Oh, well in that case, snap away,” she giggled. “Oh, and you’re welcome to feel it, too.”
His brain set off a round of fireworks, and he did just that. It was nice and firm. Luscious, bounteous curves led to two peaks, bursting at the seams. It was exquisite and beautiful, and absolutely perfect. He finished shutterbugging, thanked the woman, and strutted away.
The hairs on the back of his neck sent up a distress flare, and he turned around to see his wife.
“I saw that.” Her voice dripped with malice.
He grinned.
“Told you I could find something better than yours. I just bagged next month’s cover shot.”
The look of anger deflated.
“But why not mine?” she pouted.
“Sweetie, let’s face it. You made a great turtle, but that two-tiered castle is going to look brilliant on the front of the next Sand Sculptures Illustrated.”
Jeffrey Morckel is a recent college graduate, and would much appreciate it if somebody would hire him. He lives in Ohio with his family, including 4 cats.
***Back To Top***
April 2008
Challenge:
In April your challenge was to write a scene using the letters A through M to begin each sentence.
Winning Entry:
J. Theodor Broyhill sent this winning entry:
Justice
By J. Theodor Broyhill
Arrogantly, Todd glanced at the prosecution as the verdict of not guilty was read by the judge. Bailiffs rushed to his side, fearing an outburst. Curses filled his ears hurled at him from the victim’s family.
Disbelief was etched on nearly every face in the gallery. Everett, Todd’s father, was one of the few who could believe. Fortunately, Everett was wealthy and had bought the best team of lawyers his money could buy.
Ginger didn’t deserve to die and certainly not in the manner in which Todd did it. Holding her head under water, watching her eyes as she struggled to survive was monstrous. Indescribable fear must have pulsed through Ginger – electric shock waves of terror. Justice hadn’t been served.
Key in hand, Everett and Todd walked to Everett’s car. Lunging out of the shadows, Ginger’s father pulled a gun.
“Murderer”, he shouted, pulling the trigger and claiming justice for Ginger.
J. Theodor Broyhill lives in Yadkinville, NC with her husband, Fireball, and her pound rescue, Mason. She is currently working on her first science fiction short story.
***Back To Top***
March 2008
Challenge:
In March your challenge was to write a casting call for a new reality TV show.
Winning Entry:
Lisa Dovichi sent this winning entry:
Top Mime
By LJ Dovichi
Do you like to wear white greasepaint on your face?
Do people always ask you, “Why so quiet? Cat got your tongue?”
Do you often find yourself trapped in an invisible box or falling down nonexistent stairs?
If you answered ‘yes’ to the previous questions, then we’re looking for you!
KFOOL TV is now touring cities around the world, soliciting contestants for our new reality series, “Top Mime,” brought to you by the creative geniuses behind “Clown Makeovers” and “Bozo: My Life Under the Big Top.”
We’re looking for best looks and performances. Creativity is a must, but speaking is a bust, and will be cause for automatic rejection. Come prepared. This Mime-Off isn’t going to be a ‘Walk the Dog in the Park’ and you’re not going to be ‘Leaning on a Wall’ -- you’ll be in the midst of the most extreme sham ‘Tug-of-War’ of your life.
If your ‘Walking Against Wind’ blows the competition away, you’ll join twelve other lucky finalists at ‘Mimequarters.’ For twelve weeks contestants will be required to leave their comfy haunts and bank accounts behind and move into the living arrangements provided. The network will supply a luxurious two-bedroom shanty, complete with bunk beds and running water, for a small fee.
How will you pay the rent without access to your funds? By doing what you do best -- performing.
Each contestant will receive a ratty top hat and a black and white striped leotard. You’ll be assigned to random street corners at a variety of interesting locations and expected to earn your keep. If you don’t make rent, we’ll wave a heartfelt silent goodbye, and wish you the best of luck in finding travel arrangements home.
The winner of “Top Mime” will receive the complete audio library of Marcel Marceau, a five hour radio special courtesy of KFOOL, and access to the secret handshake that says you were the “Top Mime.”
