Welcome to the place where I rant, rave and discuss books, writing, the town of Cobourg Ontario and anything else that strikes my fancy.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Writing contest #2

Contest rules: Must be 150 words, no more - no less. Must include the words: eye, urge, grind, pleasure and business.

“I’m sorry father”, I began my apology. “I know you warned me against mixing business with pleasure.” I tried to look meek and apologetic, but the afterglow was apparent on my face.

“On my office desk, really son, how could you?” My father’s voice was thick with disappointment, a tone I was quite used to. Even as an adult, my heart sank when my father chastised me.

It was time to take a stand. I stood up straight and approached my father looking him straight in the eye. “What could I do father?” I asked with a wicked grind in my voice. “How can I apologize for the urge a young man gets? You’re just upset that I got into your new secretary before you did.” The look of shock he displayed pleased me. “I’ll be sure to tell mother you said ‘hello’.” I turned on my heel and left.

Contest #1

This is the first contest entry I submitted.
The Rules: 150 words exactly, no more, no less. The story must include the words: Preliminary, contrary, yellow, dying and draw.

My Submission

“Forget them” I said. Since I had already won the preliminary round, I knew I had the right stuff to win the art exhibition, despite what they said. Words of jealousy and hatred, that’s all they are.

They think I can’t do it. On the contrary, I am quite skilled. In fact, since I was a child I could draw, paint and sculpt masterpieces. I’ll show them creativity, I’ll show them what avant-garde really means. I’ll make them eat their words!

I’ve tried my pallet in blue, yellow and green but they just won’t do. Red, blood red, that’s the color to show my passion. Wait until they see the work a true artist creates when they give everything, even their last breath.

With blood as my pallet, my torn fingers as brushes, I will show them I’ve got what it takes to create something great, art worth dying for.

I won first place with this submission, click here to see the contest thread

Saturday, May 17, 2008

“Merideth, my love…” I whispered over my shoulder as I did every day. I would never face the lake that took my sister’s life, but it was the sole place I could speak with her. Our conversations resembled speaking to a person who was undressing behind you, a voice reaching out to find the right ears in the wrong direction. The torment of hating the murderous waters, and longing for the daily communications with the soul that was left there, tore me to pieces, but I never looked.

“How I miss you so.” I picked at the petals off of an innocent flower that bloomed in precious purples, the color of bruises and scars. “The townsfolk still whisper behind my back. ‘Crazy Catherine’ they call me. Do they truly believe that sadness incurs deafness?”

I began popping the tops from every full bloom around me and arranged them in my basket in stacks by color; blood red, ghost white, bruised purple and my favorites, suffocating blue.

“Oh certainly they feel remorse and sadness for my loss. They pity the poor, crazy woman destined to be an old maid. ‘What man would want to be with such a lost soul’, they say. Bollocks to them I say! Show me a man who can bring me happiness, and I’ll show you a man I might actually entertain in my lurid thoughts. You would show them not to mess with me. You would protect me with your sharp tongue and strong body. They would still speak of me, but in low volumes not loud enough to reach our ears in fear of provoking your wrath. My pride would weave itself back together without the sound of their tittering.” I stripped off my boots and stockings, letting the cool blades of grass tickle my toes

“But alas my sweet Merideth, I am lonely at times. My memories haunt me and I pray for faith, faith that there is something more.”

I closed my eyes permitting the cool breeze to dry the sweat on my upper lip and brow. The foliage rustled, whispering soothing melodies meant only for me. As the tempo lightened, and the stillness ensued, I took three careful steps backwards and dumped my basketful of flower-tops into the water. In my mind’s eye, I saw my sister swim around the myriad of colors, smelling each one as it passed, grateful for my gift to her. But I never looked.