August 22, 2010
It’s been a while, for sure. Contests came, they flurried, and they left. And now they are back. We’ll roll each one out for a little longer this time. Keeping it steady. For this next one, let’s say four weeks. That means the winner will be announced on Sunday September 19, 2010.
If you’re new to our Online Contests, let us do a little explaining.
- We select a word or phrase or some theme. This time around it is Bungalow. Why? Mostly because it sounds so good. It makes us want to roll it around in our mouths like a humbug.
- You, the readers and authors, take that word and build a fifty-word story around it.
- You double check your story is precisely fifty-words long (the title, Bungalow, doesn’t count), and make sure it complies with our other rules too.
- You then upload it as a Comment below this post.
- You—and others—have a look through the stories and rate them as they appear. You tell your buddies to come and rate your story. This is optional. But it is a fun option. Like a sunroof?
- We decide on a winner, come up with some reasons why we think they should win, make a little certificate, and announce it right here on this same post.
- Everyone is happy.
- The sun shines.
- The birds sing.
- We start all over again.
Any questions, email us. If you want to look past on the glory days of old, then go right ahead. Otherwise, happy Bungalowing…
August 21, 2010
Not again. Not after the chinchilla disaster of 2005. I fast forward to cleaning and screeching and guilt. But as he walks up the stairs the feathered creatures do not move, do not shake the rusty bars with their tiny claws. These birds are fake. Finally, pets I won’t kill.
August 21, 2010
We only ever used to kiss after an argument; but we never rowed anymore. We’d eat in terminal silence, tolerating each other through indifference. Then one day he used a toothpick and it was nauseating to watch. That was the end. I preferred him with the bit between his teeth.
July 3, 2010
Montevideo, the idlest of South American cities, was witness to its first serial killer in the dying decades of the last century. The police, more used to pursuing the innocent than the guilty, sent the only piece of evidence to Amsterdam. The psychometrist said the shirt belonged to my cousin.
July 2, 2010
All his life he felt like an outsider, the spoon did. At every placesetting, always lingering on the edge of the action, always looking inward at himself. But one day, on the radio, he heard music. Glorious music! Jumpy, thrumming, joyous. He listened closely, wanting to know who had made such music. The song ended. The music was by Spoon, the announcer said. Ah! His joy doubled, his silver concavity shimmered. So the spoon listened to the radio every day, wanting to hear Spoon again, expecting he would. But he never did, because most radio is very bad these days, and they never play good music, and when they do, they usually play it just once. Goddamned weasly corporations goddamnit.
July 1, 2010
I came into being around 1440 and soon found myself supporting the Dauphin—and his portly friends. It’s no surprise that I had a breakdown. They predicted that, like Saint Joan, my arms and legs would light up first. Now I am simply cinders. But here is my literary immortality.
