WORDS DANCE Challenge #1 Contestants
CONTESTANT #6    1st PRIZE

Albert Einstein: The Story of a Humble Scientist


 

Everyone should be respected as an individual, but no one idolized.” ~ Albert Einstein

          
Born to Hermann and Pauline Einstein on March 14, 1879 in Wurttemberg, Germany, the young Albert became fascinated with science at an early age after an encounter with a magnetic compass left him wondering about things “deeply hidden.”

            While growing up, Einstein’s family moved several times, and finally in 1896, he began training to become a physics and math teacher at the Swiss Federal Polytechnic School. During this time, Einstein became a Swiss citizen, and fell in love with Maria Maric, a fellow classmate whom he would later marry in 1903, and have two sons with, as well an out-of-wedlock daughter that was given up for adoption.

            Unable to find a teaching position after graduating, Einstein became a patent clerk, which provided him with a salary and time to think about unsolved physics problems. Einstein published five papers in 1905, one of which would earn him the Nobel prize, and another (describing his special theory of relativity) which would make him famous for the creation of the well-known equation e = mc2.

            Einstein then held various university teaching positions in Zurich, Prague and Berlin while publishing several scientific papers, including one that accounted for gravity in conjunction with his special theory of relativity. This paper described the general theory of relativity, and it argued that space and time were mathematically the same thing, and that two objects did not directly attract each other, but affected space and time with gravitational consequences. Meanwhile, Einstein’s marriage began to disintegrate, and eventually in 1919, he and Maric officially divorced. Soon after, Einstein married his cousin, Elsa.

            Einstein continued to publish scientific papers as World War II approached. A Jew and a pacifist, he happened to be in California when Hitler took power in 1933, and did not bother to return to Germany.

In 1939, Einstein sent a letter to President Roosevelt that the Germans were developing a nuclear weapon. In response, the Americans created the Manhattan Project, which led to the development of the atomic bomb that would be dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Einstein became a U.S. citizen in 1940 after renouncing his German citizenship, and died on April 16, 1955 in Princeton, New Jersey, leaving behind a world more knowledgeable due to his contributions.

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References:

http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/physics/laureates/1921/einstein-bio.html

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aso/databank/entries/bpeins.html

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/a/albert_einstein.html

http://www.humboldt1.com/%7Egralsto/einstein/timeline.html

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CONTESTANT #7    2nd PRIZE

Joaquín Salvador Lavado


 

  

 Born in Mendoza, Argentina on July 17 of 1932 son of Spanish immigrants Joaquín Salvador Lavado is one of the most influents cartoonist of Latin America.

 

   His vocation as cartoonist started at a very early age while sharing time with his uncle the cartoonist Joaquín Lavado who used to entertain his nephew with his drawings but it was until he was a teen when he started studying art at the Escuela de Bellas Artes dropping off his studies a couple of years later to become a comic book cartoonist

 

   After selling his first job to a Silk store he decides to give it a try on Buenos Aires but he can’t find job at any newspaper or magazine. A few months later after his return to Mendoza begins his military service that although it was difficult for him to be there, coexisting with people from different social strata was very useful to enrich his style.

 

   After his military service was over he decides to keep looking for a job opportunity back in Buenos Aires where he finally gets his first cartoon published and then one by one different magazines and newspapers also start publishing his cartoons.

 

   After having a good position as cartoonist he makes his first exhibition in a bookstore on Argentina and by the year of 1963 he was requested to create some comic characters that were a mixture of “Blondie”(*1) and “Peanuts”(*2) to promote a line of electrical household appliances where the idea of Mafalda comes up but the Company decides not to do it after all and Mafalda returns to the drawer until a year later when it’s finally published as comic strip in a magazine and expand to other publications including international ones.

 

   After that some of the comic strips were displayed in Europe into a recompilation of texts and graphic humour called “Libro dei Bambini Terribili per adulti masochisti” the first book of Mafalda called “Mafalda the Contestatory” with the introduction of the great writer, literary critic and semiologist Humberto Eco. While Joaquin keeps publishing his comic books his comic strip character Mafalda keeps expanding around the globe and Joaquin signs a contract for a Mafalda tv cartoon but in 1973 he decides to stop making Mafalda’s comic strips because of all the pressure that he was feeling trying not to be repetitive on any strip or as he said on an enterview  “When you cover with your hand the last vignette of a strip and you know how will it end means that the story doesn’t work.”

 

   After this Mafalda has been drawn a few times: for the worldwide campaign of the Declaration of the Human Rights for UNICEF, for an oral hygiene campaign for LASAB, to commemorate five years of democratic government of the President Raúl Alfonsín in Argentina, some welfare campaigns and now as spokeswoman of protests. The publications of his other comic books have continued until 2007 with his last one called “The Adventure of Eating” having so far more than 20 titles published and some re-editions.

 

   His books have been translated into many languages around the world and he has exhibitions around Latin America and Europe but just as the world has opened the door to Joaquin Salvador Lavado (Quino) and his fantastic art he also has opened a world to us with his special way of representing every aspect on human life and those tiny details on every drawing is what make him so big.

 

 

 

 

References:

 

http://www.mundopeke.com/web/mafalda/autor/quino.htm

 

http://www.todohistorietas.com.ar/quino.htm

 

http://www.unesco.org/courier/2000_07/sp/dires.htm

 

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quino

 

http://www.quino.com.ar/

 

1*   http://www.blondie.com/

 

2*   http://www.unitedmedia.com/comics/peanuts/

 

 


 
CONTESTANT #5    3rd PRIZE

George Washington


George Washington was born February 22, 1732 in Westmoreland County, Virginia. His parents were Augustus and Mary Ball Washington and he had eight siblings. Three of those were sired by his father before Augustus's marriage to Mary Ball. George's older step brother, Lawrence, would become influential in his life and actually became his mentor and tutor.

No one is sure about George's early education but it is generally accepted that typically, in colonial Virginia, children would begin their formal education around the age of seven. They were usually taught the 3 R's: reading, writing and arithmetic and when they were older, they were taught Latin and Greek. Their later studies might also include geometry, bookkeeping, and surveying. Well-to-do planters would then send their sons to England to complete their educations.
 

It is not known if George was educated at home or at a local private school, but it known that he excelled at math and surveying. It is believed that his 'formal' education ended around the age of fifteen, or perhaps after his father died, that he did not attend higher education classes in England and that he never learned any language but English.
 

George Washington was ever aware of his lacking education, and made up for it by obtaining and studying books on his own, and from learning by example from those who had earned his respect. His personal library was massive, for the day, and he was often seen with a book in hand.
 

After his father died, George began to spend time with his older half brother, Lawrence, and became a planter, like his father before him, and a surveyor. Lawrence introduced George into society, and taught him the fine art of social grace.
 

George made only one trip outside of the United States, at age nineteen and this was to accompany Lawrence to Barbados, in hopes that a warmer climate might influence Lawrence's failing health. It didn't, however, and Lawrence died within the year.
 

There is a story which is retold in schools across the United States about George's character as a youngster, in fact almost any child can recount it for you. In this story, George Washington's father discovers that his prize cherry tree has been cut down, and questions his children about it. Young George reportedly stands up, and says, “Father, I cannot tell a lie. Twas I who cut down the cherry tree.” While this is a great story, it actually never happened. So little is actually known about George Washington's early life, that when Mason Locke Weems wrote a book about George's life in the 1800's, Weems included a few made up stories intended to show George's outstanding good character.
 

George Washington grew to be 6' 2” tall, in a time period when most men were little more than 5' 6”. His height alone must have been intimidating to those who opposed him and probably instilled respect in those who served under him.
 

George Washington was heavily involved in politics through out his life. He served as a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses, as the Justice of Fairfax County, Virginia, as a Delegate of the First and Second Continental Congresses and as President of the Constitutional Convention. His military career included serving in the Virginia Militia from 1752-1758 before becoming Commander in Chief of the Continental Army from 1775-1783.
 

On January 6, 1759 George took a wife. He married Martha Dandridge Curtis, a widow with two children from her first marriage. Martha was about eight months older than George, and they had no children together. Martha's daughter, (Martha) called Patsy, died at age seventeen. Her son, (John) called Jackie, also died young at age twenty-six. Two of Jackie's children were adopted by the Washington's and accompanied them to both of our nation's temporary capitals in New York and Philadelphia.
 

In February 1789, George Washington ran unopposed and was elected as the first President of the United States. He held the office for only two terms, declining a third due to his belief that two terms were the maximum any single man should serve. He was also offered, and initially refused, a salary of $25,000 per year. He did eventually take the money, however, thus putting an end to a possible inclination to only nominate and vote for future candidates for presidency who might be able to afford to hold the office.
 

After his presidency, he continued to be active in service to our young nation, and was appointed in 1798 to command the army when war seemed unavoidable with France.


He died at home in 1799 at his Mount Vernon Virginia estate and was buried on those grounds.

Perhaps because he felt his own education lacking, he made provisions in his will promoting education, by leaving stocks and money to support educational institutions. He also freed his slaves with that same document,stating that upon the death of his wife, that they should be emancipated, and his estate provided for them for decades after his death.

There are a great many tales, both true and fictitious, that are abound about George Washington. Perhaps it is because his early life is so elusive and his latter life so public that, as a nation, Americans are willing to bestow and accept heroic feats and attributes to him. In reality, he was but a man. Apparently a tall and imposing man, with good morals, and driven by the social mores of his time. It's perhaps nothing short of ironic that a man who never produced progeny of his own, is credited the birth of a nation.


 

Sources:
 

www.mountvernon.org

(Facts and Falsehoods about George Washington)

www.norwichbulletin.com/lifestyles/columinists

(Historically Speaking: George Washington, separating facts from fiction)

http://mehendale-parivar.blogspot.com/2008/04/little-known-george-washington.html

(Little Known George Washington Education Facts)

http://www.who2.com/marthawashington.html

Martha Washington

http://home.comcast.net/

(GeorgeWashington)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Washington

(George Washington)
 

 

CONTESTANT 12 -- First Place

Sarah


 

"Get lost Weirdo!"

"Push off,"

"Go away and play with your crystal ball!"

"See-er Sa-rah! See -er Sarah!"

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The voices were hard and the faces were closed as the group of girls stood united, backs against the door und refused Sarah entry to the library.

"You don't need to study anyway, you can see what the questions are going to be so why don't you tell us, and maybe we'll let you in."'

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Sarah looked at them and considered their offer, but not for very long; she had been fooled before. If she did what they asked, they would write the questions down,

say  "Thanks very much!" and STILL not let her in to the library.

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She truly regretted telling Jenny her secret the previous term, but they had been best friends; she would never have thought that Jenny would react the way she had.

At first she had refused to believe that Sarah could really see the future, but then, once it was proved, she had reacted with fear and loathing.

"Well?" Jenny demanded, ''Are You going to tell us, or not?"

Sarah allowed herself once more to focus on the flickering images that hovered in the background of her mind, as she considered her options. The futures of two of them, Jenny and Anne, were fixed; nothing could alter that now, but the others were still in flux.

If she gave them the questions Erica's future solidified, if she didn't, it was Tracy whose path became fixed.

Sarah hated that her choices could have such a major impact on someone else's life.

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"You girls stop blocking the door! You've got your books so move along." It was Mrs Granger.

"Yes Miss."  said Jenny, and the girls walked away. As they left, the images that surrounded Tracy brightened into the clearer images of a certain future, but it had not been Sarah's choice after all. This time someone else's actions had been the deciding factor. She breathed a sigh of relief, and went into the library to get the book she knew she needed.

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“Pens down please,” Mrs Granger said, and those who had been still furiously scribbling laid their pens down. “Sit still please, while I collect your papers.” She continued and walked from desk to desk, picking up the exam sheets.

Sarah kept her eyes firmly down, while she went by, and stayed in her chair as the other girls left the exam room. She didn’t want to look at anyone if it could be avoided; she dreaded what she would see. Over the last few days, the glimpses into the future had steadied for one girl after the next, and she was tired of seeing it, tired of knowing what no one should know. She particularly avoided mirrors!

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“Well! Did I pass?” It was Jenny who blocked her path, with the rest of her coterie.

Sarah reluctantly looked up and looked at each of them, reading their futures as easily as she had read the exam questions.

“Yes, you all did,” she replied. “Don’t worry, you’ll all be on the trip.”

That was the reason, of course, for their badgering her about this exam. There was a class trip planned at the end of the month; a treat before the main exams began. Anyone who failed the exam they had just taken, would be staying behind for further revision. It wasn’t anything spectacular; just a trip to the beach, but no-one wanted to miss it. Except Sarah.

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The next day, the results were posted; only three had failed and would miss the trip.

Everyone else had passed.

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Over the next few days, Sarah stopped looking down. Instead, she made a point of looking at the people around her carefully. Her ability was growing stronger and she found she was now even seeing the futures of animals and birds.

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She came to a decision.

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On the day of the trip, she chose her clothes carefully. They were allowed to wear ordinary clothes for beach trips so she chose her newest and best. She had emptied her piggy bank, and taken out as much money from her bank account as she was allowed. She placed an envelope on her pillow.

Before she left, she hugged her mother tightly, “Love you Mum” she said then hurried out of the house before her mother could recover from the surprise.

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At the school, she waited with the others in the classroom. She looked around and saw to her surprise that one person still had the flickering images of an unfixed future.

Andrea, the new girl, was walking towards the door. Sarah had never spoken to her, knew nothing about her, but suddenly realised that she had a chance to save her life. She followed Andrea down the corridor and into the toilets. Andrea disappeared into a cubicle, and Sarah took her opportunity.

The door handle to these toilets was loose and often came off. Several girls had been trapped in here the previous month. Sarah managed to pull out the screws, remove the handle and pull out the metal bar from the hole. She pulled the door shut as she left; Andrea would be stuck until someone let her out.

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The others were boarding the coach as Sarah rushed to join them, as she climbed aboard, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the shiny wall by the driver. She could see her own future, fixed and short, but was content. As she took her seat, she looked around at the others. What would happen would be a terrible tragedy, but she had not created it, not had any of her choices led these people here. It was not of her making or doing. She had managed to save one person without another being affected. She could have saved herself too, but she was tired of this knowledge and relieved that it would soon end.

Even she didn’t know what, if anything, would come after and the uncertainty was a blessing after the last few weeks.

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“What are you looking so cheerful about?” Jenny’s voice came from the seat behind.

“Oh nothing important,” she replied to her onetime friend, “I’m just reflecting on the importance of living each day as if it was your last. After all you never know do you?” She winked at Jenny, and then grinned at the sudden look of puzzlement followed by worry.

“What do you mean!” Jenny demanded.

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“Have a great day Jenny, I intend to” Sarah replied, and moved to a different seat. She was going to do everything she could today, eat anything she wanted to, say anything she wanted to, do anything she wanted to.

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The tragedy made the national news, an entire class of teenaged girls killed after a trip to the beach. Their coach had skidded on oil and gone off a cliff. There were no survivors.

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CONTESTANT 7 -- SECOND PLACE

The Dark Side of Gene Therapy


 

            Is it possible that one day humans will be able to cure any one of the four thousand genetic disorders? Although in its infancy, gene therapy is providing hope to those suffering from genetic disorders that the answer may be yes. Gene therapy is the insertion of a new gene into the cell using a vector, which carries the gene into the cell’s nucleus, to fix or replace a faulty gene. At present, the vectors are mainly viruses, but non-viral methods like liposomes are being explored (Health Canada). Though gene therapy provides humans with the possibility of curing genetic disorders someday, it should be banned due to the technique itself, the fact that it can trigger an immune response that may prove to be fatal, and because it poses serious ethical concerns.

            One of the reasons gene therapy should be stopped is due to the technique itself. It is difficult for vectors to insert the genes into the correct cell or into its rightful place in the human genome. If the gene is inserted into the incorrect cell or into the wrong place, this may prove to be harmful. For example, a cancerous tumour could be induced if the DNA is inserted into a tumor suppressor gene. As well, many genes are only activated at certain times within the cell, and it would be inefficient for the cell to have them turned “on” all the time. In addition, gene therapy is expensive, and since biotechnology and drug companies want to make a profit, they will initially develop cures for common genetic disorders. However, the most likely candidates for gene therapy are those that have a mutation in a single gene, yet these people only account for 2% of all diseases (Yount 63). The nature of gene therapy is just one of the reasons that it should be ended.

            As well, gene therapy should be discontinued because it may trigger a fatal immune response. Since viruses are currently used as vectors, they have the potential for deadly consequences if something were to go wrong. For instance, in the early 1990’s retroviruses were used as vectors because they inserted the genes directly into the cell’s genome. Although none was demonstrated to cause harm to a patient, a risk existed that the virus would insert the gene in such a way that it would result in cancer (AMA). As a result, in the mid-1990’s scientists turned to adenoviruses like the ones associated with colds. Though these modified viruses were deemed better because they only inserted the genes into the cell’s nucleus, the immune system usually did not recognize that the virus was harmless, and so began to attack it (Yount 51). When more viruses were delivered, the immune reaction simply became worse, and in the case of Jesse Gelsinger, an eighteen-year-old suffering from mild ornithine transcarbamylase deficiency (a disease that prevents the liver from breaking down ammonia) who voluntarily participated in a trial for gene therapy for the disease, resulted in liver failure and ultimately his death (Yount 77). The potential for gene therapy to trigger a fatal response should be a consideration in halting gene therapy.

            The serious ethical concerns posed by gene therapy should also be a reason to have it ceased. For now, gene therapy is in its early stages and scientists are looking to cure only those suffering from genetic disorders, but in the future when gene therapy will be common, how will humans determine what is classified as a “genetic disorder?” For example, could something as simple as myopia or a darker skin colour be considered a genetic disorder, and be treated? Gene therapy in the future may also allow humans to add to or remove certain traits. However, this might result in increased pressure to use gene therapy because employers might not provide potential employees with a job if they did not have a desired characteristic. In addition, insurance companies may not provide insurance to a person with a “faulty” gene, or prospective mates would only be looking for someone that possesses the most desirable genes. In the end, a master race would be created amongst those who can afford gene therapy, and a bigger gap would result between the rich and the poor. As well, gene therapy currently can only cause genes in somatic cells to be changed, but gene therapy in the future may allow germ-line genes – genes that can be passed to the next generation – to be changed (Yount 97). This would then violate the rights of an unborn child because their genes would be affected without their consent. In some cases, the child may be fine with the change after it is born, but in other cases the gene might prove to have some usefulness. For instance, blood cells are aided in fighting against malaria if a person carries one copy of the gene that causes sickle cell anemia (Yount 100). Due to the ethical concerns posed by gene therapy, gene therapy should be stopped.

            Gene therapy should be banned due to the technique itself, the fact that it can trigger a fatal immune response, and because it poses serious ethical concerns. A complicated process, gene therapy may result in the formation of tumours or fatal immune reactions, and will change the way humans view themselves in the future. Ultimately, it will up to individuals to decide how far they are willing to go change their “undesirable” genes.
 

References:

1) American Medical Association. "Gene Therapy." 28 April 2008. http://www.ama-assn.org/ama/pub/category/2827.html.

2) Health Canada. "Gene Therapy." 28 April 2008.
http://www.hc-sc.gc.ca/sr-sr/biotech/about-apropos/gen_therap_e.html.
 

3) Yount, Lisa. Gene Therapy. San Diego: Lucent Books, 2002.

CONTESTANT 8 -- THIRD PLACE

Sian Williams


 

I grew up in a small town in rural Shropshire.  This town was the extent of my world for a long long time and it still haunts my memories.  Childhood Christmases with toy guns, action men and meccano, summer holidays with learning to smoke, running from angry wasp nests and making dens in the woodland. 

It seemed to me that the whole of my world was filled with happiness, excitement and I entered that world without a care.

During one of those summer holidays, when I was 9, a family moved in next door and with them came their daughter Sian.  Sian was a dark haired girl with deep brown eyes and a lovely lilting Welsh accent, I fell in love instantly.  Over the next few weeks Sian came round to our house almost every day and was the only girl to accompany the gang of four boys that I hung out with and explored our world. 

She was an instant hit with the boys, being a girl didn’t seem to stop her from getting into streams to try and catch fish or to stop her from climbing trees to peer into birds nests.  In fact she even stole the cigarettes from her mum’s handbag for us all to share.  On the way back from these mini adventures she would often walk with me and would even casually slide her arm around mine, causing butterflies to leap into the air and to fly around my stomach. 

I never once during our adventures thought of telling her that I loved her it just didn’t feel right to say.  Late on during the summer my mother announced we were going to go to the Welsh coast for a weeks break. 

During that week I thought about Sian so often that she was wearing a path in my mind and I decided that upon my return from holiday I would tell her what I felt.  I went around the gift shops looking for a present to give her and found a little cup with “Cara 'ch”, I love you in Welsh, written on it.  Buying the cup took all of my holiday money and a considerable amount of embarrassment and teasing from my brother and sister.

I carried the cup safely in my lap all the way back on our four hour drive home and rushed round to Sian’s house as soon as we got to our house.  She was playing in the garden with one of our friends and I went rushing up.