Do you have what it takes to copy the best and mimic the rest?
Lisa Dovichi lives in Novato, CA with her husband, son, and Killer the Beta fish. She is a freelance author, artist, and budding novelist. Please visit her website at: www.lisadovichi.com
***Back To Top***
February 2008
Challenge:
In February, your challenge was to write a story from Cupid's point of view.
Winning Entry:
Dorothy Raney sent this winning entry:
I Shot An Arrow...
It worked! I can hardly believe it. And here I was on the verge of quitting. After all, it's no fun for a 2143 year old man to spend his time running around dressed in little more than a wide sash and a quiver of arrows.
But, I keep at it. After all, it's my job and, besides, what else can I do? There's not much of a market out there for disgruntled elderly cupids. But, everything's changed now that I finally accomplished my goal.
You see, there's this couple. Sophie and Wilbur. They both worked in the same place. It was obvious that they were more than a little interested in each other, but that's where it ended. Somehow, despite all my best efforts they hadn't managed to progress beyond coffee break chatter, "accidental" water cooler meetings and a few work related e-mails.
Two years ago, I took aim and fired. My arrows missed. Unprecedented! Last year, I tried again. Another failure. I checked my equipment. My arrows were too dull to pierce paper let alone the human heart.
I didn't know what to do. It's not like there's an arrow sharpener on every corner. I thought and thought. Finally, I came up with the solution. Today when I took aim, Wilbur and Sophie never had a chance.
If you can't use what you've got, then you've got to use what you can find. And, I did. You know that little cursor thing on computers? Well, I took aim with that. The result? From then their e-mails sizzled and left sparks in their hearts. Now, I'm looking forward to their Valentine's Day wedding.
Dorothy Raney has been a part-time, sometime successful short story writer for over 20 years. She receives the necessary support and encouragement from the Cartaret Writers genre group.
***Back To Top***
January 2008
Challenge:
In January, your challenge was to write 7 ridiculous writing resolutions.
Winning Entry:
Batya Deene sent this winning entry:
My 2008 Writing Resolutions
--Batya Deene
© 2008
1. I resolve to become so emotionally committed to my characters that I will date no one else. We will have dinner, go to the movies, even sleep together until the novel is complete. Then, perhaps, I will file for divorce.
2. I resolve to write a minimum of 1667 words every day of the year---to hell with November being special, you silly NaNo-ers.
3. I resolve to personally research every fact in my novels, even if it means traveling to Australia (from Nashville, TN) for a walkabout in the Outback, delving into punk rock music until my blood pulses with the beat (does punk-rock have a beat?), and verifying the acrid taste of tiger-snake venom.
4. I resolve to do all the things a ‘real’ writer does: drink regularly, stare off into space on a daily basis, underachieve at every non-writing job including pizza delivery, jump naked from the shower to write my most brilliant idea, mumble out loud in public places, steal great dialogue from neighboring tables in restaurants, tear reams of half-filled paper into shreds while raging at my Muse’s imperfections, and pretend intellectual depression at parties.
5. I resolve to respond positively, happily, and gratefully to every bit of critique I receive on any and all of my writing endeavors. (I also resolve to stop sending anonymous Gypsy curses to my critiquers.)
6. I resolve to complete every story idea I have ever had, to edit all my first drafts until they are perfectly polished, and to fill in character profiles for every fictional being I have ever created, past, present, or future.
7. I resolve to never again have a jealous feeling or thought when other writers I know (a) win contests, (b) find agents, (c) get published, (d) win the Pulitzer, (e) all of the above. I will only celebrate in sheer, unadulterated joy with them (please refer back to #4, where I drink regularly).
Batya Deene, presently living in Nashville, TN, has been writing since the age of 8, and published sporadically since then. Her genres span murder mysteries, short stories, poetry, nonfiction, Country lyrics, and lists.
