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My contest entries 1/13/2011 thru 1/28/2011 |
  My entries for the January 13 - January 28 round. |
Hatred (is a) Dragon Heinous m ~ o ~ n ~ s ~ t ~ e ~ r HatreD Asphalt black, arched back, winged warrioR Terrorizing, blow torched words; boiling anger-spA Rancor rooted in fearful heart ~~ RaginG Extinguish your flaming snout! Spout no mO' Decide to love, even that which you have yet to learN |
| Miss Pamela Parrot, while grooming the long red feathers in her right wing, noticed movement below on the forest floor. She pulled her beak away and cocked her head so she could see better out of the facing eye. What in tar-nation? she wondered. A furry mass of vibrant blue and red scuttled to the base of a long-dead tree just opposite the tree Miss Pamela perched upon. Her pupil dilated and constricted, trying to better focus on it, as the thing climbed with lightening speed to the topmost nubs of broken trunk. It was only then that she could pinpoint what she was seeing. "Little Scotty Squirrel? Is that you?" Scotty Squirrel didn't answer. He stared straight ahead, whiskers twitching in concentration. At the same time the tip of his pink tongue snuck out the corner of his snout, he lifted three paws off his wooden perch. Wobbling wildly, he clamped his claws back down, righting himself before he tumbled into the airy void. Then, composed, he tried again. "Scotty? Son, what are you doing there? And what's happened to your beautiful golden coat. Looks like someone tried to paint a canvas with your pelt!" She cackled at the thought. Scotty almost lost his balance again and glared at Pamela. She eyed him again, and a thought dawned in her mind. Slowly, she lowered the leg tucked up against her breast and wrapped the talons around the branch, side-by-side with the other claw. Scotty seemed relieved and placed again all four of his paws on solid wood. "I've come," he began, then cleared his throat. He began again. "I've come, Miss Pamela, to ask your hand in marriage." Miss Pamela began to laugh, but caught herself just in time. Little Scotty's eyes were bright, hard. He was completely serious. Miss Pamela tossed her head, then bowed it. Raising her eyes, she said, "I'm very flattered, Scotty. Honest, I am! But, dear, we are two very different species." "But I love you!" She stretched her wings, flapped them before refolding them at her sides. "You are the sweetest little thing! But we live different lives, eat different things. And besides, I'm so old, I remember when your great-great-great-great grandparents were born!" Scotty Squirrel carefully stood on his two hind legs. A breeze threatened to topple him but he held fast. When he was sure of his balance, he looked up and into Miss Pamela's eyes. "It's okay. You aren't ready. I understand. I can wait...." As he raced down the tree trunk headfirst, he wondered what on earth parrots ate... |
| Don't be too quick to judge, Lydia's inner voice chastised. She peered through the restaurant's front windows, but humidity fogged it from the inside. She took a deep breath and pulled open the door. It wasn't so much a restaurant as it was a bar. This thought, too, dripped with conflicted disdain, and Lydia scolded herself again. This was what she'd expected, after all. She was meeting a man for the first time who she'd connected with on an online dating site. Of course the restaurant turned out to be a bar. And the hot guy in Stuart's profile picture would probably turn out to be George Costanza. Her eyes scanned the scene that seemed to dance with the strobing lights. A hand shot up, waved. And there he was, standing and smiling, beckoning to her. Oh God, Stuart was even more gorgeous than the photo. Talk of their work, her at the library and him in Delivery and Receiving, was brief. The dance floor called to them. They laughed the evening away. Her life as a librarian was turning upside down in a matter of hours. With each martini she decided with firmer resolve to stop living life in hushed tones. It was time for her to live out loud. Stuart, Lydia was pleased to learn, could really move his body. And there was a sense of humor to his style of dance, like he didn't take himself too seriously. She liked that. It was refreshing. Hours later and after constant shushing of her prudent inner voice, they ended up at Stuart's apartment. He went to the kitchette to open a bottle of wine, leaving Lydia at the other end of the studio's main room. An armoire stood in the corner, its door ajar. Lydia shot a look at Stuart's back, muscles rippling as he worked the cork screw. She giggled, emboldened by the liquor, and swung open the armoire door. Her jaw dropped. Costumes hung from one end of the armoire to the other. Sequins and leather, uniforms of every sort, handcuffs, whips, hats. She reached a shaky hand in and pulled a hanger out. Cowboy regalia including a gun holster, sheriff's badge, boots with spurs and chaps dangled before her shock-stricken face. Stuart's shuffled step sounded behind her. She spun around. "What the hell is all this?" "My work clothes," Stuart answered with a gleem in his eye. "I thought you were in "Delivery and Receiving." "Yeah, I deliver singing telegrams, sometimes. I also strip for parties. Bachelorette, birthday, retirement... Hey, you chose my favorite. This is an awesome act. Wanna see it?" Lydia stared at his open, honest face. Pure joy shone in his eyes. There was no embarrassment, no shyness. No hushed tones. Her eyes dove down, scanned his body and then lingered on the items on the hanger in her hand. Remember, her inner voice cooed, don't be too quick to judge... |
