C&F Writing Competition. Can you freaking believe it?

[Nanohedron]

I know it's Sunday, Carol, but get back to work already.

[carrie]

Busted.

*sigh*

[MarkB]

Hey it's Sunday and Carol is just about finishing her first cup of coffee. Me, I have been to work already and back, another happy customer.

This is a great thread and I can't say anymore than Carol who has said so so elegantly, I'm not a writer, I'm a visual artist by birth. Oh, another thread, I see music in colour and shapes!

MarkB

[Dibe']

I really do like tin whistles, to the point that my family probably doesn't. The funness of this thread sucked me out of lurk when politics, cranns and just temperament couldn't.
I have now read this entire thread multiple times. "It was a dark and stormy night". What can I say but: Huzzah!!


Entry

Daddy, guess what?

if I can work Saturdays from 9 till 2 I can pay for the new roof in 20 weeks

Daddy, guess what?

two years of that and the house would be livable

Daddy, guess what?

a natural gas furnace would be better

DADDY, GUESS WHAT?

……….what?

Do your remember the little creek that runs under the road?

yes (architectural shingles?)

Guess what I found in it?

what? ($500 more a bundle, or for the whole roof?)

A caterpillar!!!!!

wow (can my knee stand six days of work a week?)

And guess who rescued it?

you? (you are doing your best to ignore him, he will hate me when he is older, pull head out of a#$ and interact)do you know what will happen to that caterpillar?

No

where did you put him down?

On the lawn

he will crawl across that lawn eating grass the whole way; not knowing why he keeps crawling when he could just sit and eat.
A general settling occurs

He will keep going till he hits a grey bumpy wall and then….without knowing why or even knowing if he can, he will climb that wall till he gets to a grey bumpy roof. He will take a mouthful of grey bumpy stuff as he climbs but….Pfooyey! He will spit it out. At the roof he will go out upside down till the roof (which is really a branch) will fork.

What is a fork?

It’s where the branch splits into to smaller branches. As the branch forks again and again the caterpillar will keep making choices, always not knowing why. If he ends up on a dead, bare branch he will turn around and go back till he gets to a fork and then keep going out onto smaller and smaller branches until it is green all around him. Then he will eat leaves until he is as fat as a tick.

One that sucked all the blood out of a dog?

yes

One that had as many heads as there are kinds of dogs and he sucked all the blood out of all the dogs; that fat?

yes. Then that caterpillar will hang by his last legs and spit out silk until he is covered by it like someone is covered by all the things they ever forgot to do…

Like a baby in a blanket?

yes…and then he will sit: leaves will fall, and then the snow, and then the creek will run under the road again and then a crack. Out of the crack: a piece of grey, wet paper

No, a wing

No, grey, wet paper. Then a body, and then more grey, wet paper. As the air hits the paper wads they will spread, they will fill with color, they will dry. Then, standing in the spring sunshine, a butterfly

An adult

yes

Know what?

what?

The butterfly is a monarch and so no one will ever eat him

[Jeferson]

Wow, this is fun stuff. I was thinking today about submitting something else, and since I head off for a camping trip to the beach in a few hours, I decided to go ahead and write while I still have the opportunity. Last one, I promise.
Jef
ENTRY:

We knew the day might eventually come, so we worked feverishly to do everything we could to prevent it. It looks like we came up short.

Bill was running neck and neck with his main rival in the election campaign. There were only nine days left until voting day, and so the meeting with the newspaper’s editorial board was crucial. As his political advisors, we knew him well, and what we feared most was an off the cuff comment that would reveal his one underlying flaw; he viewed women as domestic goddesses who belonged in the kitchen, not the workplace. Considering his upbringing, and the era in which he grew up, this was not all that surprising. However, given the current political correctness so rampant in the nation, it seemed obvious that this best be kept a secret.

During the mock interview the morning before the meeting, we pushed hard to see if he would again remember to choose his words carefully. As had been the case throughout the campaign, Bill did a great job of expressing the utmost respect for both sexes, talking of the need for equality in the workplace, and when we pressed him about possible cabinet appointments, he spoke of his team of “great men and women” who were eager to serve the public. The ducks were all lined up neatly.