***Back To Top***
December 2007
Challenge:
In December, we asked you to write a diary entry from the view point of an elf.
Winning Entry:
Judy Crowder sent this winning entry:
Dear Diary,
Here's a copy of my letter to Santa, dated 12/12:
Yo, Big Guy,
Remember my warning before you dashed off to the scratch-and-dent Barbie sale? December is never a good time to leave the workshop!
Don't count on Blitzen Christmas Eve. Some stable elf left his stall door unlatched and Blitz was true to his name. He found Dexter's alcohol stash, then partied with Vixen and Cupid. After that, he did the Merry Christmas Mambo with Dancer. He's grounded, in his stall with a hot water bottle and two aspirins.
Things haven't been peachy in the toyshop, either. Drippy and Flashy took a long lunch hour, leaving that rookie elf, Bumbly, in charge of the assembly line. The Muppet toys all came out anatomically correct, the talking Britney dolls need to have their mouths washed out with Clorox and the Little Policeman Taser Guns really work.
As of this morning all the Etch-a-Sketch subcontractors are on strike until they get keys to the "Execuclaus" rest room. Mrs. C. wasn't here to charm them back to work. She's at Victoria's Secret Midnight Madness Sale.
In Closing, don't leave the Naughty Or Nice List to me ever again! After recording the Republicans, I had barely enough room to list the incorrigibles, like the alter boy who picks his nose and the little girl who makes crank calls from the principal's desk phone.
I'm taking three Tylenol PM and hitting the hay. Don't wake me until January!
Regards,
McTool Management,
Elf in Charge
Judy Crowder grew up in California, has a B A in journalism and was a preschool teacher. She writes book reviews for Children's Lit.com--no pay, but she keeps the books and donates them to schools. She loves reading, doll and teddy bear making, antique cars and writing. Judy belongs to a serious writing group in Morehead City, NC. Married to Larry, a Marine ecologist, Judy has three grown children and two Scotties.
***Back To Top***
November 2007
Challenge:
In November, your challenge was to write a wacky excuse letter.
Winning Entry:
Janet Hartman sent this winning entry.
Dear Mr. Jones,
I know this was the tenth Friday I've missed this year, but it wasn't my fault.
I stood waiting for the subway when someone pushed me from behind and I fell onto the tracks. Fortunately, I missed the third rail, but had to scrunch down between the tracks to avoid the approaching train. I felt a tug when it passed over me, but luckily I was not injured. No one noticed the incident and the train left the station with me still on the ground. I climbed the steps to the now empty platform and started walking home to change clothes.
I assumed the sudden chill I felt was due to shock and stopped for coffee to warm up and settle my nerves. When I sat down, I realized the seat of my pants was missing, totally exposing my you-know-what. To avoid embarrassment, I waited for the morning rush to clear the coffee shop before getting up. Just my luck, when I walked out the door two policemen stopped for coffee and tried to arrest me for lewd behavior. They detained me quite a while before giving me the benefit of the doubt.
After they escorted me to my door and left, I rushed to change clothes. My foot caught in my torn pants, causing me to fall backwards and hit my head. When I regained consciousness, it was after noon. Unfortunately, I found no other clean pants and had to miss work.
Apologetically,
John
Freelance writer Janet Hartman writes articles for boating magazines based on her experiences living and traveling aboard a sailboat on the East Coast. Now back on land, she also writes flash fiction and had an essay accepted for a Carolina music anthology.
***Back To Top***
October 2007
Challenge:
In October, we asked you to write a humorous obituary, personal ad or Letter to the Editor and it had to be for, about or from a fictional horror character or super hero.
Winning Entry:
Sharon Cousins sent this winning entry:
Dear Editor,
I must protest the deplorable proliferation of false morality that is causing more and more young women to adopt the unhealthy and constricting habit of wearing turtleneck pullovers and high collared blouses. Surely you will agree with me that such fashions constrict the circulation so necessary to proper growth and development as well as to the high energy levels that should be a part of their natural state. Young women must have their necks free and unfettered to reach optimal levels of health and fitness.
