Posts Tagged ‘Writing Contest


Bad Analogy Contest!

dog_vomit1I’d like to thank everyone who participated. All of the entries were hilarious. Alas, I could only pick one as the winner, but here are all the entries for your amusement!

Her lips felt thick, cold and wet, like a big mouth bass in the depth of winter solstice. – Kensana Darnell

Her heart sunk like a lead ball in water. – Nicole Zoltack

Her eyes were as green as a frog. – Nicole Zoltack

She was just like my mother except I wanted to hump her. – Arnold Lopes

His teeth rattled like that equipment that construction workers use on the road. – Nicole Zoltack

After being shot, Jackson danced along the dark path like Blackbeard with his wooden leg on fire – Joy Wisley
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t. – Martha Eskuchen

Tears welled in her eyes like a well. – Nicole Zoltack

Her eyes lit up like headlights with a 300lb mule deer caught in them, which was pretty surprising since she was such a dim bulb between the ears. – Desiree Lee

And the winner is….

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. – Martha Eskuchen

Yay, Martha! Thanks for sending in the absolute worst analogy and thank you again to everyone who participated.


Entry#2: A Knight’s Gift by Nix Winter

Stars littered the sky, sparkling diamonds, seemingly random to the span of a human life. The balcony stretched open under the light of the stars and Dove felt as if she might spread with it, expanding until she could embrace the whole universe. Green velvet and taffeta swirled around her as she spun, arms out, closed eyes not filtering the intensity of her emotion at all. “It’s so wonderful! Everything is so perfect!”

“You are what you’ve made yourself,” Brad said softly. Hands in his pockets, he watched, a bemused smile on his face. “You’re the one that’s perfect.”

“Hardly,” she said, both hands smoothing back earthy colored hair, long flyaway bangs that framed her face. “I’m not perfect, but I’m a doctor now. It’s Christmas Eve and I love you.”

Arms went around her, pulling her close, movements done with the speed of a warrior so that even a loving embrace was a powerful strike. “If you love me then I can overcome all things,” he said, voice lowering into a rumbling growl at her ear. “I shall be your knight and this day there shall be none who can call upon me, save you, my beautiful violet eyed lady.”

She giggled, a hand slipping under his grey tuxedo jacket to feel the warmth of his body through the thin silken shirt. “But it is you who are my lord, Brad. I wear your mark and from here to Rigel I am yours.”

“Shh,” he pleaded, kisses finding their way under her braid to the back of her neck. “This holiday, this Christmas, once it was about redemption, about a man who could make all equal and all free. So tonight, we are equals, or you shall be my lady. The Calix will have no power between us now. The power of Christmas is older than any laws of man.”

Shivering she pressed closer, strong arms going around him, powerful surgeon fingers rubbing his back. “So you’re my present,” she asked, looking up. “Do I get to unwrap my present tonight?”

“Indeed.” Dark brown eyes smiled at her, unguarded, leaving behind all the duties and trappings of his role in the world. “Unwrap me Dove, or I shall never find myself. Open me and help me find my heart so that it will always be safe with you.”

Blush burned over her cheeks. “It’s so new. I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong,” she whispered, before tugging at one of his buttons with her lips.

The orchestra struck up again inside the ballroom, and he carried the faint music into a slow and gentle swaying dance. “You can do anything, Dove. Being a doctor is perfect for you. You found me dead and brought me back to life.”

“I was a whore,” Dove said, looking up at him, eyes filled with uncertainty. “How did we get to where we are?”

“Well, first there was your laughter and your complete unpredictability, and the gentle way you touch, and how you stayed with me even after the time you had to, how you saw me as a person and not just an obligation. Then I got to know you and the more I know you, the more I’m sure that life is worth living. So see? You brought me back to life. You graduated school tonight. I give you your freedom from all obligations to the family.”

She wasn’t prepared for him to catch her hand, or the burning flash that came next translated into warmth spreading through her body. When he let go, holding her hand up for her to see, the signel, on her palm since conception, branded into her DNA, faded, disappearing as she watched. “Can you? Really? Brad?”