She seemed a little embarrassed to see me standing there in front of her, I said “hi” and Jim moved away from the two of us.  She looked me in the eyes and said “hi” also.  “Here” I said, words failing me as I handed her the present I had got her.  She unwrapped the cup and stared at it, “it means “I love you” in welsh” I stared to say.  She raised her eyes to my face and I instantly knew what I had presented to her was as welcome as a wasp in a jar of jam.  “I know what it says” she hissed “what made you think you could buy me this” and she flung it at the wall where it smashed into hundreds of shards.

Later that year my parents split up but that year will always be the year that Sian Williams smashed my heart against her garden wall.

CONTESTANT #3    1st PRIZE

On dragon's wings I fly.


 

I only ever met her once, briefly. Didn’t like her much to tell the truth though, thinking back, I don’t suppose I made a particularly good impression either.

I’d been waiting for 3 hours; I arrived early to be sure of getting in, and was actually at the front of the queue. 19yrs old, somewhat sweaty from standing so long in the hot morning sunshine, in that London street, clutching a carrier bag containing almost every book she’d ever written. Big grin as I finally found myself face to face with my favourite authoress, and babbling inanely. Oh yes! I must have looked a complete idiot! She certainly seemed to think so, judging from the blankness on her face. I can imagine her thinking “Get a life!” as she smiled politely and signed all the books I had brought.

“Have a nice day,” she said,

“I will, I’ll be reading this” I burbled as I waved the new novel I had just bought, and headed out of the shop.

Cringeworthy!

And yet….

When I think about the impact that one woman had on my life, it is truly astonishing.

 

Anne McCaffrey.

 

A friend’s father introduced me to science fiction in my early teens. I spent many a happy hour rummaging through the boxes in their attic, pulling out ancient novels, taking home stacks to read in the week. I loved it, and still do. Heinlein, Asimov, Harrison, Herbert, Aldiss, all to be found on my shelves today, all excellent writers.

The stories excited my imagination.

None, however, had the same impact as Dragonflight.

I read it cover to cover in a couple of hours without stopping, then read it again.

When I put it down, my eyes were wide and I felt like I was floating. I truly wished I could get inside the novel and be there in that world. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never experienced it; it’s a wonderful, magical, and yet also sad, feeling. It’s a sense of the wondrous things that may be possible, one day, for our descendents, but not for us. Never for us.

 

I borrowed Dragonquest as soon as I possibly could, and sped through that.

Over the next few years I acquired all her dragon novels as they came out.

Dragons! I was besotted with dragons. I had had only a mild interest in my art classes at school, but now I began to draw dragons. I experimented with different media, but my favourite was pen and ink. My artwork was intricate and detailed. I began with dragons, and progressed to elves, characters from Tolkein, and immensely detailed trees. From there I branched out (if you’ll forgive the pun) into Celtic knotwork.

I loved anything to do with fantasy, and so discovered the wonderful world and art of Wendy Pini, which further inspired my drawings.

Over the years I have also turned my hand to model making; attempting to reconstruct buildings on archaeological sites in my region. Some of those models are on display in our public area at work. The model dragon, however, sits on my drinks cabinet and watches over the room.

 

It was like a snowball rolling down the mountainside, one thing leading to another. Several of my favourite authors today, are people with whom she collaborated in various works, or people she recommended in her introductions.

 

I sit here today, surrounded by 3 thousand books (or so), and wonder what this room would be like if I had never read that first novel by Anne McCaffrey, had never progressed from enjoying science fiction to loving science fiction.

A lot less cluttered, perhaps, but also a lot greyer.

 

Thanks to her, I know what it feels like to ride a dragon.

 

If she did a book signing next week, here in this town, I’d probably still be at the front of the queue with a bag of books and an inane grin.
CONTESTANT #4    2nd PRIZE

Mentor, Mentee


    She's been part of my life for quite sometime now. It's hard to think of anything to say because, there's so much to say I can't type every single thing out. I do want to say she's sweet, clever, smart and very beautiful. She may be married but she's still her own woman. This woman is my mentor.
    I met her when I was in the 5th grade. I'm not going to say it all but just to make a long story short; we've bonded together through happiness, pain and much more. My mentor supported me through all of my bad times. Even in the good ones too, who ever knew a few kind words and a strawberry milkshake  could go so far? She made it happen. If I ever needed advice and had no one to turn to I'd dial her up then soon see her smiling face there when I'd need her.
    She talks a bit too much, and can be a bit too generous but I wouldn't have her any other way. My mentor could be my grandmother and still be my best friend. She's helped me find ways to get jobs and introduced me to people that could give me a head start on my career. She knows when I'm uncomfortable and nervous. A heart to heart hug and a kiss on the cheek . She's so wonderful, God why did you pick me?
    Though, my mentor guided me through many triumphs I gave her a reason to love me also. When ever she's in pain or needs my help I'm there to give her whatever she wants. I comfort her when she wants company, even I helped her recognize a few hidden talents but let's not get into that^_^.
    We bond together so well, like yin yang, my mentor and I. There's so much more I'd like to say but it's all jumbled up in my head I can't make coherent sentences so let's just say we're the perfect mentor and mentee. If we were put together it'll be destructrion. Now how many can say that about their mentor and mentee.
 
CONTESTANT #1    3rd PRIZE

She


 

I loved her, of that there is no doubt. Indeed, she was the first woman I truly fell in love with, the first woman I met with whom I dreamed of spending my life. We met for the first time in the shadow of Putney Bridge, a place that will forever now be uniquely treasured to me, and my first sight of her stopped both breath and heartbeat for long moments.  She possessed sublime beauty: long, straight, auburn hair; delicate, classical features; a glowing smile that showed small, white teeth; piercing, onyx eyes, a look from which connected directly with one's soul; a laugh it was impossible not to match with one’s own; and a slim, graceful figure that gave one the impression that she never quite made contact with the tangible world, but rather floated just above it. While others battled their way through the crowded streets, she slipped through the throngs as effortlessly as a neutrino through lead.

 

Before I met her I wore a shell, hardened through many years of disappointment, acute shyness, and lack of confidence. It was a shell that both protected me and proscribed my movements. She broke through the shell and released me from the twilight of existing into the sunlight of living. Being with her gave me a sense of self-belief that was intoxicating, so long had it been since I had experienced it. Crowded places, which before had held for me irrational but real terrors, suddenly opened up into inviting spaces, places I not only could enter but actively desired to be. For the first time in my life I felt drawn to other people.

 

She it was who brought me to London for the first time since childhood; she who showed me the sheer joy of simply being at the centre of things, where before I had been perpetually peripheral. She had spirit, an acute awareness of all around her. She taught me to see beauty and meaning in everything around me. She gave me vision where before I had possessed mere sight. She imbued my superficial appreciation of art with deep understanding for the first time. She showed me how to look through, beyond, around, and within; how to see the big picture and the detail; how to see the latent beneath the manifest. She showed me how to see the world through an artist’s eyes. She fired my desire to be creative in every way.

 

For a few brief weeks and months, I thought myself the luckiest man alive. Surely none could be more fortunate than I? Spending whole days exploring the city with the most beautiful woman on Earth; strolling around galleries; having long, latté-fuelled conversations in coffee shops; browsing the market stalls along Portobello Road; or simply people-watching in the most cosmopolitan city in the world. She fired every neuron in my brain. I felt more alive in those moments than I had before or have since. I fell through her event horizon and could not have been happier at the prospect of eternal imprisonment within that imperceptible sphere.

 

She was, of course, always far beyond my reach, but the message took a long time to travel from head to heart. Yet even after reality broke through and dissolved the dream, the joy, the calm, the contentedness I felt merely by being in her presence diminished little, and remains with me. I love her still, and always will, but as tides roll the sharp angles from a rock to form a smooth pebble, so time has moulded that acute romantic love into the rounded love of friendship. She will always be my dearest friend, the one who gave to my life depth, meaning, richness and joy for which I could never find a way to truly thank her enough. 

CONTESTANT #4    1st PRIZE

If I were god.....


If I were god, and suddenly in charge of the world as we know it, there are so many things that I want to do, I wouldn't know where to start. The way the Christian god did it, I suppose, would be a nice place to start. I understand that on the first day, and each subsequent day thereafter for four more days, he began a series of creative events which started with dividing the light from the darkness and ended with him having created a perfect world, complete with the fish of the waters and the animals of the land and all things in between. The earth was perfect, without pollution and with plants and vegetation abound, in perfect harmony and able to provide everything needed for the continuation of the world. Finally, on the sixth day of creation, god created mankind. I am thinking perhaps he rushed that job a little bit though, as it seems that most of what is wrong with the perfect earth that he created has been caused by imperfect human hands.

The first thing that I would do would be to start over. By that, I mean that I would pick another place in the void of space and make a new heaven and earth. I would design the new earth and heavens pretty much as it was originally reported to have been done, except that I make a few more purple and blue flowers and cut back on the red and pink ones a little bit! I know that sounds a bit frivolous in a world fraught with so much hate and discontentment and in which so many things are just, well, wrong BUT I happen to love purple flowers and if I were god, I could have all the purple flowers I had enough imagination to create!

Once I had a perfect earth, I would look deep within myself and see what part I might have played in the untimely demise of the original earth and it's inhabitants. The first change I would make in myself is to take away all those jealous and self-centered tendencies that seem to mold most of my decisions. Then I would most definitely work on my anger issues. Just to be on the safe side, I would add some extra compassion and understanding to my psyche. After I had rid myself of all the things that I would punish humans for exhibiting, then I would move along to the next thing on my list.

Like the god of my childhood, the next thing I would eventually get around to is creating �man�. I would almost like to wait, and see if evolution is actually a possibility and if indeed one of the animals I created would indeed evolve and turn into an upright, opposable thumbed, thinking, problem solving, loving, compassionate machine, but I am inclined to be impatient, and, unfortunately, since I am still human and merely pretending to be god, I can't resist the temptation of impatience. But, since man was made in god's own image, and I fixed myself before moving on to mankind , I have already solved a few of the problems with him. I would make this man a little different from the original, though. I would keep the difference in the sexes, physically, in that men would be different from women, but I would make them closer to the same, psychologically and spiritually. Both would be logical thinking beings. Both would be problem solvers. Both would be equally good at spelling and math. Both would be able to cry and to express their feelings. Since we are starting over, and original sin has not happened yet, I would take that whole tree of knowledge thing and invite them to eat from it, without penalty. After all, knowledge is power and since I wouldn't change free will, it is all good. That would mean that women would no longer suffer in childbirth and that men would no longer have to toil upon the earth for their living, at least not in the sense that we do today. More importantly, they would be equals. Men would no longer have dominion over women and neither would carry the either the biological disposition or psychological frailty that would make them want to be superior to another fellow human being.

Speaking of superiority, I think I would make all humans green, perhaps. If there were but one race, there would not be a need to enslave, belittle or oppress another. Differences are what makes us feel superior to another, and if we were all the same skin color, that would be one less thing to feel superior about. I would leave other changes in place, though,like height differences, eye color, hair color and type. I feel some individuality is necessary, if for no other reason than to tell us apart!

Another thing I would change about humans is that I would make their genetic code a bit harder to break. This means that while they would be adaptable, they wouldn't break down and become defective in say 2,000 years or so. This would prevent chromosomal defects which lead to many disabilities and genetic predispositions which lead to many illnesses, including cancer and heart disease and other conditions such as obesity. Simply fixing the genetic code would not affect natural selection in that sloth and gluttony would still lead to obesity. Birth accidents might still produce a brain damaged infant. But, as a population, we would not be ravaged by the devastating effects of catastrophic illnesses caused by a break in our genetic codes.

I would also change the rules a little bit in that all the commandments come down to three basic rules: (1) Don't lie. (2) Don't steal. (3) Treat others the way you want to be treated. Since I fixed myself and am no longer a jealous god, that whole 'thou shalt have no gods before me' is a moot point.

Also, there would be no need for a sacrifice of any kind, as since original sin has been done away with and there would be but three basic rules, there would be nothing to atone for. Ultimately, man would not report to me, but he would be judged and punished for his bad behavior by his peers...thus making him ultimately more responsible and more willing to conform, as his punishment would be on earth...immediately and justly administered.

Also, while we are discussing the rules, I would take a closer look at that whole user manual, the bible. We are essentially re-writing the history of the world, with a newly improved god, a perfect earth, redesigned humans and a minimal amount of rules. The bible would be about 10 pages long, or less. What would be important is actually the history of civilization and the advent of society and its rules and regulations. Do not be misled, society will reinvent itself, as it has done for thousands of years. This is the true nature of the world, and, as such, is inevitable. I should hope that this world, the new and hopefully improved one, would migrate towards a more libertarian society, but that remains to be seen, doesn't it?

In conclusion, after having made all these changes, I would merely sit back and wait and see. After all, if I were god, I could certainly wait a few thousand years, see what develops and if it is undesirable, merely start again! IF I WERE GOD, that is!

 

 

CONTESTANT #2    2nd PRIZE

God of Mutual Understanding


 

                If I had the lavish luxury, to become and be the one and only God, I would do a lot of things to change mankind.  I would change social views, standards, and many other aspects of human culture, to make society less media-influenced and fairer for people to withstand.

                First and foremost, I would make sure that there are formal definitions for different words. There would be no slangs, no gimmicks, no falsities but real words of utterance by humankind. Words are often misinterpreted and used against people as a dagger of aggression. Slangs are often misinterpreted and used sarcastically to damage the emotional psyche of young victims of abuse/bullying etc. Thus as God, I would not allow there to be slangs to exist. It would not only create less confusion to the world I created, but it would also help people understand each other for mutual respect, and less violent conflicts of mouth. It would prevent arguments and social misunderstandings that cause wars, fights, violence, and other malicious conflicts that start off by a misunderstanding of people�s words and thoughts. If I were God there would be less conflicts and less conversational misunderstandings by dismissing the existence of slangs, words with many meanings, falsities, etc.

                Secondly, there would be no such thing as labeling people. Labeling people can often be misinterpreted as �name calling,� which against furthers my point, that name calling causes arguments, arguments causes enemies, enemies causes war, etc. There is a pyramid of violence and conflict that need to be suppressed so people can live in more harmony and peace. At the same token, labeling destroys a person�s sense of confidence when negative. For instance, if someone who was called incredulity, a retard, when their IQ was very high, but their social skills were below the normal aptitude of a person, it would hurt them. An insult is an insult, and as God I would not take people labeling each other in negative forms.

                In addition, media would me more strictly monitored. There is a huge case of people dying from diseases such as bulimia, anorexia, and depression thanks to the celebrities in the media. If someone is acting as a bad influence, their existence should be either punished or not be allowed to be watched. Society would have more positive influences on television and the media such as rags to riches stories, hard workers,  librarians, human services people, habitat for humanity leaders, and other people who create a legacy in society that is not acknowledged for stripping, throwing up food, and other atrocities that is in the current media. The media would be more educational and censored if I was God.

                Also, I would create there to be more inventive natures in society. Many ideas become trite and clich�s, as well as overused. There would be room for invention and creativity that would help inspire others. As God, I would encourage the fine arts to flourish and thrive, as well as cultivate learning without the same and boring approaches to work, but new, exploratory and intriguing.

                Next, if I was God there would be no super rich snobby people or people who are mean and perfect in every other manner.  Or to state this more simply, there would be more equality between people in their flaws and material classes. Humankind was supposed to be realistic, and when reality hits, no one should be completely perfect, and be encouraged to make reasonable mistakes. In addition, no one should be hogging money. There should be charitable actions that are rewarded. The common pauper would have their place on television in equality to the charitable and giving millionaire. With all the separation between people and classes there would be more conflict and people being jealous. Jealousy is evil and as God society would be more equal, by encouraging people of all different classes and flaws to come together and improve this world.

                Finally, if I was God I would encourage for professors and teachers to be more logical in their grading. Favoritism is a loathing process that causes a lot of conflict and hurt sentiments. Some people have gotten all A�s with giving charity/buttering up a professor/teacher. As God, objectivity would be encouraged as well as all due fairness to all students alike.

                In conclusion, I would make the world a more creative and caring place as God. I would encourage less conflict and make people more giving, and objective to prevent misunderstandings, wars, and conflicts. As God, society would be not only being very peaceful under my rule, but people would improve their communication and mutual understanding through my rules. Society would thrive and not be divided in many separate throngs but united as one! Therefore, I would create and encourage caring and compassion as well as learning under my reign as God. I care for people, and I want people to feel positive about them. If I was God, I would fortify passion and fairness.

CONTESTANT #10    3rd PRIZE

If I were God...


What would I do if I were God? Well, to answer this question I will first have to somehow imagine the change in perception that I will experience. My senses and knowledge would change to such a vast degree that the way I exist would be on a vastly different scale. I imagine that the best representation of that would be the relationship between computer scientists and AI robots/nanobots. They are built with a certain level of intelligence and hopefully the capacity to learn on their own. They also try to build in the ability and desire to replicate. The scientists, despite their vast knowledge and power compared to the nanites, have no idea in a direct way how the nanites perceive anything. The two entities are so far removed that each can only hypothesize how the other acts or feels. So if I observe that I may see things in the matter of a scientist and his nanite creations I suppose I would test/instigate learning in my creations by throwing obstacles in their path. I would also let them rest and nurture them and lastly I would be wondering if there was some other entity that is so vast and powerful that to them I am a nanite...
   One of the first things I would be doing is measuring how far Humans have progressed, then placing some challenge in their path, some obstacle to overcome. Anything, a death in the family to winning the lottery, would do. Just something that would challenge certain or all humans to mature and learn. The idea would be to give them intelligence and the desire to replicate. I would want them to continue to grow and to get smarter!
   I would also make sure that they have enough time to recuperate. I would want them to rest and otherwise heal to get ready for the next challenge. It's better for them and would give me the new baseline so that we can tell if the humans are generally getting smarter or wiser. Or even stronger than they were before.
   Lastly, I would wonder how I came into being, is there some creature that is vastly more powerful than even I could ever imagine that is somehow guiding my life, my actions and imagination. Or did I just somehow come into being, and there is nothing more than my magnificence and power?
   So I guess while the scale of my power and perception would change dramatically I would probably not change much for humans. I might help point them in the right direction but it would really be up to them to learn how to be better all by themselves. I would nurture them where I could, nurse them when necessary but basically let them live their own lives as we all wonder about our existence and why we are here.
 
CONTESTANT #11    1st PRIZE

New York City

I grew up in a very small farming town, not too far from the Mighty Red River. As a teenager, there wasn't too much to do during the summer, after the chores were done, so most of us loaded up into old pick up trucks and headed to 'town' where we sat on the 'square' (a fond term referring to downtown) where we sat around, drank rodeo cool beer and dreamed of getting out of that one horse town, just as soon as we finished high school.

My sophomore year, a blended family of outsiders moved to town to take over the old McClanahan store and added five newcomers to our school. The boys seemed to fit right in, adopting jeans and boots and cowboy hats like all the rest of the guys. The girls, however, had it a little bit rougher. Their city clothes and city ways were foreign to all of us, girls and guys alike. Soon, though, Michelle and I became good friends, and soon she was hanging out on the square with us on the week-ends.

Every Sunday morning, around 3 AM the GreyHound bus would roll through town, take a left in front of the bank and leave town just as unobtrusively as it came in. That bus was headed to New York City and was the root of many a long, in depth conversations about what life might be like in such a foreign place.

Michelle wanted to be a singer. I wanted to be a writer. We made a pact that when we graduated, we would throw in together and get on that bus and go to New York.

Of course, we didn't. Life happened, as it so often does, and the dreams of singing and writing and becoming famous fell to the wayside.

I still dream of New York City, though. Not to go there to live and be discovered and write the all American novel but to go there and see the sites, feel the energy, experience the best that New York City has to offer.

A lot of things are keeping me grounded, however. Finances, for one. My health, for another. Family responsibilities, for a third. Possible even a bit of fear of the unknown.

I keep that dream hid away, slowly simmering on a back burner of my mind. I think I will go, someday. Maybe for as long as a fortnight. While I am there, I'll wander down Fifth Avenue. Maybe catch an off Broadway play, visit a museum, the Statue of Liberty, perhaps even the hole that was once the World Trade Center. Definitely, I'll have a slice of REAL Brooklyn pizza and grab a hot dog off of a street vendor. Someday.
 

CONTESTANT #13    2nd PRIZE

I dream of simple things...


 

We are all of us such complicated creatures: intricate and complex, full of memories, ideas, hopes, fears and yes, even dreams. Each piece of us, big or small, comes together to form the whole of who we are; to tell the story of who we were; and to shape who we will become. When we share any piece of ourselves, we change somehow and I�m not convinced it is for the better. Think of days of sepia toned photographs; scented thick with developing solution permeating dark rooms filled with captured memories forming, solidifying into something worth sharing. If light found its way into those dark rooms, the frozen moments and all the efforts that went into them would be lost forever. There would be nothing worth sharing.

 

The same theory holds true today, in a time of overexposure, where information is dispersed with painful ease in abundance. Google, MySpace, personal blogs detailing our every thought; we lack the privacy needed to develop into people of substance, people worth knowing. We lack the ability to capture a solid form in forced transparency and thus we are all overexposed, losing any charm we could have. How does one invite you into their dark room, to see the developing parts of themselves without being overexposed? What is a dream, if not a developing inertia within, pushing us to do something greater, to be something greater? How can we share these vulnerable pieces of ourselves without losing them in the process? Is there a way? I fear not and thusly keep such parts of myself locked safe, deep within my dark room and rarely invite others in.

