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Another point:

Guess where I came up with the 400-word limit?

http://www.dalewisely.com/righthandpointingleft/

So you're not just writing for this silly thread. You can kill two camels with one straw. Think about it. You could have a short attention span, too.

Well, I can't pass up a chance at a Bloomfield-tweaked Gen. And no matter how bad my fiction is, if it's the only one, I win!

ENTRY:

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.

Do I win, huh, do I?

blackhawk wrote:Do I win, huh, do I?

Let's put it this way: you are currently winning! Whooohooo!!!!

Thanks for the great submission & getting things started.

Hawk, you know how I'd never let anything get in the way of our friendship....well, that was before I thought I could maybe get a free CD or whistle. So move over Dashiell, the game's not over yet.


An entry:

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.

~~

P.S. Congratulations, Floombield! It seems like only desteryay we were celebrating your coo tay, or was it kee thray?

that was really nice. i liked it.

cskinner wrote:Hawk, you know how I'd never let anything get in the way of our friendship....well, that was before I thought I could maybe get a free CD or whistle. So move over Dashiell, the game's not over yet.

Um...after reading your story, I think it may well be! Unless John Grisham is a lurker here.

An Entry...

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.

I'll publish the winning entry in the first on-line issue of Right Hand Pointing Left.

Here's my submission:

Watching you shower,
I stand outside your window,
Painfully turgid.

Oh wait--sorry. That was one of my "stalker haiku" submissions. Totally got mixed up. Has NOTHING at all to do with Phil Coulter. Although it is interesting how the thought of Phil Coulter manages to conjure up expressions of bad taste...

cskinner wrote: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.

OK, this is cool because Ann Marie was the lead character in That Girl. So there's like a whole underlying subtext here. But what of Donald Hollinger?

Entry.......
I surcumed to a curiosity, which turned into an interest,
the interest was clean fun and honest,
and hurt no-one in the process,
Given time the interest evolved into obcession,
obcession has its own stigma, often frowned upon yet in its own way a vital tool for percieved perfection,
I desired perfection, so obcession was my friend and my persecuter,
still it is hard to obcess without natural talent and the necessary learning capasity to overcome inbred incompetence,
The mind and body must be fed, and the soul nurtured so that growth and mental health is not retarded,
My hunger was insatiable, and my thirst unquenchable,
So i ate and drank in the cesspool of human information, gormet??....well maybe not, but filling and satisfying.....indeed!!
The world internet, yes an interesting snack providing salt, fat and the carbohydrates to feul my obcession, and the junk food was plentiful, I wanted and need more...more ...more,
but wait.....
before political colesterol could choke my veins, i realised that junkfood in moderation is nice but excercise would balance my weakness,
I took into my own hands the instrument of my passion, and with the conviction of a spartan and the dedication of a swimmer in the desert, i expelled the demons of the cesspool and thrashed relentlessly till my soul was elated and my ears overwhelmed,
exhausted yet elated i rested to begin tomorrow again,
such is the legacy of the tinwhistler,
unadulterated bliss, and cholesterol free
to enjoy the long life and the expressive vitality
of so may before me,
whistling forever,
copyright
Boomerang / aka
David

Rando7 wrote:

cskinner wrote: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.

OK, this is cool because Ann Marie was the lead character in That Girl. So there's like a whole underlying subtext here. But what of Donald Hollinger?

Normally I make it a point not to talk about my work, but your comment raises the obvious question: what on earth are the youth being taught today in their literature courses? Yes, of course the whole That Girl theme is there (with its delicious echo of "That Boy" of course). But Rando7, how can you pick up on this and miss the more obvious and far more significant political commentary? Surely you must realize there was a reason the high school was named Roosevelt? And can anyone really read the word vacuum without thinking of Hoover? If ever there were an allusion to the heated political confrontation between Roosevelt and Hoover in the presidential campaign of 1932, this is it, my friend. I will leave it to you to draw any similarities to our current presidential race: but honestly, were trade and labor issues EVER more at the center of the political debate than they are now?

Sometimes you just have to put aside your artistic caution and set the record straight.

Carol

May one enter more than one piece?

FJohnSharp wrote:May one enter more than one piece?

Certainly, the more the better!