As 1:00 drew near, we headed into The Sun’s headquarters and confidently sent him up the elevator for the big meeting. When one of the local tv crews showed up to interview him about the province’s urgent need for forest fire fighters, we bought them some coffee and waited together for the interview upstairs to end, shooting the breeze and basking in the sunshine.

Bill emerged from the elevator at 3:15, wearing a sincere smile conveying the success of his meeting, and we exchanged invisible high fives. As a team, we’d done it again! But the first question from the tv reporter, caught by that tv camera too, wouldn’t you know it, almost cost us the election. Actually, the question about his wife, Lillian, was innocent enough, but it was Bill’s answer that would leave an impression on voters for years to come. “Bill, where’s Lillian?” the reporter asked.

“She’s at home where she should be, doing the laundry.”

Hearing those words, I knew it wouldn’t be long before Bill would be washed up.

[Bloomfield]

Thanks everybody again for your submissions. In my original post, I have the competition open for entries until the 10th of August. Just in the last couple of days things have slowed down.

Should I wrap it up early or keep it going? And did Jeferson really write what I think he just wrote?

[Walden]

Thanks everybody again for your submissions. In my original post, I have the competition open for entries until the 10th of August. Just in the last couple of days things have slowed down.

Might cut down on the suspense. Course, I could write a sequel to The Librarian Conspiracy.

[carrie]

Thanks everybody again for your submissions. In my original post, I have the competition open for entries until the 10th of August. Just in the last couple of days things have slowed down.

Should I wrap it up early or keep it going? And did Jeferson really write what I think he just wrote?

Just a thought here: wrapping up the competition doesn't really need to wrap up the thread, right? I mean, yes, of course we only entered to try for the prizes, but maybe even after they are awarded we could keep writing?

*wonders if she can sue Bloomfield for lost wages*

Carol

[Bloomfield]

Thanks everybody again for your submissions. In my original post, I have the competition open for entries until the 10th of August. Just in the last couple of days things have slowed down.

Might cut down on the suspense. Course, I could write a sequel to The Librarian Conspiracy.

Funny how your posts are always less than say 15 words. Except your story in this thread which had more than 700...

so if you can keep it to .4K words, by all means, we want a sequel to The Librarian's Perspiration.

[dubhlinn]

I agree with Carol. It would be nice to see this thread sticking (ahem..) around after the comp crack is finished.
It could become a haven for those days when the whistle just wont blow like you want it to and you dont feel like doing the things that you really should be doing.

Slan,
D.

[TonyHiggins]

Still not under 400 words, but closer (447). Talk to my lawyer.
I'd like to see the thread go on, even if I disqualify myself with my verbosity.

ENTRY (true story again, named changed)

Geoff was transferred from another Air Force hospital and arrived in late afternoon, heavily sedated, with straps from the gurney secured over his chest and thighs. He was wheeled to the back of the ward and parked outside a seclusion room while the nurse headed back to the front end of the ward to fix him a scheduled injection. I waited with Geoff in the quiet dead end corridor. The rest of the patients and corpsmen were in the dining hall downstairs.

I had read Geoff’s transfer narrative. He was 21yrs old. Within two weeks, he had been dumped by his girlfriend, had a car accident, and had seen The Exorcist. He behaved strangely at work and was sent for a psych evaluation, where he claimed he was possessed by the devil.

I had just seen The Exorcist, myself, and was still spooked by it. I’d met other psychotic patients who believed they were possessed and wondered what psychiatrists could possibly know about possession. I had attended Catholic schools and had heard stories from the nuns.

Geoff appeared to be sleeping. I spoke to him, reassuring him that he was in a hospital and we would keep him safe. I always did that with new patients who were 'out of touch with reality.' Eventually, Geoff began quiet muttering with his eyes still closed. I went on talking and patting his hand by this time. His muttering grew louder. I got closer to his face and asked him what was up, was there anything I could do for him. I was still leery of the devil, though.

Now, Geoff’s speech became fairly loud and sounded like an incantation to me. He raised his right arm up and made the sign of the cross in the air in front of himself. I wondered how long it takes to draw up a shot and get the hell back here and what kind of harm a demonic presence could do me. I pushed those thoughts aside and, though nervous, got really close to Geoff’s face again and asked him to tell me what was going on. He took a deep breath and roared, almost directly into my ear. I jumped away with a gasp, feeling my heart pounding in my throat. After a moment, I laughed at myself. Right on cue, the nurse showed up with the injection.