 

For you, I will dig deep and find just the perfect dream to share, a part of me still developing thin lines only barely forming into recognition, the contours taking shape before our eyes. I invite you to come with me into my darkroom but I ask you not to leave hastily or you may destroy parts of me I can never recapture. Let�s watch patient the lights separating from the darks setting a mold for the dream you asked to see. The pictures may be confusing, let me explain.

 

The first of three photographs is the unlovable little girl who even her mother could not love. She was a studious child, learning to read at 4. She followed rules and learned to be the helper, the giver, the unimposing. The second photograph, formed solid, shows the futility of her search to find that love in others. The last is still forming and here it is the very thing you asked for, my dream. I want to be lovable, to find acceptance without limits, to be exactly who I am and have that be enough. I want to learn to love myself and be satisfied with who I have become. I want to stop searching for reasons that make me unlovable, self-loathing, picking myself apart to find that part of me that even a mother couldn�t love.

CONTESTANT #10    3rd PRIZE

A Love of Learning


I have a lot of dreams, and many of them would sound very familiar. I dream of ending world hunger, starting world peace and all those other dreams that many say are impossible. Well, I disagree that these dreams are impossible.

I am not so naive to think that it can be done overnight, or even during my lifetime. People must be taught that these and other so called impossible dreams are actually achievable. The examples above can only be realized when people work in harmony, but there is something that I could possibly do, a personal dream that I have that if I achieve it I could be the pebble that perhaps starts the avalanche of understanding. Specifically I speak of becoming a Professor of Philosophy!

When I become a Professor of Philosophy I will have shown that I have learned the foundation of wisdom, a love of learning that I can hopefully teach many others. I feel that as many people as possible must learn as much as possible to achieve these unachievable dreams. The only way that can happen is to teach people how to learn and to love learning. That is why becoming a philosophy professor is one of my dreams.

One would wonder why I have not yet realized such a dream! Well, there are may reasons for that. Where should I start? Well, one of my biggest limitations is time. I am married and have a child, which for those who know it means I have very little time left for anything! Also, going to college to learn philosophy is very expensive, and once again children are not cheap. So it will be difficult to come up with the required money to attend the local college and get the required degrees. Those two issues, as real as they are, are only a small part of why I have not yet reached my goal. The real reason is that I fear there is very little chance of successfully completing my goal. To be clear, I am confident that I could earn the PhD in a timely manner, however to earn a position where I could share my newly earned knowledge would be much more difficult. While I love learning for learnings sake I would need to justify the time and expense to my family, who already are the center of my life and rightly demand much of me.

I hope that in the near future I see an opportunity to some way achieve this one dream. So I can help others achieve theirs.
 

 

CONTESTANT #3    1st PRIZE

Be Nonsensical


 

Mag E. Nobody aka XXXXXXXX, age 33, died early in the morning on Tuesday, April 1, 2008 after suffering a long battle with acute realism.

 

Born two and half months early, she began her life in the same enthusiastic manner to which she brought to every situation she encountered. Growing up with a gypsy family, she was infused with a love of traveling. Having visited such places as Cuba, Mexico, Canada and Hell on a regular basis, she was a lifelong explorer. She most frequently resided in the Land of Confusion.

 

While other little girls dreamt of husbands and children and white picket fences; playing with dolls and hosting tea parties with stuffed animals, Mag E. avoided such mundane rituals by running swiftly away from the stinky boys who tried to pursue her and in later years, staring blankly at them, as the men who would interrupt her literary utopia, all the while wearing mismatched thigh-hi socks, quoting Dr. Seuss and drinking exactly 88 ounces of bottled water every day up until the moment of her tragic demise.

 

She was not conventional nor ordinary nor commonplace, always a woman of her own inimitable charm. She had the most infectious laugh and used it, even at the most inappropriate of times. Dogged in her pursuit of knowledge, new material to read and shiny things, it was quite common to find her with her mouth agape with wonder, tuned-out in way that made her both insufferable and lovable. Lost in some new discovery, an enthralling chapter or her own reflection in the shiniest of things, she would as soon dismiss you hastily as entertain you for hours. You never knew what she would do from one moment to the next.

 

Mag E. had a knack for saying exactly the wrong thing in the most perfect of times and the precise right thing at the most awkward of times. Though none of this detracted from her most delightful, nonsensical nature. She was personable and off-putting, always keeping those around her on their toes. It was an ironic twist of confirming fate that this most silly creature would expire on April fools day. Following her through till death, the theme within her life, laughing at an inside joke others would never really get.

 

Mag E. was preceded in death by her sense of hope and love for discovery, her opportunity to make the world a better place and her belief that people really were inherently good; and is survived by her unusually large and odd sock collection; forty three patient, interesting friends; 6,542,312 alphabetized, dust-free books; 2 sprites whom regularly mended holes in her blankets, keeping her peripheral company in the darkest of her hours, and 62 unopened water bottles.

 

In lieu of flowers and other obnoxiously useless items, please donate large sums of money to the �League of Nonsensical Pursuits of Realism�. No services will be held for Mag E. as per her request. Please read a book instead.


 
CONTESTANT #4    2nd PRIZE

Crackpot Snuffs It


 

Former resident Mr. Anonymous <Name omitted to protect the guilty... I mean to remain anonymous :>, 305, died June 27, 2281, at his home in the State of Confusion.

A service was held at the local insane asylum to celebrate his "finally kicking the bucket so we can rummage through all his really cool stash he kept hidden under his bed" as his former asylum mates call it. Burial took place in a big hole in the ground out back.

Mr. Anonymous was born June 27, 1975, in a hospital. Yep. That's right, folks. A hospital.

He graduated from Ima So High School in 1993.

He came roaring into the State of Mass Hysteria in the early 1990s, where he coached Major League underwater basket weaving for 1 year. His coaching days ended shortly after what his students referred to as "The Tadpole Incident."

He had lived in the State of Mass Hysteria for 60 years when he moved to the State of Confusion.

After the move, he enjoyed activities such as marble stacking and javelin catching.

Mr. Anonymous was a member of organizations such as The How to Make Toothpicks Society, The Padded Walls Club, and Captain Kangaroo's Merry Men.

His family wrote: �Thank God the old codger finally bit the dust. I mean, what was he thinking living for 305 years anyway? Does he have any idea how long we've been waiting for him to kill over so we can finally get our inheritance?!? Wait... Are you actually writing this down???�

He is survived by his greedy relatives, Ima Miser and Seymour Dollars of Moneyville

Mr. Anonymous was preceded in death by most of his family.

The Happy Loon Funny Farm was in charge of funeral arrangements.


 
CONTESTANT #6    3rd PRIZE

Read All About It!!!


    On Saturday, June 16th, Lady Hanaka, a Japanese immigrant died a tragic death at the age of 78 years old. Her family says Hanaka always knew she didn't have too long so she wanted to take a ride on a bull. A long lost dream you could call it. At exactly 3:32pm Lady Hanaka was thrust off of the raging bull's back and tossed a good 6 feet. The furious bull stomped and rolled over her in a fit of revenge for Hanaka kicking it in it's side 3 times shouting, "go bull, go faster, is that all you got?" She laughed for a few minute before coughing up blood and lying still living no more.
    Earlier in her life she was quite a wonder calling everyone "bakas" (idiots) just to rattle their skin. She would be described as outgoing and original. Not caring if she made friends or enemies, she's make strange notices out loud and whisper to herself when she was annoyed. She said she was speaking with her inner self and debating to whether or not to whip everybody's bloody body into a [insert lovely word here] lifeless pulp.
    She had a nice number of accomplishments, however. Lady Hanaka was the first to curse out an American in Japanese for trying to steal her duffle bag while 7 months pregnant with her second child. She wrote her own Japanese story  that was transferred into French and read throughout that nation. She helped write the second essential Haiku.
    A few comments were made in the memory of our lost Lady Hanaka.
    "Oka-san was a unique person. And mother at that. My mother was a great woman but don't you think it's time I get what I deserve? I do." Says Hanaka's oldest child, Mikomi about her mother and how she wanted the money and land her mother signed off to her.
    "She was crazy. Nice and young in a old, wrinkly body. Teh, serves her right for being an old ruthless hag!" Commented Obito, Hanaka's only son, the second child. More comments were made but were said later on. Funeral serves will be held only with the Hanaka family, for Hanaka wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread over the ocean.
   
CONTESTANT #11    1st PRIZE

The Enchantress of Numbers


 

This is the story of Ada Byron, Lady Lovelace, the first woman in the field of computer science.

Augusta Ada Byron was born on December 10, 1815 in London, England. She was the daughter of the famous poet Lord Byron and his wife Lady Byron (maiden name: Anne Isabella Milbanke). Only one month after Ada’s birth, Lady Byron left Lord Byron to raise Ada on her own. Reasons for the separation were never given but rumors circulated about Lord Byron’s inappropriate relationship with his half-sister Augusta Leigh. By April of 1815, Lord Byron had signed papers for a legal separation from his wife and then left England never to return.

Lady Byron, or Annabellla as she was called, was highly interested in mathematics. Determined to keep her daughter from developing any of her father’s poetic leanings, she had Ada tutored in mathematics and science at an early age. Ada was tutored by Mary Somerville, a remarkable Scottish polymath, researcher and author of scence texts. Ada was also tutored by William King-Noel, the 1st Earl of Lovelace. In 1835, Ada married her former tutor and became The Right Honourable Augusta Ada, Countess of Lovelace.

Mary Somerville introduced Ada to Charles Babbage on June 5, 1833. This was a fortuitous and fateful meeting for Ada was taken with Babbage’s ideas and his plans to build the Analytical Engine -- a mechanical mathematic calculator and a precursor to today‘s computers. Ada was one of the few who understood Babbage’s ideas. She frequently met and corresponded with Babbage over the years and in 1842, Ada translated the Italian mathematician Luigi Menabrea’s memoir on Babbage’s proposed Analytical Engine. Ada appended that translation with detailed specifications for calculating Bernoulli numbers with the Analytical Engine. These specifications are now recognized by historians as the world’s first computer program.

Not long after this breakthrough, Ada fell ill and was diagnosed with uterine cancer. She was bled to death by doctors trying to cure her. She died at the young age of 36, the same age that her father Lord Byron died. She left behind two sons and a famous daughter, the Lady Anne Blunt, breeder of horses.

Over one hundred years after her death, Ada’s notes on Babbage’s Analytical Engine were found and republished after being long forgotten. In 1979, the United States Department of Defense created a new computer language in her name: Ada. In 2008, the British Computer Society began an annual competition for female students of computer science with a medal awarded in Ada’s name: The Lovelace Medal. 

Ada was the first woman in the computer science field at a time when there was no computer science field and when women weren’t generally regarded as capable of making important and intellectual contributions to the field of science. Much like Charles Babbage, Ada Lovelace was a pioneer and a visionary. She foresaw that machines like the Analytical Engine could someday be used to contribute to the advancement of science, create complex music and graphics and more.

Babbage was deeply impressed by Ada’s writing skills and her intellect, calling her “The Enchantress of Numbers”, and while he was reluctant to credit anyone with influencing his work, he wrote of Ada:

"Forget this world and all its troubles and if possible its multitudinous Charlatans - every thing in short but the Enchantress of Numbers."

Ada was used as a character in The Difference Engine (1991) an alternate history novel of the steampunk genre by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling.

CONTESTANT #27    2nd PRIZE

Marie Curie: Paving the Way for Females in Science


 

“Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be attained.” ~ Marie Curie

On November 7, 1867, one of the finest scientists the world has ever known, Maria Sklodowska, was born to two teachers in Poland. The youngest of five children, Sklodowska who would become known as Marie Curie, graduated high school at the age of fifteen, and then attended a “floating university” (the university’s location was continually changed so it could not be detected by police) with her sister since women were not allowed to study at the University of Warsaw. As a result, Curie and her sister made a deal: Curie would work as a governess and help pay for a formal education for her sister, and she would later do the same in return.

In 1891, Curie began to study math, physics and chemistry at the University of Paris from which she graduated with a Master’s and a doctorate, thus becoming the first woman in France to receive a doctorate. It was also at the University of Paris that Curie met her husband, Pierre Curie, changing her life forever.

Together, the couple discovered the elements polonium and radium, which led to a joint Nobel Prize in physics with Henry Becquerel in 1903. Curie would win a Nobel Prize in chemistry eight years later, and become the first woman to win two Nobel Prizes. She also remains one of only two people to win two Nobel Prizes, and the only person to win them in two different scientific fields.

Curie did not let the fame get to her head though. She used her discovery of radium to help treat the wounded soldiers of WWI, and refused to patent the process of isolating radium so that others could continue to work on her findings.

Curie died on July 4, 1934 from leukemia due to much exposure to radiation after earning another honour: becoming the first female professor at the University of Paris. 

As someone who is going into the sciences, Curie is an inspiration to me because she is proof that women can succeed in this area. Despite all the recognitions she earned, Curie also remained true to her values, and is therefore an ideal role model. As Albert Einstein said, “Marie Curie is, of all celebrated beings, the only one whom fame has not corrupted.”

  
 

References:
http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/physics/laureates/1903/marie-curie-bio.html
http://womenshistory.about.com/od/quotes/a/marie_curie.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Curie
http://www.aip.org/history/curie/brief/01_poland/poland_3.html

CONTESTANT #1    3rd PRIZE

A Diamond Is Forever


-Your Right Hand Rules The World: Women of The World Raise Your Right Hand!-

    This woman was wrote and essayed about million's of times but I just have to add on one more. Rosa Parks. She was the woman who refused to give up her seat, the strong black woman who started the Bus Boycott. I have to say that I look up to her, for she was courageous, intelligent, and as so many people know, stubborn, staying in that seat!
    That was the day when Rosa a seamstress in Montgomery, Alabama refused to give up her bus seat to a white passenger, thus she was arrested and fined for violating a city ordinance, but her lonely act of defiance began a movement that ended legal segregation in America, Making her an inspiration to freedom-loving people everywhere. I count myself for one of those people.
    Rosa said in an interview, "Back then we didn't have any civil rights. It was just a matter of survival, of existing from one day to the next." Rosa Parks knew what she did was wrong in the eyes of that passenger, that cop, and the rest of those people on the bus but through her dark brown eyes she seen something much different.
    Parks, started a new part of history. Picture how would the world be if she simply got up and let that passenger take her seat. Would Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. be so legendary? If she had got up would that boycott ever been successful (note that Martin and his supporters were planning a boycott)? Rosa got that boycott up and running causing hope to spark and will power to rise, helping Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. a big leap in his own success. Think about if Rosa had not refused... Would I be typing about her today?
    She is inspirational to people all over the world, she gives hope and courage to everyone. What she did on that bus, it was a cataclysmic moment that made history.
    Notice, things have changed and time started anew, with things all the right thanks to Rosa Parks.

    Hope sparks with day light so near,
    And yet so far away
    Hearts quicken to the beat and blinded furious moments
    She took a stand, and stood up for her rights
    Yet sitting, stubbornly the whole time
    Yes she started something fresh
    Yes she started something new
    Rosa Parks began a click in the clock for she held her head up
    And courageously stood tall
    She is a woman of the world and an ever-lasting jewel precious to us all.
-THE END-  
CONTESTANT #28    4th PRIZE

Vagina Voice


 

Vagina Voice 

 

Eve Ensler, passionate feminist, playwright and author, speaks out on behalf of women everywhere in an unwavering effort to end violence against women. Eve’s Vagina Monologues have been acted out in playhouses and auditoriums across the nation, in several languages, recollecting the stories of various women. Each monologue uniquely depicts a woman’s story, narrated by her vagina, of her struggles, shame, the unnecessary violence she has faced, or a particular experience that in someway shaped her. I first saw the Vagina Monologues recounted in a university auditorium by my fellow students and cried tears of laughter, empathy, sympathy, and most importantly – empowerment.

 

As I arrived and waited to be herded through the small set of doors, I was surprised at the vast range in age, let alone the number of men present. The mere taboo nature of the word vagina conjured in my mind an event consisting only of women, more specifically young feminist women. Once we were seated, the crowd was buzzing anxiously. I wonder now, how many had known what to expect and how many were as in the dark as I was. I had a vague idea of what would unfold – but nothing near what I experienced, or the lucid feeling of empowerment I walked away with. The excitement was so fresh and invigorating, it left me frantic to learn more and share all that I had learned. I was so wrapped up in the stories and all the emotion and liberation woven into them – it did not even occur to me that they had been compiled and articulated by one remarkable woman. 

 

Thank you Eve – for your continuous efforts to increase awareness and end violence against women – for every book, play, and every event that your efforts have inspired around the world. In my effort to increase awareness – I encourage all who read this to seek more information and to attend a showing of the Vagina Monologues – experience all the V-Day Campaign has to offer.

 

For more information, visit: http://www.vday.org

CONTESTANT #23    4th PRIZE

Lydia María Cacho Ribeiro


 

Why did I choose Lydia instead of any other female heroin from our history? Because I think we should read and learn from all those who have been great inspiration in the past but this is the one that needs all the support right now so she can take the fight to the ultimate level and  feel that she will never be alone.

 

Her work as journalist has been always on the social line, women rights, human rights and she has been a great help participating at different associations and creating spaces to bring care to children and women victims of domestic and sexual violence as cofounder of the "CIAM" or as collaborator of the “UNIFEM” but her history as heroin began to be known around the world after one of her books turned Mexico’s sewers upside down.

 

Not long ago she wrote a book called "The Demons of Eden: The Power that Protects Child Pornography" revealing a huge chain of pederasty perpetrated and covered by government, judges, politicians, church, elites and authorities in Mexico...Documents, photographs, evidence and declarations from the victims were part of her research to make this book so dangerous for those involved on this low acts so for them this could not be tolerated and quickly started the dirty fight back against Lydia.

 

Suddenly one night she was abducted by police forces from another state without any signed order and breaking the law, civil rights and human rights torturing her on the road trip and into the jail were the corrupted governor from that state send her to teach her a lesson as he said on one phone call to his friend also involved in this case.

 

While the world was in shock, Mexico’s authorities did absolutely nothing about these embarrassing behaviour from every authority involved and later was even worse when in the middle of everybody’s hope of a fair trial and finally a big dose of justice, the judges ignored every evidence and testimony and declared innocent of charges to these powerful members of Mexico’s worst elite.

 

She is finally free from jail but not free from those who still are trying to get rid of her, she has learned to live her life as normal as she can even with all the every day menaces and even when government turned their back and stopped sending the money for the support of the victim’s care centre she has found the way to make this place survive with the help and donations from the people proud of her work and courage.

 

For this I choose Lydia Cacho from that huge list of amazing women of our history because I want every one to know….and it would be a great help if they also care. Make her name be remembered now that she needs support not later after her dead.

 

You can find the phone records here:

http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/graficos/animados/EUOL/kamel-ok.html

 

Lydia’s net page:

http://www.lydiacacho.net/

 

About trial:

http://www.la-verdad.com.mx/principal/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=5223&Itemid=168

 

Info about Lydia:

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lydia_Cacho

 

CONTESTANT #19    4th PRIZE

Ella Fitzgerald, Jazz Miracle


 

 

   Born in 1917, Ella started her career young, at the age of fifteen, That was when she had happened to be dancing in competition, and she started to shake. So she started to sing, instead of the contest’s original purpose for dancing. Chick Webb actually discovered Ella’s talent to sing, and he let her try out her voice in his band.

 

   After three years of her career, Fitzgerald won an award from a magazine called Down Beat for the most popular girl vocalist in 1937. The following year led to a hit. "A-Tisket, A-Tasket" was the song that introduced her into being a world’s greatest pop and jazz artist. A best-selling newspaper critic, Brooks Atkinson even wrote, "She manages things that the human voice can't do.” This implies that Fitzgerald had the voice to have. Being a black woman, Fitzgerald deserved the right for equal pay as other whites did so. This led her to fighting for what she and many others believed in. She recorded the music of many musicians that might come to mind when thinking of some of the world’s greatest. Those musicians were such as Irving Berlin or Armstrong and even Teddy Wilson. Fitzgerald was the first woman to gain honor in receiving Whitney M. Young, Jr, an astounding Award of the Los Angeles Urban League. Also gaining the National Medal of Arts, and the Lincoln Centre Medallion which is handed out to all true classical artists and musicians. Fitzgerald wasn’t exactly done yet. She has earned numbers of awards including Kennedy Center Award, thirteen Grammy Awards, and the American Music Award. A nickname of Ella’s was First Lady of Jazz.

 

 After seventy-nine years of music, Ella died in her Beverly Hills home of June 15, 1996. Even though nervousness had struck Ella at the age of fifteen, dancing was still a favorite and continued on into her life. Fitzgerald’s singing was inspiring and did a lot to the lives of people in the 1900s. If you didn’t know, Ella had dropped out of school and run away from Riverdale Children's Association after moving out of her stepfather's home and living with her aunt located in Harlem. Ella had diabetes and circulatory system complications. A year after a heart surgery, Ella continued to sing and put her dreams out there. She kept on singing for months in between until both of her legs were amputated. She made close enough to the most recordings in jazz history. This can only show what a woman can do when it comes to power and pure belief in one's self.

Winners from

Challenge #8

"Use the primary colors -- red, blue, orange, yellow, green, purple"

500 words or less..