I am also exceedingly concerned about the advice given to young women in this very publication regarding the dangers of walking outdoors in the late evening. Are you not aware that the nighttime air is fresher and less polluted than that in the daytime? And what could possibly be more felicitous to the health and well being of these lovely young creatures than healthy exercise in abundant fresh air?
To any young women reading this missive, shake free the chains of a repressive and unfeeling society! Choose clothing that leaves your necks free and unfettered if you wish to achieve your fullest potential for a very long and productive life. Furthermore, your body's need for abundant fresh, clean air will be best fulfilled if you go for long walks in the evening, after the sun has gone down.
Sincerely,
Count D.
Matriculated on the road and mellowed by decades in the mountains of northern Idaho, Sharon Cousins lives in a small house on a big hill with a fabulous view.
***Back To Top***
September 2007
Challenge:
In September, your challenge was to write a press release from a publicist explaining their client's odd behavior.
Winning Entry:
Marie Angell sent this winning entry:
For Immediate Release
September 30, 2007
Cathwright, Noted Author, Denies All Charges
Los Angeles, CA: Reginald P. Cathwright, noted author and ghostwriter of celebrity tell-alls such as Robert Downey, Jr.'s High Life, Britney Spears' Breezy, and Paris Hilton's Chihuahua's Ruff Enuf: Don't Tinker with Tinkerbell, was arrested last night at 11:53 p.m. at the Beverly Wilshire hotel.
Mr. Cathwright would like to clarify the details of the incident, which he believes will result in his complete exoneration.
Police were initially called because hotel employees reported that Mr. Cathwright was entertaining a sheep in his room.
This is false, defamatory and inaccurate.
It was a pig.
The authorities have accused Mr. Cathwright of committing unnatural acts with this pig.
Mr. Cathwright acquired the Vietnamese potbellied pig, Rosie, yesterday morning for the sole purpose of innocent companionship. He brought her to the Beverly Wilshire as a special treat before settling into their home in Brentwood.
Mr. Cathwright says he had just finished bathing Rosie and was giving her a platonic goodnight kiss, "just as you would your child, your mother or a favored aunt," when the police burst into the room. Startled by the noise, Mr. Cathwright grabbed for Rosie, inadvertently inserting a body part into one of Rosie's orifices.
Therefore, Mr. Cathwright decries the police for their Gestapo tactics and dirty-minded ways and intends to challenge all charges.
Marie Angell writes from her native Texas, where she lives with her family. She is also in a blues/rock band, The Snake Charmers.
***Back To Top***
August 2007
Challenge:
In August, your challenge was to submit a poorly written beach scene.
Winning Entry:
David Lignell sent this winning entry:
Putnam
Twin snot flows streamed down from Putnam's nose like the tumultuous tributaries of the great Niagara cascading into the Canadian and American Falls. Darting his tongue to lick at the rivulets, the youth grabbed his Scooby Doo beach pail and scampered up the sand dune like a drunken tiger beetle, sans the large pointed mandibles, antennae that arise from the top of the head, long spindly legs which hold the body well off the ground, or the narrow thorax and broad, almost oblong hardened forewings.
Seagulls flew about to avoid Putnam's approach, but gathered again like so many relatives flapping around a wedding reception for extra helpings of food and gossip. Putnam stopped, set down his pail, and used both hands to pull his loose swim trunks up over crest of his buns. He sat then and pushed the sand forward with the soles of his feet, which caused a small avalanche down the dune. The grains of sand sparkled like shards of broken mirrors reflecting the shimmering siege of the summer sun. He glanced down at the lakeshore. Seagulls fought and squawked over Fritos left on a beach blanket. A few people walked along the shoreline.
Then he saw a cluster of fat and folds slothing up the dune and muttering expletives between puffs on an unfiltered Camel.
"Putnam," her voice hissed like a flat tire, "Get down here."