| I am the Lion, Lord of these lands. I am the fiercest of beasts. All tremor in my presence; not because I will destroy them, but because I could, if I wanted to. Brute strength and handsome features aside, it is my cunning instincts that put me in that class by myself. Those instincts guide me. I trust them. As I lie in wait, I am calm, no fear betrays my face. When the time comes, I will pounce. Attack. Intimidate, if needed. Assert myself. Prove again why I am the Lion. The one everyone wants in their corner.... The door swings open. "Mr. Mitchel? Mr. Stephenson and his team are ready for you. Good luck with your pitch, sir." |
| Marcus dragged on the cigarette pinched between his index finger and thumb. Numbing cold seeped through his britches from the park bench, despite its position in full sun, but he didn't mind. He'd rather sit here all day than return to work. When you rinse four star restaurant slop off fine China all day, you face your 'have-not' reality every minute of every hour. It wore him down. His fifteen minute break was more valuable to him than the restaurant's finest bottle of wine. He blew a plume of smoke downwind and his eyes fell on the man making his way up the path. Marcus narrowed his eyes. The man's utilitarian clothing appeared too big for his frame and hung on his body like a sack. His bald head was dropped back and he stared straight up at the sky as he walked. As he neared Marcus's bench, the toe of his black rubber shoe hit a rock and he stumbled. "Eh. Watch where you're going, dumb ass," Marcus said. The man leveled his gaze. He was younger than Marcus had first thought. His drawn skin and stubbled chin suggested mid-forties, but now Marcus decided he couldn't be older than thirty. "Yeah. Thanks," the man said. "It's just the sky is so blue. And those trees, well, they're things of beauty." Marcus looked up. The trees looked dead to him. Leafless. Cold. "Whatever, man," he said, looking across the park to the restaurant. By his watch, he had five more minutes before he had to get back. "Mind if I sit down?" Marcus saw the man still stood there. He motioned his indifference. "I just got out of the slammer," the man said, sitting. An eyebrow shot up. He had Marcus's attention. "You were in prison?" "Yeah, ten years, man." "What'd you do?" "I was convicted of attempted murder. But it was bullshit. Someone tried to whack my wife. They pinned it on me." Marcus raised his chin. "No kidding. That sucks, man." The man chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. "Shit. Ten years is a long time to not see trees. I can't stop looking at them." "You served your whole sentence?" "Nope. Turns out my wife's boyfriend did it. Thank God for all that fancy DNA testing they can do now. Found out a week ago, and today I'm free. Just like that." "Your wife's boyfriend...?" Marcus asked while checking his watch. He had to get back. "That's some story. Glad you're out. I gotta get back to work." He offered his hand as he stood to leave. The man shook it. Marcus took a few steps then turned to look over his shoulder. "What's the first thing you're going to do, now that you're a free man?" Marcus asked. The man smiled a churlish grin, cold as the trees. "First thing I'm gonna do is kill my wife." |
| Oh God, please. Please don’t let this happen. Magdeline’s lips moved as the plea replayed for the hundredth time in her mind. She shivered inside the bolt-lengths of scratchy lace and tulle wound round her, cinched at all the places she hoped to have curves, one day. Sounds from inside the cathedral reached her unwilling ears. A man with a mouse-like face appeared at the doors, a sudden gust of wind lifting his toupee and the hem of Magdeline’s dress. “It’s time. Your groom awaits.” No! Magdeline turned her face away, towards the snowcapped mountain peaks surrounding the church. I’ll do anything, she whispered again, anything. Please God… She felt a tug at her arm. The mouse man had a knarled hand on her. She stumbled forward, regained her posture, and entered the church to the tremor of organ music. No father would walk her down the aisle. No mother had dressed her today. Her wretched benefactor stood in the first pew facing the alter, facing her future husband. And he, Antoine, a man old enough to be her father, smiled at him with smug satisfaction. He nodded, then his steely gaze moved down the aisle to Magdeline. There was a rumble, barely audible above the music, that grew with each passing second. The ground trembled beneath Magdeline’s feet, and she stopped, just feet from the church’s rear doors. With the violence of an explosion, the church shook. Women screamed. Men shielded their families with their bodies. And the vaulted ceiling beams gave way. Within minutes, an eery silence reigned. Magdeline stared in horror at the rubble before her. She jumped at a voice behind her. “Shall we go?” A man with an angular face and perfect moustache extended his hand to her. Instincts pulled her back, toward the rubble. He laughed at her, a sound that chilled her blood. “You got what you wanted, my dear. And now I will too.” She stared at him, uncomprehending. “ ' Oh please, God, please. I ‘ll do anything…' ” He seemed to be enjoying himself. “You…?” Magdeline stammered. “You, I – I wasn't praying to you.” Her heart slammed in her chest. “You said ‘God’ but you never specified.” His voice was melted butter, gone rancid. Magdeline shivered. “No. No, I don’t believe you.” He looked past her, and then a muffled groan sounded from underneath the rubble. He smiled at her. “As you wish.” The thought crossed her mind before she could stop it, an image of Antoine broken, injured, an invalid, in her care for the rest of her life. And she didn’t want that. He, the man in front of her, began to laugh again. He raised his hand and a ceiling beam that dangled from the roof fell to the pile below it. The groan was extinguished. He put out his hand. she hesitated, and then a tear raced down Magdeline’s cheek as she placed her hand in his. Searing heat scorched her skin, and she began to scream. |
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