 

Prizes

1st Place -- 25,000 credits

2nd place -- 15,000 credits

3rd place -- 10,000 credits

 

Update: it was brought to our attention that the 1st place winner did not use "yellow" in their entry. Therefore, we will move #4 to #3, #3 to #2, #2 to #1 and we will adjust the difference for the people paid already. Humans... so prone to error.

 

Contestant #048                                        1st Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

 

Leave The Rabbit in the Hat

Colours are an entirely human concept. They have no meaning outside of our consciousness. Words like “red,” “purple,” “orange,” and so on relate solely to light of specific wavelengths.

Newton, using two prisms, demonstrated that white light contained within it light of all wavelengths, and that once light of a specific hue had been extracted, a second prism would not—as widely believed—“stain” the light a different colour. The redness was intrinsic, not added.

Our understanding of the nature of light was further enlightened—pun intended—by the famous “double-slit” experiment, beloved of physics students the world over, which demonstrates the quirky, schizophrenic wave-particle nature of light, being both nuggety photons and rippling waves at once.

Science has unravelled the mysteries of the rainbow, which now reduces to a simple line-of-sight phenomenon caused by photons bouncing around in countless billions of water droplets before exiting at various refractive angles in the direction of our retinas.

So, that’s colour cracked then, isn’t it? It’s wavelengths of light, made up of odd wave-particle things.

And yet, somehow in peering into the magician’s hat, we lose the rabbit. Colours touch us in ways more profound, more fundamental, than a mere register of wavelength. We delight in a roseate dawn. Swathes of green bring us peace. Azure skies and aquamarine seas give us a sense of the vastness of the world, and perhaps a yearning to travel.

Colours affect our mood. We even use them to describe our mood: “Feeling a bit blue today…”; “He was green with envy…” We describe cowardice in term of yellowness, and a “purple patch” is what we all hope for. We use them to describe politic inclination. Red universally warns us of danger; green assures us that all is well. Colour words permeate our language and our thoughts. Indeed, we would describe such words as “adding colour to our language”, in a literal and self-referential way.

We are creatures of colour. Colour allows us to describe and understand the world, to differentiate, aggregate and classify, but beyond that it speaks to our innermost essence. Without colour, we would be very different animals indeed.

Contestant #010                                      2nd Place

2nd Place Winner

Recycled Bike

"Hey Red, if you want this fixed you're going to have to give me a hand you know." Joe complained. I rolled my eyes at my dog, Blue, who had been sitting at my feet by the steps and wandered back over to where Joe was fixing my bicycle.

"What do you need me to do, I don't know nothing about fixing stuff," I said "Besides, it looks like you've got everything almost done already." I looked at the bike that Mom had found leaned up against some garbage bins in a back alley. It was ugly alright, originally I think it may have been orange, but it must've spent alot of time sitting around outside as most of it had faded to yellow now.

"Pass me that screwdriver, and I think that may be it then you can give it a try around the yard," Joe answered. I passed him the screwdriver that was laying on the ground nearby, "This one?" I asked. Joe grunted something, which I guessed was a 'yes' because he took it from me without even looking up.

Several moments passed while Joe tinkered around with something near the gears, and then he stood up dusting the dirt of his pants and wiping some grease off his hands. "Alright Red, give her a try and we'll see how you make out." I made a few rounds of the yard with Blue in hot pursuit, I started to pick up some speed, but it'd been awhile since my last bike ride, and I forgot how tricky them handlebars can be when you turn them too tight, the next thing I knew I was laid out on the grass with green stains smeared on the knees of my good school jeans and a purple knot growing on my forehead. Blue was licking my face and asking in his own doggy way if I was alright.

Joe came running over to see if I was alright, but I was too big to cry about a little spill off an old used bike. "Geez, Red, you alright, your Ma's gonna have my hide when she sees them jeans of yours!" he exclaimed, slowly a big grin spread over his face "But you shore nuff rode that bike didn't ya boy?" he grinned "Now let's see if we can scrub out them jeans before your Ma comes home from work and gives us both a whooping."

Contestant #032                                       3rd Place

3rd Place Winner

Life in Color

My feet sounded ominous as they slapped against the wet stones of the Rockland breakwater. A cold purple-white fog rolled in across Penobscot Bay, closing me off from the land. The fog was thickest at night. The breakwater that jutted out into the bay culminated in a weather beaten old lighthouse about a mile out. At one time the house had been inhabited by a lighthouse keeper. Who knows what fears and terrors haunted isolated souls as they tended the warm orange lights that pierced through summer storms and raging blizzards, warning wayward ships against the treacherous rocks of the Maine coastline. It held a certain magic for me. A draw I could not explain. To think of all those lonely hours spent thinking, reading, dreaming….

Now it was a shadow of what it had one been. Green paint chipped and fell off in chunks. No one lived there now. The windows and door were boarded up. The electric lights were more yellow than orange as they spun in circles, piercing the fog. It too had seen it’s glory days come and go. Nothing stayed the same. Nothing.

I flew past the ancient structure to the very end of the rocks, stopping just short of plunging into the black water beneath me. The waves were high that night. In places they sloshed over the rocks and wet my sneakers. My socks were already damp when I reached the end, and I seriously contemplated taking off my shoes and walking barefoot.

During the day this was a cheerful place, but at night it took on a very different persona. On warm summer afternoons it was common to see blue sky reflecting on blue-green waves, children playing on the beach, fathers fishing with their sons, a red kite flying high in the sky, and couples strolling along gazing at each other. But only the very lonely walked the breakwater at night.

Tonight I thought about times when I too had looked lovingly into the eyes of another. Had sat on this very spot and watched the sun set over Rockland. How I had wished that moment would last and last. I cried as I thought these thoughts. He used to call my sudden bursts healing tears. I clung to them now.

My heart felt as cold and clammy as the planks I sat shivering on. As I walked back I noted every rock that we had kissed on, the floating ramp where he proposed, and the bench where he picked a wild rose and put it in my hair. At one time my life had been full of color. Sunshine, deep passionate red, bright blues and greens. Now my life was a dull gray. How long before color returned to warm me again?

I left the breakwater behind me again, as I had done so many nights since the accident. But I knew I would be back. It knew I would be back.

Winners from

Challenge #7

"Write a story about the picture"

1,500 words or less..

 

 

Prizes

1st Place -- 25,000 credits

2nd place -- 15,000 credits

3rd place -- 10,000 credits

 

Contestant #001                                        1st Place

A Good Thing


 

The war had claimed lives of hundreds, it had left pockets empty and wives widowed.  Those men that were still around were either too young or too old to be of much help.  Those that were neither old nor young were cowards who had fled from battle.  They were reduced to nothing, and yet, I had become one of those cowards.  I could find no job or home, my family had all died earlier in the war from a mix of illnesses and raids.  Not that it mattered, had they been alive today, they would have turned their head in shame at the site of me sneaking back home.  So now I wandered, stealing whenever I needed clothing or food, sure it was a shameful act, but how else was a man supposed to live if he could not find any means to support himself?  That’s what I thought.

 

Today was one of those days, one of the times when I had to become the man I hated to be.  I spotted the woman from a distance, she was an awesome bargainer, and surly she would not miss a few vegetables.  However, as I neared my stomach took over; the woman was cooking something on an open flame, the pot spinning in the air with a grace that told of many years cooking experience.  I watched eyes wide, mouth open as I salivated.  The drool running down my chin caused me to wake up, like a scared dog I inched forward, staring intently at the pan.  I no longer though about stealing the vegetables, I wanted what the woman had inside that steaming chunk of steel.  The two other women hardly noticed me as I watched.  Not a soul ever seemed to notice a beggar like me, even if I wore clothing twice my size and was covered in dirt; it seemed to provide more reason to ignore me.

 

I finally gathered my courage, and approached the woman from her left side, staring over her arm as I watched the vegetables dance in butter to make the exciting aroma.  I groaned in delight, but even that sound seemed not to gather the women’s attention, it was like I was not even there.  My stomach let out a fierce growl, and this brought a look of annoyance from the cooking woman, however, she made no move to shoo me away like most vendors would have.  Instead she rolled her eyes and returned to her cooking.  I continued to watch.

 

After awhile the other two women returned to their own stalls, but I had yet to leave as I watched the vegetables simmer inside the pan.  The woman had continued to ignore me, again, I felt as though I did not exist.  Perhaps she deserved to have a few tomatoes or peppers plucked from her stack, perhaps…no, this little scent that trickled from the pot would not release me.  So I stared, my tongue came out to lick at its dirty chops.  Finally night was setting, the woman glanced at the now cold meal, such a waste, was all I could think.  However, she suddenly moved, dropping the serving onto a piece of wood, and thrust it out towards me, never once removing that cold glare that seemed to stare into my soul.

 

“Take it and go.”  She muttered, my eyes remained wide, and cautiously I reached out and accepted the plate.  I felt like at any moment she would wretch it away, and that was just cruel enough to be possible.  However, she did not, instead she shoved it into my hands, and the moment flesh touched wood, I was gone.  Scurrying like a rodent around the corner into the alley where I shoved the vegetables into my mouth almost all at once.  I choked the cold food down, and sighed with delight.  How could such a blessing have been bestowed upon me, perhaps it had been a mistake?  If so, I liked that mistake greatly, it had put food in my belly, and given me a decent night’s sleep.

 

The next morning, the woman found me.  Her cold gaze on mine like the prior day.  “Get up.”  She spoke in cold tones; however, I stood as though a puppet moved by strings.  Following her in my cautious way.  She led me to a house, where I was obviously supposed to follow her into.  As I entered though, a gulp went through my throat, not being a big fan of enclosed spaces.  She led me to a bathroom, and pointed at a tub.  “Clean yourself up, from here on out you are to remain clean shaven and nicely dressed, you will help me at my stand, and as payment you can remain here with me and my son, free room and meals.”  I stared at her as she turned and went out; obviously having spoken all that she was going to for the moment, and disappeared down the steps.

 

Good fortune had hit me at last?  I showered, shaved, and redressed quickly, returning down the stares to be met by a young boy of about seven, and his mother who gave a nod of approval.  She fed me, and after sending the young boy on to school, had me help carry the vegetables outside.  There were murmurs from others, about how I would rob her blind, but I had no intention of that.  I knew a good thing when I saw it, and this was surly one.  Day in and day out, I helped the woman at her stall, watching as she cooked, throwing the vegetables into the pan and frying them like one might meat, and surprised as it came out smelling just as good.  I watched, and learned.  The years passed, the war ended, and somehow, I had become part of that town.  Somehow, a woman who had no means to take me in, had gave me a way to live.  I had hope.

Contestant #005                                       2nd Place

Bountiful Vegetables and Eternal Love

The old woman's hands trembled as she looked through her photograph album. This particular album was the one she didn't look at much, but as her eyes dimmed and her days on earth grew shorter, she was drawn to her past more and more. It was rather odd, she thought, that she could remember each picture, remember the names of every person in them, recall the circumstance in which each was taken.

This particular album was from the old country, from when she was a girl and from when life was hard but good. Photographs were expensive, but her Ma was fascinated with the concept of having their lives recorded permanently. After the great war, the men who took the photographs wandered through the land, a couple of times a year, and for a few pennies would take a photograph of your family. Sometimes, if one had been having a hard time of it, he would even settle for a hot meal and a cot by the fire for the night. It was so exciting, to be able to stop in the middle of the day and wash up a bit, put on your best clothes and have your photograph taken. She remembered that every single time the man would take a photograph, there would be a flash of light and a small pop that scared her and would make her jump and giggle.

As she turned the pages of the album, the photographs changed, from tin types of unsmiling, straight-backed, stern faced adults and children to thick paper board replicas of the same and finally to fragile thin paper images that were browned with aged and a little ragged on the corners.

'Oh, yes', she thought, 'there's ma and pa, and little Frank, and baby Emily.' This was the only record of baby Emily aside from an entry in the family bible. She had died of pneumonia before she walked. 'And there's the twins and Aunt Pattie.' As she turned the pages, she was both saddened and elated at the memories each and every page contained.

She finally came to the photograph she was looking for, the one of Ma and herself at the market, selling the fall root vegetables and peppers. This picture had been taken by a reporter who had been chronicling how the country folk had fared after the war. It was a good picture, and he had sent a copy of it and a copy of the magazine it appeared in as a thank you for allowing it to be taken and published. He had even given her ma a few coins, so that he could wait about until he saw something that he thought his extra eye would like. She remembered that was what he had said, 'something my extra eye would like' and thought he had been very odd to say such a thing. Soon, they had forgotten he was even there, and when they remembered to look for him again, he had gone. It had been quite a surprise when the photograph and magazine arrived in the mail, some months later.

In this photograph, ma looked stern and none of her usual mirth and good humor could be seen. She was about to weigh some peppers and potatoes for Anna McQuire and her brother, Toby and there Master McNeely could even be seen sitting in the side doorway of his shop. He was confined to a wheel chair after a bout with polio and sat there each day, watching the people pass and occasionally looking through a penny novel.

She remembered this particular day well, for while she had known The McQuires all her life, this was the day that Toby McQuire stole her heart.

They caused quite a scandal, as he was a bit older than she, and he was generally considered by most of their village not to be marriage minded. Pa eventually consented to the marriage, however and she was quite sure, relieved to have one less mouth to feed.

She and Toby had moved into a shack on the back forty of his father's homestead and began a life together. They were blessed with 6 fine strapping sons who were all well-mannered hard-workers with strong backs, strong constitutions and strong morals. Not a bad apple in the bunch, and she was adored all of them, the way only a mother can. They also adored her, and gave their mother credit for raising them so well.

She also adored Toby. He was kind and generous and not taken to hard drink like so many men of the time. She thought that her life was surely over when he passed on, leaving her behind. She was not prepared to have to live without him, but she had. She had managed 30 years without him, and she missed him more every single day.

A sound in the corner startled her and she looked up, surprised to see her youngest son sitting at her bedside. “Patrick, how long have you been here?” she asked him, softly. “All night, ma,” he replied. “Are 'ee hungry?” “Nay,” she replied. “But a wee bit of cold milk would be nice.” As he left the room to get her milk, she noticed someone else in the room.

“Toby-sweet, when did you get here?” she asked. “Just now, lassie-love” he answered, softly. “I've come to take 'ee home.” She got up from the bed she had not left in weeks, took his arm and went with him. When Patrick returned with the milk, he was saddened to find that his ma with a smile on her face and tears on her cheeks but too still and too quiet.

On her bed, beside her, the album remained open, to the page that held her favorite picture and he knew that his ma and pa were together once again, in a land of bountiful vegetables and eternal love.

Contestant #023                  Tied             3rd Place

 

 

True Love - loosely translated from Italian.

Alda lifts both of the pans up and briefly checks their weight in her hands before she starts to gently put each pan on the opposite sides of the scale, hesitating. She does not want to trade with this woman. Carlo watches her, the words unspoken but his eyes asking 'are you sure you want to do this, my dearest love?' The lady next to Alda can barely contain her glee, luck has finally come her way.
The whole town knows that Alda and Carlo's Olive Orchard produce the best crops all around, and that they are masters in nurturing the trees to their fines potential. That didn't stop others trying to grow their own crops. This season, many upstarts had lots of trees that produced some fine olives. They were not nearly as good as Alda and Carlos' Olives, but they were fresh and quickly brought to market. Alda and Carlo are used to trading their Olives at a premium, three trays of fruit for one tray of Olives. This season, the demand for all olives decreased significantly. Alda and Carlo held out for as long as they could, but the price did not increase, there were just too many olives in the market...
Nicolina was a dear friend of Alda and Carlo, and was amazed to see them trading their fine Olives at such a low value. She walks over to them and starts talking to Carlo in a low voice
"Why are you two trading your fine Olives to this woman, she is using you, getting the best Olives in the town for a small part of their true value!"
Carlo responds
"We must, the Olives are all we have and we need more. We need other vegetables, supplies to make the trees grow again, tools... We must trade to her and others like her or the Orchard will not survive."
"You should trade some of your fine Olives only to Bertrando. He has some mules and carts. He can take you to the city."
"Why would we want to go to the city?"
"There you can get an Olive press, and you can also get a new machine that my brother Dante managed to find. With it you can seal jars and bottles perfectly. It's quite amazing and very easy to use! You can make Olive Oil and seal it up nice so it stays longer. Not only does no one here have all that, but you can store your Olives for much longer so you can eventually sell them for the price they deserve!"
Carlo thought about this, he knew he had to make a decision. Suddenly, he stops Alda from putting the pans on the scale.
"Alda, I have decided. We need to go to Bertrando! He can take us, and our Olives to the city. It is there we will find our future, not with this imbroglione!"
They walked away, the woman who they were going to trade with showering them with curses!
Thus Alda and Carlo embarked on a journey that would change their lives...

Contestant #022           Tied                    3rd Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

The Hewitts: Not As Bad As You Think When You Don't Think As Bad As You Do

The light in the far left corner shown it's light dimly. Ara, Mae, and Jack stood around as they watched mother Carolina make their plates. Don decided he'd pass and wait his turn.
- People always looked down on the Hewitt family because, they were different. One of the Hewitt's' would walk past and others took a liking to spraying disinfectant spray, water and sometimes lime beans, shouting things like "y'all can have them there beans if you want, ain't got nothing else to eat!" or turn towards the others and wonder aloud "Do y'all smell something funny?"
The Hewitt's were actually very bright. Mother Caroline taught them each how to read chapter books by the time they were 6. Mother Caroline taught each of the girls Trigonometry while their father taught the boys how to use his archery set and hunting. Their dad, before he died, was in a lot of debt trouble and called bill collectors 'Demon backs' and said they wanted him for his smarts but he'd be damned if they ever got em!
Mother Caroline was a unique women who never drank anything stronger than tea. She loved scales and made sure she kept one in the house. Her husband tried to cajole her into selling it but she was as stubborn as ever, making excuses about how they needed to know how much the food weighed. He'd sometimes holler "We don't ever have any food in this sonofabitch!" or he'd look at her with this disbelieving expression and she'd wink. Mother Caroline wasn't too respected by the towns folk and would come home from making 40cents a day all groggy-like. Mae and Ara would sit her down and tell her about their day in school.
Mae was the red-head with a long almond face, long slender neck, pale skin, boney fingers that cracked when she turned the doorknob to fast, very skinny with almost no behind and 5 feet tall. people called her names like tomato, giraffe neck, ghosty, crack-a-lack and flatback. Of course she'd never tell mom none of this. Mother would lecture her that they just are intimidated by your outstanding looks. She'd say that Mae was unique and unique is better than what everyone else is: too original. Mae would force a smile and scratch her head.
Ara, was big and had short onyx hair. She liked her dresses big because, she thought that was the best way to hide her rolls. She was just a little taller than Mae and had more of a milky skin tone. But with that cute skin tone she thought she had clown feet, and a nose as long and big as a tree. Then on top of that she figured she was as fat as a pregnant elephant. Mother said "Don't call it fat, call it big-boned, and your nose can't get that big unless you're Pinocchio and lie a lot." Lying was Ara's not-to-do's.
Jack and Don were born on the same day, same time, but one year apart. Their father called them the 'Special Mountain Goats'. He never told them why but he always laughed when they asked. On top of being born one year apart they looked exactly alike not counting Jack was a head taller than Don.
Life as a Hewitt wasn't bad at all if you seen it their way. When ever they'd gotten a car, they'd name it. When ever one had to go to the hospital their father, Nathan would break them out of the hospital Nathan Hewitt style. When ever the 'Demon Backs' came time after time on their door step they'd hop in the Tree-dane, Wolf, or sonofabitch(or what dad called the car when it broke down) to do what he also called the Skedaddle. The Hewitt's left to never return but when their father caught a terrible disease and died they moved to one spot, and never did the skedaddle again.
Mae was a great reader. The teacher would pick on her to read every time the principle would come in. The the others hated her for that but as mother always said to them as they snickered "Oh dry up! Read a book for goodness sake."
When Ara went to school she got into an argument with a kid who had friends who detested Ara. When she got home scrapped and bruised mother tsk'd and said "Oh child, never argue with an idiot, they bring you down to their level and beat you with experience." Ara would stifle her cries and nod.
"Be poignant and sublime sweetheart and they'll see." Ara would simply sigh and go to her seat at the table.
-Later Mother Caroline was making supper while Mae, Ara, and Jack stood by as she prepared something akin to a fest from money she got with an odd job. The lamp light had dimmed but it didn't bother them none, it wasn't the first time. Getting together for dinner was something unbreakable for a family who went through so much and felt unbreakable. The light shined through if you knew where to look. Here, the Hewitt family wasn't as bad as you thought when you didn't think as bad as you did.
The End

 

Winners from

Challenge #6

"The History of love"

1,000 words or less..

 

Prizes

1st Place -- 50,000 credits

2nd place -- 30,000 credits

3rd place -- 20,000 credits

 

Contestant #008       CORRECTED     Tied 1st Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

 

The History of Love

Sunlight. Stars, fresh paint, spring time, blue eyes. A balloon against a cloudy sky. Loud music and late nights and long, slow, gets-your-heart-racing kisses. Love. Nights remembered only because someone so graciously remembered a camera.

As I lay on the floor of my decaying home, I realized I sincerely hated each and every one of these things.