"Okay, Mom."
When she turned, he reached into his pail and made a mud bomb. He had a target now.
David Lignell lives with his wife Colleen and their three children in Lawrence Kansas. He is a member of Pam Casto's Flash-Fiction Workshop listserv, where he's met many talented writers.
***Back To Top***
June 2007
Challenge:
In June, we asked you to write a letter and pitch your book to the editor whose wallet you found.
Winning Entry:
JoAnne Mathis sent this winning entry:
Dear Madam Editor:
Holy Kismet, Batman! Oh, pardon me, but it seems like an appropriate exclamation. I found your wallet early this morning while out walking my dog. Normally, we don't walk that far from home, but it was a nice, crisp morning with the full moon still hanging in the sky, so we just kept going, winding up in Old Town's cabaret district.
Kismet, you ask? Why did I find this particular wallet, I ask? Because it was FATE, in caps, you being the publisher of mystery novels and me a mystery novel writer. Destiny deemed we meet. And so, as I return your wallet, fully intact, I am enclosing my latest manuscript, requesting that you follow our cosmic path and read it.
P.S. No one will ever have to know the wallet was covered in mud, outside a club featuring mud wrestling or about the first prize mud wrestling medallion tucked in with your coins.
For her entire life, JoAnne Mathis says writing was always one of her favorite things to do. While attending DePaul, she had to write many research papers and unlike her fellow students, she loved it! JoAnne also took a writing class, which resulted in a story told in the Southern tradition. She's been a technical writer in her job (previously), but her love is fiction. She was also a reporter for her high school paper. She is currently working on her murder mystery novel.
***Back To Top***
May 2007
Challenge:
In May, we asked you to write a help wanted ad by a busy author looking for an assistant.
Winning Entry:
Gary Weibert sent this winning entry:
HELP WANTED
Busy Author Needs Assistant!
Needed: Past experience with authors (the more temperamental, the better). Wit to turn not only a phrase but also whatever you find in my hamper to my dry cleaner's shop.
Expected: Patience with my fits and howls of frustration. Constant praise of whatever I write, however bad. And providing frequent refills of my favorite beverage. A knight's shield is recommended to brandish against flying objects hurled from writer's rage.
Pay: One tenth of royalties on all books that ever see the light of day during your tenure. As payment is thus not until dubious publication, please leave your forwarding address, as you'll understandably be quitting long before. Honorable mention in my novel will be considered in lieu of pay.
Gary Weibert is currently revising his first novel, a paranormal romance. He had a poem published in last Winter's Rosicrucian Digest Magazine. Gary resides in Las Vegas and has visited the pyramids of Egypt, the Mayans and the temples of India.
***Back To Top***
April 2007
Challenge:
April's contest was "leave a message at the beep" - you're a now-famous author who doesn't have time to talk - the challenge was to write a funny phone message.
Winning Entry:
Deena Trouten sent this winning entry:
"If this is Simon & Schuster, Little, Brown, or HarperCollins please press 1 to be redirected to my agent."
"If this is my agent, hang tight, Murray. I couldn't get a cab but I'm on my way."
"If this is Stephen King, good God man, enough is enough. I am not interested in collaborating at this time nor at any other time in the future so please, stop calling before I have to issue an Order of Protection. Can you say 'stalker?' But seriously, you're giving me a great idea for my next novel."
"If this is the courthouse regarding my Order of Protection inquiry please press 3."
"If you need to leave a message for my personal assistant please press 4 to be referred to her number at St. Vincent's Intensive Care Unit. Unfortunately she was hospitalized after attempting to mediate a knock- down-drag-out between Random House and Bantam Books outside the Algonquin, leaving me short-handed and taking my own messages."
"If this is Random House or Bantam please press 4 for a message from my attorneys."
"All others callers please press 5 for a preview of my upcoming release, 'Tales from the Literary Underbelly.'"
"Thanks for calling."