For weeks, Geoff was restrained in bed, trembling and sweating, incoherent, a look of horror on his face. I hated seeing him like that. Eventually, he told us he had thought we were devils and were trying to kill him. I’m figuring he was trying to ward me off the day we met.

Tony

[Bloomfield]

Still not under 400 words, but closer (447). Talk to my lawyer.
I'd like to see the thread go on, even if I disqualify myself with my verbosity.

Prolix reprobate, you.

[DCrom]

For weeks, Geoff was restrained in bed, trembling and sweating, incoherent, a look of horror on his face. I hated seeing him like that. Eventually, he told us he had thought we were devils and were trying to kill him. I’m figuring he was trying to ward me off the day we met.

Seems like an entirely reasonable assumption to me.

True story:

Back when I was in High School, I favored dark colors. Not as a "statement" or even intentionally, but I didn't care for bright colors. Most my pants (trousers, for the Brits and Irish here), jackets, and such were either black or a very dark brown.

Two other things: I have rather oversized canines (family trait) and extremely good dark adaptation - I almost never need a flashlight.

I was living on the family farm at the time, and due to agreement with our upstream neighbors we always got the irrigation water about sundown, so we needed to irrigate at night. So besides astronomy (my hobby then as now) I could count on being outside all night about once every week from mid May until late September. Since I usually already had my hands full with a shovel and and a gate hook, I didn't bother with a flashlight.

There was another farm (actually, a "hobby farm", owned by former city folks) just east of us - their farmhouse was only 100 yards or so from ours; I'd occasionally done odd jobs for the owner.

When I was 14, the son of the original owner moved his family in. The oldest grandson was about my own age, and we soon became friends, but his 12-year-old sister seemed to be both fascinated by and afraid of me. Finally, after months of rather odd behavior on her part, I asked him about it. After much hemming and hawing, he told me: after weighing the evidence (dark wardrobe, sees in the dark, prefers to be out at night, good with animals, large canine teeth) his sister was firmly convinced that I was a Vampire.

[susnfx]

ENTRY (not a serious one - just because this is fun)

How big is a little town? On tv they say "in a little town of 10,000..." That boggles my mind. From the time I was three until I was eight, I lived in a little town of 450. It was Tom Sawyer in 1955. We could walk from our little cinderblock house on the southern edge of town (just before you came to the fields and the pond where no one swam because it was bottomless) to the swimming hole on the nothern edge of town (just past the witch's house) in about 20 minutes, but we always caught a ride in someone's pickup truck if we could.

On the 23rd of July we always slept out on the front lawn because the 24th of July is the biggest holiday in Utah - Pioneer Day. At 6:00 a.m. we'd wake up to the boom of a cannon and fiddle music. The cannon and an old-time band shared the back of a flatbed truck being driven all over town, waking people for the celebration. We'd head to the town park (the lawn shared by the elementary school - the only school in town - and the church next door) for a pancake breakfast, then races, games, watermelon, prizes... After dark there'd be sparklers and barbequed hamburgers.

At one end of our gravel street, a little mossy rock-lined ditch ran under the road. It came from a bigger creek somewhere up by the old cotton mill, now a "radish factory" where radishes were cleaned and bunched by local Native Americans. Sometimes we'd lay on our stomachs on the road and watch for radish bunches that had gotten loose and made their way down into the little ditch - an infrequent prize for our patience.

Our closest neighbors were our dearest friends. We shared talk, vegetables, bottled fruit, pecans from the trees in the yard, and summer nights sitting together on lawn chairs with a single bulb lighting the porch. Bullfrogs came to feast on the insects drawn to the light. We played in the dark and ran to listen to Wilford tell his latest droll story and give us an illicit sip of his homemade wine - I can still remember the taste.

That "village" now has over 20,000 people. The swimming hole is filled in and the roads are all paved. But those days will be with me forever. My mother always said those were the happiest years of her life. They were mine, too, because they were the simplest and we got such joy from little things. May we all find a taste of that again.

Susan

[Nanohedron]

Still not under 400 words, but closer (447). Talk to my lawyer.
I'd like to see the thread go on, even if I disqualify myself with my verbosity.

Prolix reprobate, you.

I can't even be bothered to count. If I'm within the limits, have your people call my people.

Does every word count, or are articles, for example, exempt?