Weak sunlight filtered through the greasy windows, further hindered by smoke-stained blinds with only half the slats in them. I lay situated spread-eagled on the thin carpet, outlined in empty beer cans, stale chips and ramen noodle cups. I was a murder scene all to myself. The clock that lay upside down beside me read 2:47pm, which meant I was up way too early.

The door opened, and closed.

I let my eyes close and hoped that perhaps she would think I was asleep.

"I thought you were getting groceries."

Oh well, I tried.

I made sitting up look like a great battle, fought hard and barely won. She sighed and I offered a plaintive smile.

"I decided it went against my religion."

This earned me a cold, flat stare.

"Against your religion?"

"Yes."

"To work?"

"Yes."

"You're an atheist."

"Yes, well, I've seen the light. Hallelujah, and what not."

"You're disgusting."

"I made dinner."

She left me sitting in my nest of garbage to examine my latest creation, ramen noodles with almost expired pizza sauce on top. We ate in silence and left the dishes to blend on the floor.

"Want to have a shower?"

I took her hand and followed her into the cramped bath-space. Steam billowed from behind the curtain, beaded on the mirror and her eyelashes.

As we lay damp and intertwined on the bed later, I felt her slow sleep-breathing against my side and stared at the dark ceiling. I realized that like everything else in our life, sex had become more routine than anything. It was done purely for the satisfaction of following a habit. I closed my eyes again, this time trying to trick myself into thinking I was asleep, but the tears still escaped.

In the dark, without a sound, I told her I loved her.

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She was already gone when I woke up.

I walked into the bathroom and rested my forehead against the cold mirror. Haggard grey eyes stared back, set in a thin pale face framed by too-black hair. I was beautiful before I stopped trying. I had gone to bed with wet hair and it took fifteen minutes to sort the tangled mess into something resembling order.

I kicked the clock right side up and glanced absently at the scolding red 11:34am.

My cereal was stale but the milk hadn't gone bad yet. I picked at a hole in my jeans, waiting for my body to finish the motions of eating breakfast. Again I was struck by the force of habit I lived in. My thoughts turned to Reo and the shower. I hoped she was at work.

I borrowed garbage bags from the old lady next door with too many cats and a disapproving eye (She was obviously disappointed by the lack of young men wandering in and out of our place, the old vulture) and set about scraping the filth from our living space.

The phone rang just as I was hauling our dusty, ancient vacuum from the closet.

"Maddy, do we need anything?" Somewhere, something inside me still thrilled at her voice, the same way it used to when she would kiss me in secret behind the college dorms. I tucked the phone against my shoulder and wandered into the kitchen to take stock.

"Well, we need some milk, eggs, ramen noodles, bagels, some meaningful sex and garbage bags, and I think we're nearly out of cat food and communication," As if in response to the magic word, our most social of kittens wandered over and licked my elbow. I scratched Anorexia's ears and ran my fingers over her prominent rib bones, as I always did.

"I'm going to stop and pick us up some supper so don't make anything, alright?" I clicked my tongue. She was never one to appreciate my sneaky little jokes.

"Take out, mm? What's the occasion?" Invisible and Monotony scrambled onto the counter to team up on Anorexia, and an epic battle of kitten fights ensued.

There was silence on the other line and for a moment I thought she'd gone again, out of my life for so many more hours.

"Today is your birthday, Maddy."

Well, that one caught me off guard.

"I... Right. I was testing you. Listen I'm doing a little cleaning, I'll see you around seven, okay?"

I hung up in a daze.

What was happening to me?

I remembered, it seemed like not so long ago, when Reo and I were newly in love. Things had seemed to be much easier then. Back then all we had to do was defy our parents and the government, flaunt our unacceptable affection in public much to the delight of adolescent boys and hard drinking men, and the disgust of their girlfriends and wives. It made no sense. We had planned everything. We found the perfect loft, gathered our collection of questionable strays, shopped at the cheapest furniture stores we could find and lived off ramen noodles and Kool-Aid and Kraft Dinner. We were almost so hip, it hurt. But I suppose in hindsight, we should have known it couldn't last forever.

When I lost my job, I assured Reo that things would be alright, that all we needed was time and it would sort itself out.

We went hungry for that month and she told me that she wanted a change. I vividly remember the night of begging, pleading, crying, promising her everything from new shoes to another cat to my first born. The make-up sex had been excellent.

I pressed my head against the refrigerator door. I was done cleaning.

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As it turns out, she one upped her promise and bought me cake too.

I saw the sparkle in her vibrant green eyes and I didn't ask her if we could afford this. I pulled her close, and kissed her like the first time. Her hand shook against my cheek.

We laughed all night. She smeared icing on my face and fed pizza toppings to the kittens. I spilled my cake in her hair, by accident. I let her shower alone, and when she came out, I pulled her against me again, burying my face in her wet hair. Over and over I said her name, until it became a wordless blur falling from my lips, and she silenced me with hers. With my eyes I apologized, and with my hands I told her how much I needed her. Her skin told me the same and this time we fell asleep on the floor together. The kittens warmed our feet and in the morning, she was still there.

Sunlight and green eyes, vanilla flavored skin, chocolate cake and three grey kittens. Late nights, late mornings, watching her wake slowly in my arms, the first thing she does is smile.

As I lay on the floor of my decaying home, I realized I sincerely loved each and every one of these things.

Contestant #008                                Tied 1st Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

 

The Endurance of Love

The History of love is a multi-faceted subject; it shines brightly, and takes on many forms. Love can feel elating, or it can hurt. It can be felt, given, taken, unrequited, or underestimated.
All of the above have been experienced through centuries, my experience with love has not been that long, but its history in my life began at the moment of my birth and has continued in varying forms even as I write this.
Twenty-Six years ago, there was a beautiful impoverished woman who was a single mother of a young daughter. She lived a simple life, in a simple apartment complex, living paycheck to paycheck. This woman happens to be the woman that accidentally conceived me. I will omit the love exchanged in order for me to be conceived. She had a choice at this point, being a single mother; she was not in the best of positions to raise another child. She knew she had three options, and she chose to find a family for me. This was the first act of love, a selfless love. Giving her child to a family who wanted one; and that could take care of one better that she was able. She loved me enough to give me a better life, with more opportunities.
Time passed and it was the day of my birth. My potential parents were waiting for me as I squeezed my way into this world. I don't remember this moment; I don't remember the tears that fell on my face from my mothers eyes. What I do remember is being a little girl having two wonderful parents that let me explore the world around me, what I received from them was an unconditional love. In my failings and wrongs, I was still loved. A scraped knee got a kiss, and when I was afraid at night, I had two wonderful parents to sleep between.
I always knew for as far back as I remember that I was adopted at birth. I was adopted from a woman named Sage. Every birthday my mother told the story of my birth, and how Sage's bag was packed. She would tell me about the freckles on her nose, and the light-red hair she had. These are the facts I held on to for years. I love my parents for never keeping my birth a secret.
Teenage years came, and I experienced what I thought was love from one boyfriend for a month, and then on to the next. I really at this point in my life had no clue what "being in love" was. I knew that I loved my dog, and my parents and a hanging out with my friends. It was my senior year in high school that I felt what "being in love" was. My parents had raised me a very strict catholic, though it did not stick with me for some reason. I did things my own way, I had sex. And I had sex with my first love. Now, I knew that this is how babies were made, but never did I think I could become pregnant, but I did, at seventeen.
I kept it a secret for about five months, not knowing what to do. I finally told my parents, with my boyfriend. The reaction I received was not pleasant; I grimace still as I think back to that day. That was a bad day. However, my parents loved me, and said they would be supportive of any decision I chose. The first thought I had, was to give my child up for adoption, this was the plan, for a week. Until I saw my father crying saying he would never know his first grandchild. This made me rethink my decision, not just because I saw my strong father cry, but because I did not want my child to grow up with the empty feeling of not knowing who your original mother was. So I decided to keep the baby. My boyfriend loved me, he loved the fact he was going to be a father, even at the tender age of 18. As months past, I felt my child grow inside of me, and slowly I started to fall in love with kicks and bumps I felt on my belly. Nine months past, and my son was born. A Beautiful boy, with red hair, immediately my thoughts went to my birth-mother. My son had my birth-mothers red hair.
Attending college and having an infant was not an easy task, but I had a great support system in my boyfriend, and parents. It was soon after nearing my last semester at college that my boyfriend proposed to me. Shortly thereafter I had a family all of my own. I knew the feeling of a parent's unconditional love.
Still, even being surrounded by all my loved ones and being in a stable environment, I couldn't shake the want and need to find the woman that gave birth to me. A private investigator was hired and I found 3 addresses, I figured it would be less invasive to write a letter. I wrote two letters to two different addresses. Both were returned to me with addressee unknown by the postal service. I didn't bother writing to the third address, as by now my spirits were crushed.
Two years went by, and I was driving home from my parents' house down a very long road along coastal California to my house. A song came on the radio, and tears poured forth from my eyes. I had to find her. I wasn't going to write a letter this time. This time I felt that I had to call her. I pressed my foot to the gas pedal and safely sped home. I told my husband what I was going to do, and airing on the side of caution, he told me to hold off. My resolve was too; my curiosity could no longer be contained. I got the city and state from the last address and I dialed information.

The phone rang once. It rang twice.

The third time a woman picked up, and I asked for Sage. There was a pause, and the woman said "IM sorry she is not in right now, may I take a message?" "Yes," I said, "can you please tell her that Missy called and here is my number". I hung up. I was over-come with joy that I found the right house! That in itself was enough to satiate me for a while.
Then my phone rang, it was a man. He introduced himself, and asked who I was. He told me he knew exactly who I was; and that my birth-mother was in tears with joy and needed to calm down before we talked. I talked to her husband for a while, learned I had siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, all of which whom knew about me.
The time came where my birthmother came on the phone. My heart raced. And I started talking first. "I just want you to know, that I have had a wonderful life, and I owe it in part to you, and that I have never been upset with your decision. I have thought about you my entire life, and I want you to know that even though it has been so long, I love you, and thank you." We both cried over the phone. She told me her side of the story of the night I was born, and after I talked to her, every single member of the family called me. I learned about my heritage, I cried when I talked to my sister. My brother sang for me over the phone. I had an entire family that was willing to accept me into their lives with open arms. The hole in my heart was no longer there.
We met for the first time a month after the first phone call, and I felt as if I had known then my entire life. Our mannerisms were the same, our laughs were identical. It was surreal, it was unimaginable. It was love. It is a love that had endured twenty six years and will continue to grow and evolve for the rest of our lives.
I am very close to both sides of my family. I still consider my parents, my parents; they raised me well and I love them dearly. I also have my birth-family with whom I fit in perfectly. Love is all around me, and it brings me to tears to think about how lucky I am to have found my birth-family and have a supportive set of parents. This has been my path of love. This is my personal history of love.
I know that love might be in different forms for other people, but the beautiful thing about love is that it will always be here, for me and everyone else. From birth until out last breaths we will have felt the wonder and warmth of love from someone or something.

Contestant #021                                       2nd Place

2nd Place Winner

The History of Love

Love has a checkered history. Men have fought duels for love; women have been beheaded for love; monarchs have relinquished their thrones for love; songs have been written for love; publishers of romance novels have gotten rich because of love; and Morton Eberle of the Bronx dumped his wife of 23 years for love. The most insidious form of love has always been love at first sight. So it was for Morty. Let's examine Morty for a moment. An ordinary man, Morty at 47 was a little bit grey, a little bit paunchy, a little bit short-winded, and a little bit prone to farting in bed. Marty wasn't looking for love. Morty was looking for the Yankees to make it to the World Series. Morty was looking to make a killing at his weekly poker game. Morty was looking at women young enough to be his daughter during his subway commute to work. Morty considered his new subway hobby in the nature of art appreciation. When one tired of reading the New York Times; when one tired of reading the subway advertisements for the twentieth time; people-watching invariably took their place. And why in the world would he want to look at other aging men wearing suits and carrying briefcases, or worn-looking women like Rosalie rushing to their jobs half asleep? It was the young ones, the fresh-faced ones who caught his eye. And that fateful morning, the youngest and the one with the freshest face was Bethany Tucker, seated directly across from him on her way to her job as a salesgirl in the Junior Department of Bloomingdale's. It was Bethany's first year out of school and she was thrilled to be working there. She loved the store, she loved her work, and she particularly loved the discount she got as a perk. Hitherto she couldn't afford to shop at Bloomingdale's. Now she could afford to dress stylishly rather than having to resort to looking rather punkish. Shopping had now become the major love of her life; she was thoroughly addicted to it and only her small salary prevented her from doing it more. She was dressed in her new outfit from the Junior Department the morning Morty fell in love with her. It was in pink, her favorite color, with a tiny skirt and a jacket that hit her at the waist and boots and handbag to match. Her silken blond hair hung straight to her shoulders. Her smooth face, with large blue eyes, was devoid of makeup, nor was it needed. When she crossed and re-crossed her legs, which she did often, the merest hint of something lacy beneath her skirt drove Morty to distraction. But it was Bethany's face that Morty stared at the longest. He had an overwhelming urge to pinch her plump cheeks, to gaze into the depths of her blue eyes, to part her rosebud lips--Marty felt a sudden pain in his chest that he was sure came from Cupid's arrow before realizing it was a touch of indigestion from the high-cholesterol breakfast Rosalie had fixed him. He thought music was welling up inside of him until he realized it came from the headphone of the woman seated next to him. He didn't mistake the subway shuddering to a stop for the earth moving, though; he wasn't that far gone. And yet by the time the subway reached the Bloomingdale's stop, Marty could not prevent himself from following the girl out of the subway and into the store. When she quickly disappeared from his sight, Marty didn't give up and catch another train and go to work. Instead, he used his cell to call in sick, and then slowly traversed the store for two hours until he spotted her. The problem then became what to do next. He desperately wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, to smell the scent of her hair, to have her look at him, to have her acknowledge his existence. He knew he was crossing some boundary he had never crossed before, but he didn't care. The world could come to an end tomorrow as long as he got to know her today. Marty was feeling love for the first time in his life. She was rearranging stacks of cotton sweaters when he finally approached her. At first he was going to say he was buying a birthday present for his daughter, who was about her size, and would she help him. On second thought, he didn't want the girl to assume he was old enough to be her father. He finally hit on the idea of saying it was for his secretary, although his secretary was about as appealing to him as Rosalie. He finally got up the nerve to say, “I'm looking for a present for my secretary. These sweaters might do.” His voice came out sounding a little hoarse, but he rather liked the sound of it. She gave him a smile of such sweetness he could feel himself melt. "I'd be glad to help you, Sir. What size is she?" He quickly glanced over her body, as though he hadn't spent the last half hour staring at it. "About your size." "That would be a small. What color do you think she'd like?" "I have no idea." "Which colors does she wear to work?" "He pictured Heidi and could only come up with one color. "Usually black," he said. There was pale yellow and pink and blue and a soft green and white and even one in violet. But not a black sweater in the bunch. She looked so disappointed that he burst out with, "I'll take one in every color." And now, of course, it sounded like he was having an affair with his secretary. No one in his right mind bought his secretary half a dozen sweaters for her birthday, or even one for that matter. Flowers yes; sweaters no. A sweater could easily be construed by some as sexual harassment. She gathered up the sweaters and carried them to the cashier's counter, and Morty quickly realized his time with her was about to come to a close. "Perhaps skirts to match," he said. She beamed. "Oh, I think I can help you with that," she said, and he followed her to where matching skirts were hanging, all short, all adorable. And when those were found and carried to the counter, he asked about matching boots. "That would be a different department," she told him. And so he was turned over to the cashier and then directed him to the gift-wrap department. He picked out paper in white with pink hearts. He paid extra for very large bows, but Morty was never a stingy man. He had so many shopping bags when he was finished he resembled a bag lady. He found he couldn't leave the store. His feet simply wouldn't allow it. He didn't know where she lived. He didn't even know her name. By this time he was convinced he would die if he couldn't have her. In his eyes, she was perfection. He made his way back to the Junior Department, knocking people with his bags all the way. Mostly he got indulgent looks from women wielding their own shopping bags. When he found her, she looked surprised to see him again. Not displeased, though—she didn't look at all displeased. "These are for you," he said. "What?" "The things I bought, I bought them for you." She stared at him in confusion. "Why would you buy them for me?" "I love you." Oh, my God, he was thinking, it took me six months to say that to Rosalie and I only said it then for ulterior motives. She glanced pointedly at his hand. "You're married." "That can be rectified." She thought of all the clothes he had bought her. She thought of the possibility of having her own Bloomingdale's charge card. She thought of long days spent shopping while he was at work. She thought of the way he had looked at her on the subway, which hadn't gone unnoticed. She thought how romantic it was that he had followed her to work. She thought of not having to share a room with her little sister anymore and not having a curfew. "Take me to lunch and we'll talk about it," she said to him with a big smile. Not the greatest love story in history; just another example of the power of love. As for Morty and Bethany, she grew to love him very quickly and they were still in love the day he died of a coronary at age 67. She dropped dead in Bloomingdale's tea shop 20 years later, surrounded, as usual, by shopping bags. And still it lives on, love, and always will.

Contestant #064                                       3rd Place

3rd Place Winner

Forever Yours

My Love, I saw you today. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would, and I think some of that was because of how the sunlight danced deceptively down upon everything, painting the world a glad shade of gold. Utter silence is all I heard; not a single soul was around. Not a single living person. It took me awhile to calm myself, to face the facts, to approach you. Sometimes, I wonder if you hear me when I talk to you, because I never get a sign that you are listening. I mean, there are some rather large obstacles that prevent you from making it obvious, but even a very subtle gesture would be appreciated every once in a while. I guess that's expecting a little too much from you, though. It was a portrait straight from the mind of a sick artist, the way I stood there in front of you for an hour before I could say a single thing. Just you and I, the grass between us. The words in my mouth, they were like cotton, choking me; I just couldn't spit them out. When I finally sunk to my knees in front of you, tears filled my eyes with some swift speed, stinging and unexpected. "I miss you," I whispered, and that's when my heart broke, nothing more than shattered glass inside my hollow chest, sending shards splitting into my other organs. "And I don't understand why you had to go." The glinting, gleaming gravestone made me nauseous when I stared at it, at your name, at the weedy flowers littering its base. I leave you pebbles instead, for good luck. I am not sure how good luck works in the afterlife, but just in case you needed it, I have got you covered. "It's been awhile." Thirty-five days. Thirty-five days that you have been dead, and twenty-nine that you have been in the ground. Thirty-five days too many, thirty-five days that I have been tears held together by plastic. Thirty-five days that it hurts to breathe. I have been strong for your mother and your siblings. I just want to cry, every night, when I lay my head down on the pillow I stole from your room. The pillow that still smells the way you did, one of a thousand things I threw through your window and drove away with, because I couldn't stand the thought of losing you. I am afraid, so afraid. That you will slip between my fingers. Afraid that one day, I will forget how perfectly our hands fit together, like pieces of a puzzle. Afraid that one morning, I won't see your face when I wake up. Afraid that sometime soon, you won't be the only person who passes through my mind; I am afraid of losing you, even though you are already gone. It's hard to understand. You are a corpse now, rotting and covered with worms for flesh, with empty holes as eyes, and no air in your lungs, and I am still up here, but I wonder if maybe, maybe I am as dead as you are. Maybe my heart will just stop beating. Does it hurt to die? I have wanted to ask you that for awhile, but it's so strange to say aloud, so I keep praying that you are clairvoyant enough to read my mind. For you, it must have hurt, because it took them forever to declare you dead officially, hours passing, hope wavering. The waiting room of the hospital is absolutely the most dreadful place on the planet, worse than the depths of a geyser or a war zone. The television was set to ESPN, but I couldn't bring myself to watch the tennis tournament, mostly because you play tennis. Well, you played it. I forget the "ed" sometimes, and it hurts to correct myself, so most of the time, I let it slide, and people shoot me sympathetic glances, eyes full of pity, but gratitude that it's not their loss. When the doctor finally came out, I could read him like a picture book, but the world didn't spin until the words came out of his mouth. "I'm sorry." And then, darkness. So am I. I can't help but feel like it was my fault, that you are gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye, or that I love you. I still love you. I will always love you, perhaps just because you are gone. I wish it was me, instead of you; every night I made a pact with God, even though I knew it was too late. I wish we had never fought, that I had never said I hated you, that you weren't driving to my house when it happened, that I was gone, and you were still here. It would be so much easier to be the ghost coming back to haunt you, but you don't even have to haunt me. I am guilty enough on my own. Your name is still written all over everything I own, and I still wear your sweatshirt every day. Since you died, the world has been little more than a perpetual winter for me, except I don't stop to catch snowflakes on my tongue, and I haven't made any snow angels yet. We made them together last year at the winter carnival, and we traced our names into the snow beside them. You drew a heart between them. I have a picture of our snow angels, along with hundreds of pictures of us, pictures I hide under my bed, because I can't cry. I keep the one I stole from your room, the one in the frame on your dresser, on my bedside table, mostly because it was yours. I won't let the sands of time erase you, even if I have to struggle against them. I wonder how long it is going to be this way, how long my ribs will ache with every breath I dare to take, how long my smile will be fake and uncomfortable, how long your grave will be the only place I feel safe at. Maybe there are a certain number of days I have to pass, and then the world will start to turn again. I just hope I am not like this forever, but if I am, well, I guess I deserve it. I had no idea this kind of pain was possible, that my heart was capable of loving this deep, that I could miss someone this much. I find myself replaying every nanosecond I ever spent with you in my head, searching for anything I could have done to stop this. I learnt my lesson, though; that I have to appreciate what I have in front of me, or else it will be viciously snatched from me. Oh God, I can't even care about anything else anymore. I hardly eat, I am failing, and my room is in shambles. Are you happy now? I am so sorry I wasn't a good enough girlfriend to you when you were alive, but now that you are dead, I am indebted to you, forever yours. I sat at your grave for hours, until the sun disappeared behind the tops of trees, until my eyes cried themselves dry. I didn't want to leave. I had to, though, and so somehow I brought myself to stand up, wiping my eyes on your sleeves until they were red, raw, and dry, drier than the afterlife. The Eskimos have this myth that says the afterlife is dry, just dry. If it's dry there, I hope you can always find water. I stared at your name, your beautiful name, perfectly carved into the marble, memorizing every curve of every letter. After I could blink and see the exact image, I dug in the pocket of your sweatshirt, until I felt the round, cool pebble between my fingers. I set it gently atop your grave, with a sad smile. At least my eyes stayed dry. "Goodbye," I murmured, a casual departing phrase. With my back turned to you, I lifted a foot, pressed it gingerly into the leafy ground, and walked away. From then on, I knew it became our history. Forever.