Deena lives in southern Idaho with her husband and three children. Her short fiction has appeared in The Green Tricycle, Long Story Short, and flashquake magazine. Deena is presently pursuing a degree in English at Boise State University.
***Back To Top***
March 2007
Challenge:
The March Cool Contest Challenge was a poetry contest.
Winning Entry:
Dianne Bates sent this winning entry.
The Lesson
I am done with unrequited love.
Too long it has ricocheted me
from pinched dark
into
dazzling sun,
spun me into void.
All Summer long,
heavy with obsession,
I courted you,
delivered
words encrusted with sentiment,
and paintings
executed in night hours
turbulent
with wakefulness.
My being bulged with gifts
you received as trinkets,
your mouth shapeless,
eyes hooded,
shaded from my light
by your flat, bloodless hands.
I see clearly now your sieve-heart,
know the anguish of rejection;
In brooding shadow
I lick dark wounds,
and,
virulent with baffled love,
dredge from memory
the first lesson of love:
Never yearn, child,
for someone who
does not yearn for you.
© Dianne Bates
An Australian, Dianne (Di) Bates is well-known as a children’s author, but she also writes poetry and short stories for adults. Her website is www.enterprisingwords.com
***Back To Top***
February 2007
Challenge:
In February, we asked you to write a complaint letter to a fictitious company.
Winning Entry:
Mike Waleke sent in this winning entry.
To Chronos Unlimited:
I recently purchased the E-Z Time Machine after watching the infomercial on television.The excellent product presentation plus the well groomed spokespeople made me want the device immediately.The first thing I noticed upon receipt of the device was that the uranium needed to fuel the machine wasn’t included; your promise of “good to go, right out of the box” had suggested otherwise. But I was anxious to float through the space time continuum so I made a quick trip to my neighborhood arms dealer. After inserting the fuel I twisted the dials to ancient Egypt, and I soon was partying with the pharaohs. My faith in your product restored I made several more trips when that faith once again came crashing down. I had selected Victorian England on the “industrial-strength plastic dials” when they snapped off. So now my travel plans have been changed from the span of infinity to a place where the local wardrobe has quickly gone from cute to freakishly annoying. I feel that your company has left me with no option but to demand my forty dollars back or I will be forced to execute one of your great-great ancestors.
With much Disgust;
Mike Waleke
Mike Waleke has a wide variety of experience with today’s fast paced society. He is a certified pilot as well as an Air Traffic Controller and he served in the army for five years. He has a bachelor’s degree and is currently studying for his masters in Creative Writing. He has just published his first book entitled The Pianoman.
***Back To Top***
December 2006
Challenge:
In December, the challenge was to write a short story using the following first line: The temperature outside may have been falling, but inside...
Winning Entry:
Deena Trouten sent this winning entry.
The temperature may have been falling outside, but inside things were heating up. It was the same every Christmas. This year it started over black olives. As Uncle Jimmy reached for the condiment tray, Uncle Joey said, "Hey, Denny," and nodded toward the last black olive. "Now, boys..." Grandma interceded, and rushed to the cupboard. Denny and Jimmy glared at each other. The dinner din faded. My mother pulled the ham aside as the cousins hid under the table. We looked from Jimmy to my dad. One had speed and agility, the other, the strength and tenacity of a china shop bull. Jimmy snatched the olive. Dad leapt across the table with grace of a flying reindeer. Jimmy frantically shoved the olive into his mouth. After a violent struggle Dad pried the half-chewed morsel out of Jimmy’s mouth. "Ho, ho, ho," Dad muttered, and ate the olive. Mom replaced the ham and Jimmy picked himself up off the floor, rubbing his jaw. "Here they are!" Grandma exclaimed, displaying a new can of olives . Later, over green beers with plastic holly garnishes, the brothers laughed. "What’s Christmas without a little bloodshed?" Joey asked, and they raised a toast to tradition.
Deena Trouten lives in southern Idaho with her husband and three children. She has never had a green beer but is quite fond of black olives.
***Back To Top***