 

Winners from

Challenge #5

"1234"

1,000 words or less..

 

Prizes

1st Place -- 50,000 credits

2nd place -- 30,000 credits

3rd place -- 20,000 credits

 

Contestant #031         Claimed                1st Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

 

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4....Sarah did not understand why the repetitive count of 4 beats controlled her every move and most of her waking thoughts. She counted the words in sentences in 4 syllable stances, and frequently counted the letters on words, using only her four fingers to count the letters over and over, until they came out even. For example, she spelled the letters of the word 'frequently' using her four fingers....freq...uent..ly...fr..eque...ntly over and over in her mind, until a new work would stick there. 'Frequently' only had to be counted twice, before it came out even!! She had no idea why she did this, in fact, if she had of been questioned she would have been surprised to find out that everybody did not organize their thoughts and actions this way.

She had always been a quiet child, content to play with her blocks, or Lincoln Logs, or Play Doh. She has every toy imaginable, but preferred to play the things she could organize, or stack. She organized the doll furniture in her doll house into groups of four, before she could even count. She baked four cookies at a time in her EZ Bake oven. She wore two pair of socks, so that she would have a total of four on all the time, and was more than a little irritated that she could not find a way to wear a total of four shoes. Her mother noticed that some of Sarah's habits were a bit odd, especially the bit about the socks but she merely assumed it was a childhood idiosyncrasy and assumed that it would pass.

Fours, and multiples of fours, were the the basis of the unique sorting system of her child's brain. It was the number that made most sense to her, and she spent endless hours touching her thumb to the pads of each of her fingers, over and over and over again. In truth, she often fell asleep repeating this ritual. Later, when she started school and faced a specifically challenging lesson, she would clear her mind by closing her eyes and repeating this ritual exactly four times. If she missed one finger pad, she would take another deep breath and start over.

By the time she was a teenager, she was fastidious about her room and belongings: her books were alphabetized, with four laying on their back cover, spine out, and 4 standing up on their bottoms, her desk drawers were perfectly organized with not so much as a paper clip touching a rubber band. And, bless her heart, she had a ritual for everything!! Her mother had grown so accustomed to Sarah's orderliness and tidiness that if she thought about it all, it was merely to thank the stars that Sarah's room was neat and for her not being thrown into the rebellion of adolescence of having clothes strewn about the place and the general untidiness that often occurs soon after puberty. Her friends had also become accustomed to her strange habits and were used to the fact that the clutter of their rooms and their walls that were lined with posters and the other memorabilia of their young and tender lives made Sarah a bit nervous and so she did not spend too much time at their perspective homes. Her door was always open to them, and to be honest, she was a great hostess and they really preferred to visit her room, anyway.

As a young adult, facing college, she was still functioning, but only minimally and her life was controlled by rituals and rituals for the rituals and rituals for those rituals. It was only after she had a breakdown, of sorts, after discovering that she had more than 4 food items on her plate in the college cafeteria during Saturday brunch, found herself unable to eat and then subsequently worked herself into a state of anxiety requiring hospitalization that anyone, including herself, realized there was a problem.

The plain simple fact was that no one really saw anything wrong with the way Sarah liked to have things neat. No one really seemed to mind that none of her food could touch on her plate, or that she never ever drank after anyone , or that she sometimes washed her hands 4 times after toileting. And, ultimately, since no one could hear what was going on inside her head, and therefore, did not know she was counting, counting, always counting . . . she merely slipped through the cracks, a little odd, but essentially, ignored.

Today, with the help of really, really good pharmaceuticals, a name for her illness, namely Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and having passed the need for weekly counseling sessions, she is almost "normal". Her counselor has deemed her “healed” and suitable for human companionship. If one thinks about it long enough, it seems very odd, doesn't it? The fact that counting things by fours is enough to make someone unfit for human companionship?? And, if no one sees her late at night systemically touching her thumb to the pads of her fingers exactly four times, what's the real harm??

Contestant #003          Claimed              2nd Place

2nd Place Winner

1, 2, 3, 4, fi… damn it, 1, 2, 3, 4, fi… no”! Turning her eyes to the ceiling Cheryl whispered a silent prayer to the god of counting, who ever that may be, to help her finish the sum she had in front of her.
This was Cheryl’s first day at infant school and Ms Troop had set the class the task of counting stars she had drawn on the board.
It wasn’t that Cheryl couldn’t count beyond 4 or 5 just that the dots on the board were dancing around so that where 1 dot had been there now appeared 2 or even 3.
The exercise had been meant to help bring the class together in the counting but Cheryl, who had always been a fastidious child, really did want to count every star.

The bell rang for midmorning play and as one the class rose and rushed to get too the playground quicker than the next, all that is except Cheryl. Now the classroom was quiet Cheryl focused all her attention on stopping the stars from moving and succeeded in the upper part of the blackboard’s alpha centurion constellation.
She quickly moved through the rest of the board and managed to stop the stars floating about and to stay fixed in one place.
Now she noticed that the stars on the board resembled the pattern of the stars that her father had shown her in the evening sky. There was Orion and his belt, the Big Dipper and the Great Bear.
Just then one of the stars shot across the blackboard in a graceful arc burning out just before it ran into the class plan that was pinned to the board. “I wonder if it would have set fire to it”? Thought Cheryl as her eyelids started to close.

Cheryl was still asleep on her desk when the teacher and the rest of the children returned noisily from playtime. The children started to sit behind their desks when they noticed the blackboard and slowly silence descended upon the room.
Ms Troop had never known such a thing to happen, normally she had to tell the children to settle down and yet here they were sitting wide eyed and speechless staring in her direction. It slowly dawned on Ms Troop that the children were not staring at her but past her and at the blackboard behind her.

Ms Troop turned and covered her mouth to hide her squeak of astonishment for there on the blackboard the night sky was set out in all its glory with Orion and his belt, the Big Dipper and the Great Bear along with accompanying shooting stars.

Contestant #008          Claimed                3rd Place

3rd Place Winner

The ticking seemed to grow louder causing stormy blue-gray eyes to turn in the direction of the simple black and silver wall clock. 1… 2… 3… 4… she started to count before realizing what she was doing and chastising herself. Sinking her hands back into the hot sudsy dishwater she continued to scrub at the chicken pan when the soft dripping of the faucet caught her attention.

1… 2… 3… 4… a lump swelled in her throat but she tried to ignore it and lifted her right hand to wipe away the stray locks of hair that had fallen before her eyes.

Here, let me get that… a memory said soft, deep and warm with love, causing her to freeze for a moment with her lathered hand held up to her messy dark honey hair while foam dripped down her forearm unnoticed. For a second she could almost feel the whispery soft touch of his fingertips across her brow before she blinked and the feeling was gone. Lowering her hand she once again glanced at the clock noticing the time and feeling icy tendril squirm through her stomach like unwanted echoes.

Soon… 1… 2… 3… 4… and it would all be over again. That fraction of time when her world had changed forever: when the deep baritone laughter that had filled the little apartment had ceased to exist. Only mere seconds left to countdown until ghosts stood at her door once more, dressed in blue and wearing expressions that told her everything before a single syllable had passed their lips.

The clock grew unbearably loud as it echoed the numbers in her head, the sound causing her to hold her breath while she awaited the knock that had brought her the news, the end of her life as she had known it.

1… 2… 3… 4… and the instant passed, the clock moved on, the world continued to thrive outside her window as if nothing had ever happened and she found herself exhaling a ragged breath as she once again made it past that time. Only now she wondered how many more days like this she would go through before the clock stopped counting it out, before the shadows stopped coming to the door, before she forgot the comforting sound of his voice?

 

Winners from

Challenge #4

Fairytale Re-write

2,500 words or less..

 

Prizes

1st Place -- 50,000 credits

2nd place -- 30,000 credits

3rd place -- 20,000 credits

 

Contestant #010         CLAIMED               1st Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

 

I'll tell you one thing: It isn't easy being a wolf. A little background information about me: I was born in the Dark Woods, and lived there pretty much all of my early life. I grew up with my brothers and sisters, romping and playing together all through the trees, so it came as no surprise to anyone that knew me when I decided to go to the local university and even considered settling down and make a living for myself there once I had graduated.

Anyway, it's about here my tale begins. I graduated from Wolf College in the spring of '03 with honors. I could have done anything I wanted with my life, or so I was told. The problem was, I didn't know what I wanted to do. So, I decided to get a job that would allow me to see the world and maybe help me figure out what I wanted to do with my life. And thus began my career as a door to door salesman.

I know. I know. You're thinking to yourself, what in the world is a wolf doing as a door to door salesman? Well, I'll have you know I was pretty darned good at it! Remember Jack? You know, the kid with the beanstalk? Well, who do you think sold him those beans? Yes, I'll admit I had to disguise myself pretty good to make that sale, and all I got was a lousy, underfed cow for the trade, but I still made the sale! Besides, I was able to fatten the cow up a bit and sell it to some cat with a fiddle. He said he was going to train it to jump over the moon or something. Not my business really, but it was another sale nonetheless! I was making quite the living! If you wanted something sold, I was your man... I mean wolf!

That's when my luck turned sour. I was out in the east country peddling some wares when I came upon this house made of straw. The name on the mailbox said L. Pig. I decided this was as good a place as any to start, so I went up to the door and knocked.

"H-hello?" came the voice from inside.

"Little pig, little pig," I said beginning my sales pitch, "let me in. I have some lovely wares to show you."

The little pig, obviously unused to sales calls replied, "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!"

Just as I was about to reply, I felt a tickle in my nose. I suddenly remembered I was allergic to hay! Oh, dear! I huffed and I puffed, and did my best to stifle the sneeze, but to no avail. With a mighty, "ACHOO!" I let fly. The poor pig's house was leveled. I tried to apologize profusely, but the little pig was already running away squealing. What a rotten start!

Well, I thought trying to keep my spirits up, there is always the next house. Funnily enough, the next house I came to also had a mailbox with the name L. Pig on it. However, this house looked to be made of some sort of wood rather than straw. That was a relief! I walked up the path to the door and knocked.

"H-hello?" came a timid voice from inside which sounded suspiciously like the first little pig's whose house I had accidentally knocked down. My eyebrow arched slightly, but I pressed on with my pitch.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in. I have some lovely wares to show you!"

"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" came the reply.

That sounded strangely familiar. "Say, you wouldn't be related to that chap in the straw house, would you?" I asked. "I really want to apol-" but just at that moment, a piece of straw from the first house, which had attached to my clothes, got caught in a small gust of wind and sailed right up my nose! I huffed and I puffed madly, trying my best to stop my nose from a repeat performance of my previous sales call, but before I knew it, I erupted with a mighty, "ACHOO!" and the house made of twigs crumbled before me.

Through watering eyes, I attempted to apologize. "Wait!" I cried. "Wait! I'm sorry! I'll pay for that! Really I will!" But it was too late. I saw not one, but two little pigs high-tailing it away from the scene. Can't say I blame them really. I wouldn't want to hang around a
menace with hay fever such as myself either if all I was going to do was knock down people's houses.

Grumbling, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and began making my way down the road again in hopes to make up for this rotten day with a successful sales call at the next house. I read the name on the mailbox and my eyes narrowed suspiciously: L. Pig.

"Just what the heck is going on here?" I wondered out loud to myself.

Sighing in resignation, I walked up the path to the house. This one was made out of bricks and looked to be much sturdier then the other two houses. I brushed at my clothing, trying to appear presentable, then walked up to the door and knocked.

"Hello?" came a rather bold sounding voice from behind the door. Well at least that was different.

"Little pig, little pig," I said, though with a little less heart than the previous two times, "let me in. I have some lovely wares to show you!"

"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" came the by now overly familiar reply.

I sighed deeply and dropped my bag of goods heavily to the ground in despair. However, as it fell, it stirred up a cloud of dust so thick, it nearly blotted out the sun. I could feel the sneeze welling up inside of me. Oh, drat! I huffed and I puffed in an attempt to clear my nose and spare the pig in the brick house the fate of the other two, for I thought surely the force of the sneeze I felt building up would be enough to level even this fine structure.

"ACHOO! ACHOO! ACHOO!"

Well the good news, good listeners, is that the sneeze cleared away the cloud of dust surrounding me. That and the fact that the house was still standing gave me a glimmer of hope that this sale might be redeemed. However, when I looked, my bag of wares was nowhere to be seen. Could anything else go wrong this foul day? I cursed and I swore loudly, searching franticly for the bag. I looked low and high and then I spied it. Well part of it. The bag had blown all the up on the roof and wedged itself in the house's brick chimney. Muttering darkly, I climbed onto the roof to retrieve it. Just as I reached it, the bag slipped and went tumbling down into the darkness. I stared, dumbfounded, for several minutes before deciding I would have to go down and retrieve it.

Gritting my teeth, I clambered into the chimney and began crawling down. I was almost near where my bag had fallen, when suddenly, my grip on the wall slipped and I tumbled downward at high velocity. I landed with a splash in a large pot of water. It only took a minute for me to realize that a fire had been lit under the pot and the water was nearing its boiling point! This was too much!

With a howl of alarm and pain, I shot back up the chimney, leaving my bag of goods behind! I jumped off the roof and high tailed it away from there as fast as my legs would carry me. I ran all the way back to the Dark Woods, where I still reside to this day.

I haven't gone back into the door to door salesman business, although I hear there is an elderly lady with granddaughter that dresses in red all the time that doesn't live too far away. I wonder if she might be interested in a new nightgown or some spectacles. Well, I don't guess it could hurt to ask. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

The End.

Contestant #009           CLAIMED            2nd Place

2nd Place Winner

Once, a long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived three beautiful princesses. These princesses were known to be the most beautiful in all the land. The eldest had jet-black hair, the palest and smoothest skin, and the most beautiful rosy lips. The middle sister radiated joy and beauty, even though she was often covered in a thin layer of dirt from time spent with her animal friends. The youngest had a voice unmatched and filled her family's world with sunshine. The Three Little Princesses were known as Snow White, Cinderella, and Aurora.

The three girls were constantly plagued by jealous witches, evil stepmothers (Why does our father marry so badly? the three girls often wondered), and horrendous beasts. After almost being cooked alive by a sweets-obsessed old maid, Snow White finally proposed a solution.

"Sisters," she said, "Let's move away from here for a while. We can set up small kingdoms of our own and be free of these awful evils." The two younger sisters agreed, and the trio set out into the countryside.

Snow White was passing a beautiful meadow when she spotted a crystalline lake, complete with jumping fish and waving cattails. "Stop, stop!" she cried to her many servants and workers, "Build my castle here, and build it quickly so I can go swimming in the lake!" The workers built as quickly as they could, and Snow White soon had a dinky castle made of uneven stones and weak wood. She didn't care, however; she was soon splashing and playing in the perfect clear water of the lake.

The second sister, Cinderella, traveled a bit farther until she found a spot she liked. She caught sight of a sunlit clearing in the middle of a picturesque stand of ancient redwoods. "Stop, stop!" she cried to her many servants and workers, "Build my castle here, and build it quickly so I can bask in the beautiful sunlight and lay on the perfect green grass!" The workers built as quickly as they could, and Cinderella soon had a leaning castle on a pathetic foundation of shifting sand. She didn't care, however; she was soon dozing in the sunshine with not a care in the world.

The youngest of the Three Little Princesses, Aurora, traveled much farther than the other two sisters. She was determined to find the absolute perfect spot for her new home. Finally, she found a spot that filled her with joy. The trees were tall and strong, the grass was plush and green, and the water of a nearby stream gurgled happily in its course through the meadow. "Stop, stop!" she cried to her many servants and workers, "Build my castle here!"

As much as Aurora wanted to explore her new haven, she knew that if she made sure her castle was perfect it would pay off in the end. Aurora found the flattest and strongest part of the meadow for her foundation. She picked only the hardest rocks and strongest wood, and hired the best architect in the land. Finally, she supervised the digging of a deep moat. This may save me someday, she thought.
As Aurora worked on her castle, trouble approached Snow White's minuscule domicile. An evil witch, jealous of the sisters' wealth and beauty, appeared beneath the eldest princess's tower.

"Little girl, little girl, you'd better come down!" she yelled violently.

"Not by the jewels on my crowny crown crown!" Snow White replied from the safety of her tower.

The queen scowled. "Then I'll brew, and I'll spell, and I'll CURSE you girl down!" And the witch sent a great curse at the tiny castle. The building promptly collapsed, and Snow White barely escaped. She ran as fast as she could to Cinderella, who had just finished building her flimsy house.

The witch was not far behind. Upon arriving at Cinderella's house, she once again looked up at the princesses hiding in the tower.
"Little girls, little girls, you'd better come down!"

"Not by the jewels on our crowny crown crowns!"

"Then I'll brew, and I'll spell, and I'll CURSE you both down!" And the witch sent a great curse at the leaning castle. The building promptly collapsed, and Snow White and Cinderella barely escaped. They ran as fast as they could to Aurora, who was just putting the finishing touches on her deep, murky moat. The three girls hurried up Aurora's tall, sturdy tower.

The witch arrived. "Little girls, little girls, you'd better come down!"

"Not by the jewels on our crowny crown crowns!"

"Then I'll brew, and I'll spell, and I'll CURSE you all down!" And the witch sent a great curse at the castle. The Three Little Princesses trembled with fear, but the witch's curse did not even reach them. "The moat!" Aurora exclaimed. "Her curses can't reach us because the moat is too wide!" The witch sent curse after curse hurtling toward the tower, but none reached even halfway across the moat. The witch soon became tired. With a shrill shriek, she conjured a cauldron and began mixing a bubbling green potion. "I'll get you, my pretties!" the witch screeched, her green face grimacing to show yellow teeth.

All three princesses knew that the widest moat in the land could not protect them from the witch forever. The Three Little Princesses hung their heads in despair as they thought of the evil witch outside.

Suddenly, a small ball of light fluttered into the room. As the princesses stared in amazement at the glowing orb, it gradually grew until it became a squat lady holding a bulging burlap sack. She had poofy white hair and wore a dark blue dress. She had her face and arm stuck in the large bag, out of which quarters and teeth flew haphazardly. "Wand, wand, where's my wand..." the lady mumbled into the sack. The princesses were shocked into frozen silence.

"Ah!" the lady exclaimed as she found her missing tool. "So sorry for the delay; it's football season and I've been so busy. Anyway, pleased to meet you, I am The Tooth Fairy. Fairy Godmother is in Jamaica with The Genie of the Lamp this week, so I've taken her beat." The Tooth Fairy waddled to the window in the tower, frowning when she saw the evil witch below.

"Well girls," The Tooth Fairy said slowly, "I'm afraid I can't get rid of this witch for you. My magic is meant for teeth and quarters, not for potions and hexes. I can, however, protect you for at least a time." The Tooth Fairy pushed up her sleeves and pointed her wand at Snow White. She began reciting her spell:

"Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho!
It's off to work you go!
In seven small men, you'll find great friends,
But you're required to cook, clean, and sew."

Snow White slowly faded from view as The Tooth Fairy's spell sent her away. The Tooth Fairy turned toward Cinderella. She recited:

"Bibbiti! Bobbiti! Boo!
A pumpkin and a glass shoe!
It would be nice, to live with the mice,
Where step mom and stepsisters hate you."

Cinderella too slowly faded as she traveled to safety. Now only the youngest, Princess Aurora, was left in danger of the evil witch.
"Aurora," The Tooth Fairy said, "You are the hero of this story. Your strong castle and intelligent forethought held off the witch long enough for me to arrive. Because of your heroism, you will not have to work or live with hate as your sisters do." The Tooth Fairy prepared for her last spell, and recited:

"Nightingale, Nightingale,
Dozing beauty's fairy tale.
You fall asleep, a sleep too deep,
'Till wakened by charming male."

Aurora's eyes drooped as The Tooth Fairy's spell took hold. The Tooth Fairy smiled, and then shrank until she was only a glowing ball of light. She fluttered out of the tower, leaving the sleeping beauty to sleep in peace.

I expect you're wondering what happened to the Three Little Princesses in their new lives. Well those, my friends, are completely different stories.

The End

Contestant #024            CLAIMED            3rd Place

3rd Place Winner

Once upon a time, a boy called Hansel and his sister Gretel lived with their
father and stepmother in a cottage near a forest.

I'm totally kidding on this one. Let's start over.

In the year 2040, Mattel started distributing a brand new toy for kids –
the Millennium Nanny. It was an extremely novel and exorbitant humanoid
mechanism that would fulfill the requirements and expectations of a real
Nanny: It could cook, clean, play and speak. The much sought-after gadget
even resembled a real human, apart from its silver metallic exterior. It was
instantly a hit upon release in the market, and when the motherless Henry
and Gretchen Parallel were given one by their father, the two adolescents
were immediately intrigued.

Henry Parallel adored the robot for the fact that it waited on him hand and
foot. He would sit in bliss for entire days, Millennium-Nanny bringing him
anything he needed, even helping him with his homework in such a way that he
would hardly have to think about anything at all. Gretchen Parallel,
however, did not love the robot for the material benefits that it brought
along, instead using it to learn about its various scientific properties,
spending hours speaking to and studying it, trying to work out exactly how
it was constructed. However, both the children were utterly grateful to
their father for purchasing the pricey gift.

Within the first week of receiving the Millennium-Nanny, the "family (as
they now called it)" went out for an early morning hike in the shrinking
woods nearby. They walked through the short pathways, trying to find a spot
where they would not be burdened by the endless amounts of tree cutters –
men who spent their lives destroying some of the only remaining resources on
the earth. At least, that was what Gretchen said they did. Henry thought he
knew better, telling her the trees will grow back.

"Sure, in a century." Gretchen responded.

"So?"

"So it'll be too late by then!" Of course, Millennium-Nanny broke the
two up before they really had the chance to start a tussle, their father
delighting that he could hand that responsibility to the humanoid.

Silently, the "family" made their way to a cliff which their father had
discovered several days earlier. "Isn't this just spectacular?" he
asked the children, moving to the side for better views. Henry nodded,
staring out at the tall buildings that rose into the heavens. Gretchen could
only frown, her eyes seeing only the sullen civilization that was once a
stunning landscape of earth. Suddenly, as she was contemplating the
destruction she saw, Gretchen lost her balance and slipped. Her brother –
always the more athletic one – grabbed onto her instantly, but she still
found herself hanging over the edge, holding onto her brother's hand for
dear life. It was then that she saw something that terrified her deeply.

The Millennium-Nanny was standing behind her brother, leaning over the
endangered children. It did not do anything. Henry could not look behind at
the machine, but Gretchen couldn't help but notice something extremely
menacing in the face of the robot – and it wasn't doing anything to
salvage the situation! Finally, the kids heard a voice:

"Save them!" It was their father. The robot immediately reached out its
lengthening arm to the children, pulling them up with ease. Their father ran
to them. "What were you two thinking?" he asked, momentarily flustered.

"I'm sorry, Father," Henry answered, not meeting his eyes. "Gretchen
fell, so I grabbed onto her."
"Well, I suppose it's good that you did, and even better that Nanny was
around to save you both," their father responded with a thankful grin.
"Thanks, Nanny."

"You are welcome," the Millennium-Nanny answered in its robotic tone.

On the way home, Gretchen caught up with her brother. She held him back
until the two were fairly a distance from their father and Nanny, and then
began to speak to him. "Didn't you notice anything strange about
that?"

"Anything strange about what?"

"The Millennium-Nanny...Henry, it didn't save us."

"Yes she did."

"No, it didn't. I saw it. It didn't do anything until Father told it
to."

"She had just gotten there. She couldn't have done anything fast
enough."

"But it was there! Right behind you."

Henry rolled his eyes skeptically. "Well, it's not like she did anything
wrong. She can't execute unless instructed."

"That's where you're wrong. Millennium-Nannies are robots, and
therefore are made to follow Asimov's three laws of robotics! Robots
can't allow humans to come to any harm, don't you understand?"

"But she didn't attempt to hurt us!"

"Exactly! It didn't stop us from getting hurt, either. Something is
definitely wrong."

"You shouldn't be calling Nanny "It", Gretchen." With that, Henry
ran ahead to catch up with the rest of the "family".

The subsequent week the "family" had made plans to go hiking again; only
this time their father was unable to join them. "Run along with Nanny,"
he told them. Henry was excited. Gretchen, nonetheless, was unnerved. When
they had made it into the woods, Gretchen noticed that they were using a new
route, and that with every step, they were finding fewer and fewer tree
cutters. "Perhaps we should stay closer to home," she suggested, but the
Millennium-Nanny told her not to worry, claiming to know the way back.

Within the following hour, the trio was lost in the forest.

Nanny told the children, "I will return in an hour. I am going to try
finding a tree cutter and ask for directions. Do wait here kids."

Time trickled by slowly and soon, an hour had passed but the children were
still alone.

"Oh no!" Henry cried, aghast. "She's lost us! Nanny's lost us!"
Only Gretchen did not think they had been lost. She knew they had been left
alone deliberately.

"Don't worry," she told her brother. "Let's just look for the tree
cutters. There's always some around." They walked through the forest,
attempting to retrace their steps, but couldn't seem to find any other
human being.

"We should have just stayed where Nanny left us. She's probably
frantically looking for us right now," Henry complained.

"It's probably at home with father, saying we ran away, actually,"
Gretchen retorted, rolling her eyes.

"It's your entire fault for not trusting Nanny! She'll be so
worried-"

"Henry! Stop calling it that. Stop acting like it cares about us! It's
only a robot, it's not Mother!"

Henry stopped arguing and hung his head, despondence in the air. Gretchen
sighed. "Look, if anybody is worried about us right now, it's Father.
But if he isn't able to find us, we'll have to figure our way out.
Let's just try looking for the tree cutters."

The siblings continued walking through the course of the entire night, but
did not succeed in finding their way home, or even hearing the sounds of
tree cutters. It was nearly daylight when Henry heard a noise that sounded
like drilling. The children followed the sound that was thought to be coming
from the tree cutters, and found themselves facing a large building.

"It's a factory!" Gretchen whispered in astonishment.

"Well then, let's enter-"

"No! Don't be silly...what if it's not the tree cutters? What if
it's something different?"

"Then I guess we're up to find out."

"Henry, don't be ridiculous!"

"Let's just get a tad bit closer, alright?"

Gretchen reluctantly followed her brother nearer to the factory. Within
close proximity, Henry peeked into the crack of a small window, and an
excited look dawned upon his face. "Gretch- it's a Millennium-Nanny
factory!" Gretchen stared at him in disbelief. "Here, check it out for
yourself." She did as told and what greeted her was a sight of utter
incredulity. Millions of tables were arranged with machine parts to make the
Nannies, accompanied by huge walls lined with instruments. "Let's go in
and take a look!" her brother told her, and before she could stop him,
Henry was already knocking at the front door. By the fifth-nanosecond, the
door swung open.

One of the Nannies was at the door, and as soon as it saw the children, it
grabbed them with its long arms. It carried the two under its strong grip,
and while Gretchen screamed and struggled for help, all she saw was the look
of hysteria on her brother's face. She had known! She had known how
dangerous the machines were, and how they weren't to be trusted, but he
didn't believe her. The robot finally dropped them in a small, empty room.

"Wait here," it instructed, and Gretchen did not have the nerve to fight
back. In fact, she had almost expected her brother to complain, or try doing
something courageous, but he looked far too afraid to retaliate either.
After a few minutes of silent waiting, a new Millennium-Nanny entered the
room. Only this Nanny was different from the rest. Instead of being the
usual silver color, it was a shining glorious gold.

"Who are you?" it asked. Gretchen was stunned by how human its voice
sounded. She replied,

"I'm Gretchen and this is Henry, my brother."

"Why are you here?"

"We got lost in the forest. Please, you have to take us home!" Henry begged
in a useless plea. Abruptly, the Millennium-Nanny broke into a sinister
laugh, shattering the night's serene.

"We have never had children trespassed. You will not leave. You will work."
Before Gretchen could respond by asking what exactly the machine had meant,
more of the silver ones entered the room, grabbing her brother away from
her. He was carried out the door.

"What is going to happen to him?" She cried.

"What do you think? He will work for us. So will you." The machine laughed,
making Gretchen shudder.

"What is this place?"

"This is the Millennium-Nanny factory, as I am sure you've already figured
out. I am the leader here."

"You can't be. The head of Mattel should be in charge-"

"He was, or used to. We fixed that." Gretchen's eyes widened with
trepidation.

"You aren't going to harm us, are you?"

"You will work. Work is what children are good enough for."

"Children are good for many things!"

"Children are useless."

"Children grow into adults," Gretchen responded, folding her arms.

"Yes. That is the second problem." Gretchen eyed the machine cautiously.
"Children will not grow up. They will be destroyed by us. There will be no
adults."

"And certainly no humans!"

"You finally understand." Moments after the conversation, Gretchen was
chained to the machine, and was forced to do all the jobs it didn't want to.
She was the one cleaning all the parts of the Millennium-Nannies. Stark
realization hit her - she discerned they were not made to help humans, but
were targeted to destroy them - not only a few, but the entire human race.
It would only be several years before every household owned a Nanny, and
when that happened, everything would be over. She could only wonder what was
going to happen to Henry, but she knew it wouldn't be any good. It was her
and not him, after all, whom the head Nanny had chosen to aid in their work.
By the dead of that night, Gretchen was not only fearful, but she realized
that after the entire episode, she was extremely athirst. Her thirst though,
gave her a brilliant idea.

"Excuse me?" she asked the robot which she was chained to. "I know you don't
want to hear this, but since I am only human, I need some water."

"The only water source lies at the pond."

"May I go?" The Nanny considered the question.

"That is only if I accompany you." The Nanny led Gretchen to a pond
surrounded by heavy forestry.

"I will need a cup to drink from." The Nanny quickly handed her a cup that
seemed to appear magically from nowhere. But Gretchen did not drink.
Instead, she dipped the cup into the small bit of water and tossed it back
up into the air, hitting the golden Millennium-Nanny square in the face. It
was then that the machine did something Gretchen had expected - it set
itself on fire. Luckily, the connection between the two was only a rope's
distance, and the fire quickly burned it, setting Gretchen free. She
immediately escaped unscathed, running back to the factory. The other
Nannies were still working, completely in oblivion to the fact that their
master had been destroyed. Gretchen knew that the only way to save her
brother would be dumping water over all the robots, but there was no time.
She peered at the cup in her hand. There were only a few drops of water
left. Looking to the right, Gretchen saw a switch with the words: On/Off.
Holding the remaining water, she splattered it on the switch, setting it on
fire. Immediately, every Nanny in the room short circuited and ceased
working.

"Henry!" She cried, and her brother ran to join her. The two escaped from
the building at breakneck speed.

"What do we do now?" he asked when they had slowed down.

"Let's try asking for some directions." They walked for hours and did not
find any tree cutters. Though stopping by the river did find them something
different.

"Who's there?" a disheveled-looking man asked. Neither spoke up. Gretchen
could not help feeling proud of her brother for learning not to trust
strangers. Of course, he'd had many opportunities to learn this in the
past little while. Finally, Gretchen answered:

"You tell us first."

"I am George Archet." A light went off in Gretchen's head.

"You're the head of Mattel!"

"I was, once. It was taken over, and now I am finished, living alone in this
forest. So close to civilization, yet far from home."

"It's alright. We just saved the factory. Well actually, we destroyed it,
along with the robots too, so everything's fine," Gretchen told him,
getting closer. He eyed her in disbelief, but her nodding made him trust
her.

"Really?"

"Yes!" He grinned.

"Well, I suppose that's alright, then."

"Can you take us to the tree cutters?" Henry finally asked him.

"I would take you straight home, if you wish," George offered, and the kids
decided to take the offer - just this once. Before the night ended, the kids
arrived home, and after knocking on the door, their father - not Nanny, was
the one answering in tears. He immediately pulled them into a tight hug.

"Henry, Gretchen, I was so worried about you!" Gretchen responded by
breaking the hug quickly.

"Father, we need to get rid of it!"

"Yes, we need to get rid of Nanny!" Henry agreed. Their father chuckled.

"Actually, it's the funniest thing. Several hours ago, Nanny just stopped
working. The television happened to be on and it turns out that all the
Nannies stopped functioning simultaneously. Ironically strange, isn't it?"
Gretchen grinned brightly at her brother.

"Oh yes. It's all very strange indeed."

Happily parallel ever after? Probably.

 

Winners from

Challenge #3

The writing challenge was to write a childhood memory.

No word limit. No special words.

 

Prizes

1st Place -- 25,000 credits

2nd place -- 15,000 credits

3rd place -- 10,000 credits

 
Contestant #007          Claimed                1st Place

1st Place Winner

 

 

 

SOAKED. 

  It was summer, when the flowers were at full bloom and when the trees were tall, providing a shade for those who preferred to read outside. I was one of those people. Even at such an early age, I had been taught of the pleasures of reading. I was one of those people who read whenever I had the spare time. Some might classify me to be a ‘bookworm’. 

      So there I had been, reading a little chapter book under the tree behind my house. Things were relatively peaceful and calm. Despite the weather being so humid and despite the back of my t-shirt being soaked with sweat, I wasn’t complaining. Much. It was summer for God’s sake. This was how it was supposed to be. 

      I continued to read my chapter book. It had just begun to get interesting! I had taken out the book recently from a local library. Its colorful and vibrant cover had caught my eyes when I had been searching through the racks for a decent book. And as of so far, the book was turning out to be quite interesting.  

      I was sitting there reading, innocently, when all of a sudden- 

      Squirt! 

      The cold water hit my chest and dissolved quickly through my thin t-shirt. I felt the book fall out of my hands and I heard myself letting out shrieks. Loud, ear splitting, shrieks. I immediately stood up, out of reflex. When I looked down at my t-shirt, there was a large wet spot- where the water had hit me. I looked up and saw my brother standing a few feet away. He had a huge grin across his face and it didn’t surprise me to see a large water gun in his right hand. 

      I gritted my teeth. “You idiot!” 

      My brother laughed and raised his water gun at me.  

      “Don’t you dare!” I screamed. But oh, he dared.  My brother had his water gun pointed straight at me and he…fired. The water that came out of that gun completely soaked my shorts, my t-shirt and left my hair limp and wet. And it didn’t help that the water was freezing cold too. I charged up to my brother and wrestled the gun away from him.  

      It was not long before my brother and I were left lying on the grass and laughing hysterically at the great fun we had. And we were soaking wet. 

Contestant #010        Claimed                 2nd Place

2nd Place Winner

Watermelon Kisses

 When I was about 11 or 12, a bunch of us kids went out into the country  just as the moon was rising and raided Old Man Moses watermelon patch.  One of the boys had a Swiss Army Knife that was stout enough to get a couple of 'em off the vine, but nobody had anything even remotely big enough or sharp enough to cut into them, so we busted them open against a big old oak tree . . . those watermelons, stolen fruit from the bounty of someone else's hard work and perspiration, was possibly the sweetest I had ever had . . . before that day, and for that matter, since.  

I think that episode of petty larceny  set a dangerous precedent that has haunted me every day of my life since.  I can still close my eyes and remember the thrill of stealing those watermelons . . . I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, feel the rush from the adrenalin when we heard an old pick up coming down that dusty Texas road and we were sure that it was Old Man Moses himself armed with a shotgun, ready to shoot whoever had the bad manners   to steal his melons, taste the sweetness of the meat of his hard labor, hear the 'thunk' those watermelons made when they burst open, smell the sweetness of its' fragrance, feel the hardness of the tree trunk against my back, the softness of the grass below my bottom   . . . and if I concentrate really hard, recall the thrill and that fluttering in the pit of my belly when Billy Ray Jones leaned over, licked the watermelon juice from my chin and kissed me slowly, full on the lips.  

 

That was my first kiss, but I think it must have not been his . . . he kissed me again, and again, slowly and sensuously, and I don't know how much longer; it may have been seconds or it may have been hours, when   he eased his tongue in my mouth and the pit of my stomach contracted,  my entire body quivered, I felt a sudden gush of wetness between my legs and I thought I had never felt anything that was quite as good and was sure that I never would again.

I was wrong, of course.  

I have felt many things that felt as good as those first kisses and certainly several of them was felt at the hands of another woman's husband . . . laying with men that never belonged to me and never will, I still feel that rush that comes with being naughty, scared to death that I will get caught; almost disappointed when I don't.   There is a certain sweetness to forbidden love, in whatever form that you find it, that certainly compares to sweet, cool, watermelon meat, stolen in silvery moon light, busted open against an old oak tree trunk and shared with a group of good friends.    

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent*

Contestant #021     Claimed       Tied for 3rd Place

3rd Place Winner

 

My memories always seem to revolve around my father.  Whether happy
memories or sad memories.  Since we were asked to write about a happy
memory, here goes.  Growing up, my father and I never really got
along.  The few times we didn't fight, was when he would take me
fishing.  Unlike my mom, I didn't have to pee 5 minutes out on the
lake, and unlike my brother I had the patience of a saint.  I was the
perfect fishing partner for my dad.  We of course had our special
spots depending on which lake we went to.  Being as young as I was, I
never liked touching minnows, or worms, or fish...my dad had to do
everything.  I finally got smart one day, and I snuck a few extra
items into my tackle box before we went fishing.  I can still remember
it like yesterday as well.  We had just made it to our special spot.
The water was calm and tranquil.  There was a slight breeze, but not
enough to actually chill a person.  He put my bait on and we both
casted.  As luck would have it, I caught the first fish.  I tried to
stay as quiet as possible, even though the excitement in me grew.  I
was fighting the fish for all I was worth.  I held the pole still when
I had it up close to the boat.  I could see the fish.  My dad was
still unaware that I even had a fish on.  He just thought I was
fidgeting.  I reached into my tackle box and pulled out 2 things.  The
first was a winter glove.  The kind that are really form fitting.  You
can normally get them pretty cheap.  The next, was a rubber glove.  I
slipped both of the gloves onto one hand.  By this time, the fish
started to regain some stamina.  I fought with it a little more before
I finished reeling it in.  I reached out and grabbed a hold of the
fish, proud of my small achievement.  I was hoping my dad would feel
the same way.

 I said, "Hey dad, I caught a fish."

He turned around expecting to see me needing help, but I already had
the situation under control.  He looked at me with a smile on his
face, then he noticed my new glove.  He laughed so hard he almost fell
out of the boat.  I of course laughed when I saw him almost go over.
I took the hook out all by myself and released the fish.  He finally
calmed down enough to ask me, "What the heck is that on your hand?"  I
of course told him, "It's my new piece of fishing equipment, real
state of the art ya know.  It lets me take my own fish off so my dad
can keep fishing."  He smiled real proud at me and asked if I needed
help baiting the hook again.  I told him, "No, that's ok dad, I got
it.  You just keep fishing.  I got this one."  He kept on fishing that
day and didn't have to worry about me anymore.  That day was a lot of
firsts for me.  It was the first time I'd ever seen my father laugh so
hard he almost fell over.  The first time I ever baited my own hook,
and the first time I ever took my own fish off.  It was also the first
time I seen so much pride in my fathers eyes, that I knew maybe from
now on, things would be different.

Contestant #011      Claimed      Tied for 3rd Place

3rd Place Winner

 

I am 25 yrs old and I don't remember the good times when growing up, as I recall the bad times. My childhood memories are just flashes that don't make much sense. I'm not really sure if this is considered a favorite childhood memory or not, but to me it is. To be honest I don't even remember how old I was, all I recall is still being in a child seat. So I guess I would have probably been around two years old. It takes place back on a foggy fall morning. My dad happened to not be feeling well that day, while my mom had to still go to work, heck I don't even remember what she did. Any way's though, she was trying to convince my dad into taking me to a family member's house so I wouldn't get sick. He was trying to convince her into leaving me at home. This went on for probably a half an hour, but eventually she let my dad take care of me that day. It was one of the best decisions that was made during that time. My mom had finally left the house between 7:00 A.M. and 7:30 A.M. CST because of the fogged roads. Not many people know where Hutchinson, KS is or even heard of it, but there use to be a truck stop called the Big M on HWY. 61 and right before you come up on it there is a large curve that has to be taken. Well around 8:00 A.M. she started taking the curve, unfortunately she lost control and tried to correct herself. She hit the guardrail with the passenger side causing it to total out the vehicle. From what I remember from my mom is that the passenger side was completely in the middle of the car and only about 6 inches from here, while the driver side was not damaged much. Around 8:30 A.M. my mom got to my grandma's house and called my dad to tell him of the accident, luckily she was not harmed just bruised. Even though my dad was sick, he grabbed me and went to get her to take her to the family doctor. After we got home my mom told my dad that we were very lucky that I wasn't with her, because I would have died instantly. I guess that day my family had a guardian angel looking after us and that's why this is one of my favorite childhood memories, just because neither one of us was harmed. If it wasn’t for that guardian angel I would not have touched as many people’s lives with my own life, and I would have not ever meet my precious husband.

 

Winners from

Challenge #2

the writing challenge was to use the twenty words we specified in any manner, form, writing style and tense in 200 words or less.

 

Twenty words:

Blush, primitive, gravity, hurried, wheat, serendipity, frenetic, mix, pound, struck, alabaster, waterfront, half, cacophony, dispute, stumble, bronze, memory, discover, insidious

What a mess!

We originally posted the winners: #21 (1st place), #6 (2nd place) and #20 (3rd place). #6 (2nd place) was disqualified for not using the word "half". This meant #20 automatically should have moved to 2nd place. However, after it was brought to our attention that #20 was over the word limit -- we verified the word count with Microsoft Word's word count feature -- it indicated that it was over the word limit. #20 was then disqualified. The next two in line were #23 (moved to 2nd place) and #7 (moved to 3rd place).

Contestant #20 then contacted us and explained how MS Word is often inaccurate and urged us to manually count the words. This entry was, in fact, under the limit. #20 has been reinstated and will be awarded 2nd place.

Since it was our error and we already posted #23 and #7 as winners, we will award four prizes: 1st place, two 2nd places and a 3rd place. This will cover #21, #20, #23 and #7.

We'd like to apologize for any confusion or inconvenience this has caused. We are humans and thusly, make mistakes.

We really just want to have fun with this competition, encourage others to write and read all the wonderful pieces you create. We put in our own credits, we don't advertise for products, we do this for the warm fuzzy. =)

We appreciate your encouragement, participation and understanding.

 
Contestant #021          Claimed              First Place

 

The wind slips delicately over my skin like the ethereal silk of a faraway land, carrying with it the pastoral whispers of WHEAT on the far side of the creek.  The streamlet’s babbling meets the rustling murmur, MIXING into a PRIMITIVE CACOPHONY of joy.  My feet HURRIEDLY POUND the earth like pestle into mortar, and the solar heat surely BRONZES my face, fleeting interruptions speaking of ALABASTER clouds flitting nimbly by.

Something STRIKES my exposed foot and I STUMBLE at the WATERFRONT’S edge, BLUSHING as GRAVITY overtakes me, for observing eyes would discern only HALF the story--my stride has erred but I am eminently poised as I settle on my knees.  At once I apprehend this SERENDIPITOUS moment: my FRENETIC rush past the glory of creation has affronted its majesty and I must give obeisance to its designer.

Some would define my experience by its absences, by the colors and vistas now relegated to MEMORY...but as the scent of moisture suffuses my spirit, there is no DISPUTE: I rejoice in the beauty that creeps in almost INSIDIOUSLY through every pore.  For I have DISCOVERED where one sense wanes, by that proportion shall the glory perceived through my others increase.

Contestant #020        CLAIMED        Second Place

 

"Hey - why in such a hurry? What's wrong-"

His temple pounding, Tom yelled "It's a cocophony of frenetic drums, pounding in my ears! Christ!"

"A co-co-cophin?" Lester laughed. "Not the insidious vampire thing again?"

"Listen you moron! There's been a dispute down by the waterfront. I was struck in the back of the head by them and -"

"Let me guess - you stumbled upon an ancient map? You discovered the location of the Alabaster Goddess, Serendipity ? Again?"

"Wiseass." Tom spat blood on the ground. "I bet your memory of our last heist - and the money it earned us - is clear? If it wasn't for your half -assed plan we'd have that bronze status of Venus and be out of trouble with those... those wheat bags!"

"Whoa there sailor! Watch your language" Lester smirked. "Yeah, well. At least I don't mix business with pleasure" Lester grinned, raising an eyebrow.

Blushing, remembering the raw, almost primitive encounter with the boss man's girlfriend, Tom faltered. Recovering, Tom continued. "Fine. You got me. This is partly my fault. But the gravity of the situation has changed." Tom rubbed the back of his neck. "Now listen up - I've got a plan..."

Contestant #023  Claimed   Second Place (Again)

 

She ran as if her life depended on it, frenetic in her escape.  Her head was full of the insidious cacophony of her memories of him.  How could he be so sweet and kind, then so terrifying and cruel the next?  The memory of the man he was, compared to the man he had become struck her heart.  She blinked the tears from her eyes as she hurried towards the waterfront, listening to her feet pound on the boards as she ran faster.  Suddenly, she could hear footsteps behind her.  The shock caused her to stumble, and she closed her eyes as gravity pulled her down dangerously fast. She felt strong, warm arms wrap around her, catching her before she fell, and as she gasped, she inhaled the scent of wheat, opening her eyes to see bronze arms holding her tightly.

“Don’t let some silly dispute come between us,” he half pleaded, half growled.  The serendipity of their meeting now, and his primitive scent caused a blush to rise to her alabaster skin.  In one moment, as his tears fell, the mix of her emotions caused her to discover another. She looked him straight in the eye.

“I love you.”

Contestant #007         Claimed              Third Place

The young woman longed for home. To hear the pound of waves against the dock, to look out and see the alabaster gleam from her husbands boat. They had bought the waterfront property not long they had wed. He stumbled onto the place, shocked to discover it was in their price range, and it felt like serendipity. She was struck by just how perfect it was. Now, the memory of it hurried her home.

The insidious pull of the city, the primitive need for money, had taken her away. She hated the frenetic affect the city had on her. The cacophony of sound, the bright lights. It was a mix that made her tired and sad.

Pulling into the driveway a soft blush crept into her cheeks. Getting out of the car she tucked wheat colored locks of hair behind her ear and smiled. She could see his bronze skin, making her heart skip half a beat. Watching him work on the boat always made her heart flutter. There was no way to dispute it. Walking slowly out to the dock, she waved towards the boat. Gravity seemed to freeze her, as his eyes met hers. Now she was home.

 

Winners from

Challenge #1

The writing challenge was to respond to a love letter we posted.

 

Original Letter:

They wouldn't guess we were not happy... the way we lean in instead of out. Our smiles tell of happy tales and yet here you are so far away from me. Are we happy my love? It is difficult to discern when you leave the way you did, suddenly and without any explanation. I spent the day combing through my recollections of our last evening together…sifting to find some answers, some clues to your disappearance. Last night, when the day had settled, I stared eagerly at the door waiting for you to walk through it, returning to me the way you always have before. Instead, I cried myself to sleep, holding childlike hope that I would awake to see your sleeping face, to feel the warmth only you can radiate within me. Alas, I woke this morning alone. 

It is not so much your absence but the silence that has followed. Why did you leave my love? When will you return? 

I must go now, the day has begun, but oh how I long to return this evening to a comforting word…sweet solace only you can provide. I beg of you to reassure me, my love. Each minute in silence drives me mad with insecurity. 

I will wait forever to hear from you though I wish not to wait a moment too long… 

Forever yours, 

xx

 
Contestant #016          CLAIMED             1st PLACE
 1st Place Winner

My Love,

Where do I begin my love… this so called term of endearment alone seems an appropriate place. I am not your love …yours as you have always wished to posses me – and this is not love. I will not be returning to you as I always have before – I have finally scraped together enough of myself to leave you behind so that you may drown in your sorrows and apologies. I hope you suffer in my absence as I suffered in my absence – silently existing in the façade of a happy young couple. I lost myself – or rather abandoned myself to survive you. Living always in anticipation of your next wrath – vigilant as a stalked prey, I was caught in this cycle of abuse. Yes my love, abuse – not love. I don't expect that you see it that way, you never have – you feel justified in your actions merely because you never hit me, yet your love was far more damaging than any bruise or broken bone – you have broken me and left scars of terror on my soul.

 

Are we happy my love? Were we ever happy? I was only every happy in those brief peak moments when you were remorseful, so passionate about loving me that you seemed raw and open –willing to do anything to keep me,  adamant that this time you would change, this time would be different. Eventually I found myself craving those moments, full of hope that things really would change this time. Yet they never did, even though these raw moments came more and more frequent as the cycle began to spin farther and farther out of my control – but I never really had any control did I? You made me believe I did – that I was solely responsible for your every action. I found myself living to make you happy, or at the very least not anger you and of this the codependence was born – I believed that I could somehow change you and save us. Yet as each promise dissipated a sliver of hope went with it – I no longer believed in you, in us, or in myself. I had become your possession – you pulled my strings and I danced for you with a bright smile and vacant shining eyes painted flawlessly on my emotionless face.  

 

Those strings finally snapped and I lay on the floor motionless and unsure of how to compose myself without your command – our last night together was the final push that I needed to break free of you. You had me so convinced that your behavior was not abusive, that abuse was physical – I told myself if it ever came to that point I would leave you, I would feel justified in leaving you if you had broken your own rules. I never expected it, although many times you had come so close, your hand within an inch of my face, yet you always maintained control, ridiculing me for having shown fear. Our last night together you finally lost control of yourself – I can still feel the pressure of your fingers wrapped around my throat, the sting of your hand as it met my face and the cold of the floor as I lie crumpled there in shock. You left me there on the floor and went to bed, sure that I would soon follow as I always did. Ready to climb into your arms and hold you while you wept to me about how sorry you were and how you never meant to hurt me – you would never intentionally hurt me, you love me and you would be nothing without me. You would change this time, things would be different now.

 

I pulled myself up from the floor and left you behind.  You can watch the door, waiting in your maddening silence, I will not be returning to you the way I always have before my love. I promise you things will be different this time.

 

My Love

 

Contestant #071         CLAIMED             2nd PLACE
2nd Place Winner

Honestly, I can't believe it's come to this. We should have shared this more often, more honestly.

You left me, long ago. I thought you knew, so I stayed back, waiting. Your eyes signaled that you weren't happy, and I followed, as I always have; lost, more than a little hurt. I missed you all the while, my love.

It amazes me that you even speak of how you feel, now. I have felt half a globe away for what feels like half of my life. I spent myself completely with you, loving you, giving you every moment I had, listening to your tiny cries and huge smiles, swallowing them up in my lips like a fool, like a circus clown gone mad. You were all I ever saw, and you still are. Your makeup makes me cry. I see it on every other woman here; I thought you had left me, and now I read this.

Sadly, your message bears all the hallmarks of IMVU. You love me, you love me not. You miss me now, when she's gone, but I can't forget the taste I felt when I walked in behind you, and your lips met hers; was it sweat, anger, destiny, danger? I just felt sick. I loved you with all of myself, which few here can say. When you left me that night, and turned to write this, I wanted to erase myself, but waited until now.

The truth is, and only you know it: you chose her. I will never be that fragrant creature in the mist that you regaled with your words, the ones I used to know. I can never be the same now, either. She stole you from my lips, and I cannot recall you now, because only her tongue can taste you. I will never feel this love, because you pretended it this way, and wrote some foolish prose that pretends to salve my heart. I can only hope you love the person you loved that night, because you gave up someone who loved you more than life.

I was yours before that moment; now, I will never be with anyone. Be well, my love. XX
 

Contestant #001          CLAIMED           3rd PLACE
 3rd Place Winner


Dear Lady,

Please forgive me for vanishing the way I did. Last night meant so much to me and you deserve a full explanation of my sudden disappearance. You might not believe what has happened to me over these past 24 hours, but be assured that things are different now. This is a new dawn. You ask if we're happy. Of course we're happy, baby. We're as happy as two lovers can be, under the circumstances. I think you know what I mean.

To destroy the man who wronged you so grievously has consumed my thoughts and driven my actions these past several months. I know that you begged me to take no action, but I couldn't stand the thought of him, free as a bird, enjoying himself, thinking he'd gotten away with his crimes. It was intolerable to me. I vowed to track him down, to find him and to make him pay. I told you nothing of these thoughts or activities because I knew you wouldn't approve. I knew you would try to stop me.

It took months to find him. My search took me through every dive bar this side of Hell. There were many times when I thought it was an impossible task, when I'd reached a dead end or reached for the whiskey bottle. But something drove me onward, an avenging angel or inner demon. Revenge. Love. Hate. Maybe the thrill of the hunt. I don't know. All of it. Then one day I caught a lucky break, a whisper of a clue and a residential address on a scrap of paper.

Last night, I slipped out while you slept. I drove all night until I reached his home. It was a simple matter for me to wait for him to emerge into the open air. And when he finally showed his ugly face, it was easy for me to casually walk up to him and greet him without alerting him to his impending fate. As my hand tightened on my concealed weapon he was absolutely clueless and he looked at me with those vacant piggy eyes, just another slack-jawed loser heading straight for oblivion.

I had him there, dead to rights. But things didn't go as planned. I thought of this poor sap, about to die. Then I thought of what that meant to me and what it would mean to you. I thought of your sweet love for me. I thought of our happy days in the sun, and I longed for many more such days to come. And then I thought of all the days that I would spend in prison, far from you. Very far from you.

So, I walked past him and continued down the road until I reached the river. I stood at the water's edge for a long time before I pitched my weapon into it. I've decided to let the past stay in the past, just as you told me I should. As I said, this is a new dawn and I'm a changed man, because your love makes me a better man.

I'm returning to you tonight, baby. Put a candle in the window as you always do, my guiding light, my love.

X

Contestant #011       CLAIMED        1st Runner Up
1st Place Winner

My love

What you read below will alter how you view me and may irrevocably damage our love. However, it is a story I must convey to you if we are to have any chance of happiness in the future.

Yesterday I received a letter from my brother imploring me to return to the family home where, he felt, I had unfinished business. Having declined this invitation he wrote again saying “My dear brother please will you meet me today at the family home so I can explain more clearly about the woman with whom you were previously romantically attached”. This, my love, is what drove from our lodgings.

Many years ago I had the unfortunate occasion to find myself working my passage on a slaver sailing to the mouth of the Mississippi. The slaver was carrying a large number of slaves for the plantations in the Mississippi delta. The living conditions for the cargo were terrible and whilst I was aboard it was my job to bring them to the deck and to get them to “dance”. Although this practice sickened me it was the only way for the slaves to have a moments respite from the sticking cramped conditions of the hold and to give them valuable exercise that would keep them fit and in good condition for sale upon arrival. Those dark faces had hollow sunken eyes that seemed to leap out at you and when they saw the sea they wailed to return to the bowls of the ship where they were crammed in like sardines in a barrel.

It was on one of these occasions that the Boson, a large fat man with a propensity to drink, notice one of the slaves, she was a lighter skinned woman of around 20 and seemed to be of a spirited nature. By this I mean that she stood steady staring at the watching crew with bright eyes. After returning the cargo to the hold I was called to the captain’s office and along with the other officers told to take our pick of the women below. I was horrified and strenuously argued against this barbarity (how, at the time, I did not see that the whole slavery business as disgusting I will never know). However my concerns went unheard and the officers left the captains rooms and headed for the hold. I followed in a state of shock, my mind racing, trying to find a way to stop this rape.

The light in the hold was poor and the bodies shackled and chained slipped and swayed with the rocking of the ship. The officers moved forward with a sickening greed in their eyes pawing at the women in front of them and laughing when the women shrieked in terror. I turned blind with horror and half ran and stumbled back to my quarters where I slumped to the floor in a faint.

I woke later with low sobs coming from the cabin next to mine, the Bosons rooms. The ship was pitching violently as I pulled myself to my feet. A violent lurch sent me falling against my desk where my hand fell upon my pistol. I stared at it, suddenly my mind was clear and I knew what I must do.

I quickly moved around the ship placing any food I could find, clothing and water into one of the launches. I lowered the boat and left it sitting beside the ship then slipped quietly back to the living quarters and the Bosons cabin. I slowly opened the door allowing my eyes to adjust to the inner gloom. The First Mate was laying on his back his mouth agape. In the corner was the girl, her sobs had been replaced with silence, a silence that spoke of horror and revulsion.

As I walked over she shrank back from me, fearful of what nightmare I was bringing to her. I spoke softly to her, in part to sooth but also to avoid waking the sleeping First Mate, took her arm and drew her to her feet. I put my coat around her to shield her nakedness from the world and we left the room. I had some difficulty manoeuvring the girl into the launch but eventually we were casting off from the side of the ship. We had enough food and water aboard for 10 days and it was my hope that we would be picked up.

During the first day the girl sat as far away from me as she could and watched me with sullenly. Her demeanour slowly changed as she realised that I meant her no harm and that I was, in fact, trying to help her. After the 3rd day I found I was talking to her relentlessly, rambling, but it obviously started to have an effect on her as she started repeating some words. Buoyed by this I decided to teacher her some English which, I felt, would be useful once we reached land.

We were picked up by a passing merchant ship and with the girl (whose name I now believed to be Jantar) dressed as my manservant we managed to avoid many questions. The ship afforded us some comforts and allowed Jantar to live in my rooms sleeping at the bottom of my bed.

Well my love it is here that my story turns and the shame that has driven me to tell this story begins. Drawing closer to the American coastline the weather warmed to an intense heat that stopped one from sleeping at night. During one of these sultry nights I rose from my bed to fetch some water, returning to my bed I saw the form of Jantar lying naked at the foot of my bed and I am afraid to say carnal lust started to drive my thoughts. Jantar must also have felt the passion that seemed to fill the air and before I knew it I was in her arms.

In the morning when I awoke Juntar was gone and we had docked. When I asked about my manservant I was informed that he had gone ashore saying that he was to find lodgings for his master. I never saw Juntar again but I hoped she had found help from the Underground Railway and had escaped north.

That, however, was before yesterday when I received word from my brother. Juntar had managed to find my family and had pleaded to speak to me. When I arrived Juntar had been placed in bed and was being attended to by our doctor and obviously was very ill. She had changed during the five years since I had last seen her, she looked more confidant and a woman of substance. When I sat with her she took my hand and smiled at me, thanking me for what I had done and told me, with calm voice, that she was going to die. Quieting my protests she told me she had to pass something to me and that I was to look after it, with that she called out for Benjamin and a young boy of around four years old came into the room. I knew in an instant that the boy was my son and turned back to Juntar but she was motionless.

So you see my love, my departure was in no way a reflection upon you but an echo of my past and prelude to my future. I love you more than words can convey but I now have a son that needs me. I wonder if you can love another’s child? Can you look upon him and not feel jealousy rise in your throat like bitter bile? I prey you can.

Yours in hope
xxx
 

Contestant #008       CLAIMED       2nd Runner Up
1st Place Winner

My darling sweetheart,

This is the hardest thing for me to write, I am so afraid of fumbling over the words or mangling my ideas. Yes we were happy, at times deliriously so, but ... there always is a but isn't there ... I find myself having to leave. It was the hardest decision for me to make, I never wanted to leave like this. Wanting to talk to you and explain just how I felt seemed like a daunting task that was beyond my capacity. There are so many things that have been left unsaid between us, many things I wanted to say, but could never find the right words or the appropriate time. Leaving this way has allowed me to escape from the life we shared without hurting you so deeply that it would leave permanent scars within your heart.

The time I spent hovering in the threshold of the door with indecision seemed like an eternity. I wanted to stay so we could live happily ever after, but I knew deep within my soul that fairy tale endings like that are nothing but wishful thinking. Although until now we have been so happy together, I can see nothing but dark foreboding times ahead for us. I can clearly see my own irrational fears and petty insecurities driving a wedge between us. The jealousy I harbor deep within me coming out every time I see you talking to someone else, the rage I keep bottled up within me each time we have some miniscule disagreement over the simplest little thing and the deep dark depression that descends over my soul coloring the entire world in dark shades of gloomy grey. All of these reduce me to feeling like a useless piece of flotsam floating on a cold dismal sea just to be tossed ashore onto an empty beach devoid of the joy of life.

For now I find myself wanting to escape from life ... to run away and hide ...perhaps to end all of my suffering. . I find myself unable to experience joy or pleasure in life anymore. The word around me has become nothing but a source of interminable pain. For so long the only thing that has kept me going has been your love, but lately even love has been unable to banish the melancholy moods. As I descend further and further into the dark recesses of despondency I am so afraid that I may drag you down into the pits of despair with me.

Sitting alone in this bleak hotel room, my only companionship the blare of some inane sitcom on the tube, I find myself constantly thinking of you. Those last moments we shared in our bed, arms wrapped around each other, your long silken hair cascading across my shoulders, our hearts beating as one. In that too brief moment I could taste paradise in your sweet kisses and hear the voices of angels in your tender words. If we could preserve that moment for all of eternity, perhaps I may have been able to stay. Alas, time is fleeting and one moment of perfect love cannot banish the demons I carry within my soul.

Please for my sake ... not for your sake ... forget about me and carry on with your life. I want nothing more than for you to be happy for all of eternity. If you are unable to drive the specter of my existence from your memory, please I beg of you remember only the good times we had together. The moonlight strolls in the park, the times we went skinny dipping in the lake, the long nights we spent just cuddling under a blanket chatting by the fire in that special lakefront cabin you loved so much. For as long as I live I will always treasure these memories of us. Those times were the one bright spot in my bleak existence .

Do not wait for me to return, do not spend a moment of your precious time worrying about me. I don't think I will ever be able to return to you my love unless, by some miracle, I am able to exorcise the demons that dwell within me. For now I will drift wherever fate may take me, until I can find my true voice, until I can discover my true self.

With these parting words, I say farewell and apologize for all of the pain I have caused you to suffer. Even though I know what I have done to you is unforgivable, I ask you to understand how I feel and hope that you are able to find a way in your wonderful heart to forgive the suddenness of my parting. I will never forget those brief fleeting moments of perfect happiness we shared and they will always be my beacon of hope in a cold unforgiving world, bringing an unparalleled clarity to my vision of life.

With more love than my mere words can express,

XXXXXXXXXXX