“Really, I can,” he said.

Held in his arms, the mark of her indentured status now so gone it the absence of it glared at her, she felt precious, warm, and slightly frightened of the future. “What does it mean?”

“It means you are free,” he said, kissing fine brown hair. “It means that you are a brilliant doctor and the person I love more than life itself. You are my lady and tonight I am your knight.”

“Love you.”


Entry #1: Santa’s New Line by Jaime Samms

Paul aimed a savage kick at the glittering drift of white across his path. Clammy wind picked up the disturbed flakes and smattered them into his face. The rest settled into the stillness of the deserted Boxing Day evening.
“Not even a real good snow,” he muttered as he rounded the corner and walked smack into a mouthful of down-filled nylon.
“Sorry!” Strong fingers gripped Paul’s arm. Their owner craned to look past him down the empty street, then slumped. He apologized a few more times, brushed non-existent dirt from Paul’s coat. “Sorry.” His hand settled on Paul’s chest and his eyes widened.
Paul’s heart thumped. The man’s delicate, gorgeous face brightened inside the frame of blonde hair flowing from under a scarlet toque. His puffy jacket didn’t disguise his height or willow-slender frame. Just Paul’s type, and Paul didn’t have words for the radiant colour of his eyes; like a warm hearth.
“You—” Paul swallowed. “You’re from away.”
The man smiled, dropped his hand from Paul’s heart and Paul’s breath caught. “A little further north.” A grin stretched across delicate features, revealing small, straight teeth and perfect dimples. Paul’s heart stuttered.
“N-North? There’s something north of here?”
The grin disappeared. “Um, well.” The man shrank in on himself. “There’s–. Right. I’m from away.”
Paul’s heart just about stopped at the sight of the pink infusing his cheeks, and smouldering intensity replacing the glow in his gaze. It took Paul a second to realize he was still talking.
“Sorry. I’m a little lost. I heard bells,” he pointed past Paul, “and I thought…” Paul saw a question in the golden glow and wanted, very much, to be the answer.
“Thought?” Paul prompted, searching for his equilibrium.
“Never mind.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, walked back the way he’d come.
“Wait!” Paul hurried after him. “Wait. Your name?”
The man shivered and lifted the shoulders of his jacket, inadequate for keeping the freezing wind off his delectable long neck. Paul shook himself and focused on the hair that hid the man’s face.
“As in Kriss Kringle?”
“Kriss Danforth, actually.”
He set off again. His long legs carried him quickly, making Paul jog to catch up. They reached the next corner, Kriss stopped, glanced around, then set off toward the lonely high school and hockey arena.
“Where are you going?”
Kriss slowed, stopped. “I—.”
“Where are you staying?”
Wind blasted against their backs, blew Kriss off balance. He shivered, and tried to dig deeper into his coat. His cheeks reddened as he offered Paul a worn scrap of paper.
“Doesn’t say where I should go.” Paul looked at the yellowed note in Kriss’ hand. Green sharpie words scrawled across it. The bottom dropped out of Paul’s stomach.
“Where did you get that?”
“I’ve had it forever. Been trying for years to find the boy who wrote it.”
Paul took the paper. “He isn’t a boy anymore.” He didn’t have to read the words. He’d written them, years ago, one Christmas Eve long after he’d stopped believing in Santa.
“I know that. I’m not an idiot.” Kriss moved closer, surrounded Paul with comforting heat. Damp wind cut around them, picked up a few dry leaves and scurried them away down the sidewalk. “You know him.”
“I did once.” Paul gazed at the paper.
“You still do,” Kriss’ voice touched him, soft, gentle. “You still want what he wanted.”
Paul nodded. “Someone who understands.”
“Well?” A smile infused Kriss’s voice, speeding Paul’s already pounding heart.
“I kinda meant, you know, for my father to understand. Or my brother.”
“And do they?”
“I suppose.”
“So that isn’t really what you asked for.”
“Maybe not.” Paul found more than just understanding shining from Kriss, and the ‘more’ heated him from the inside out. “This isn’t quite the kind of thing anyone expects Santa to bring him for Christmas.”
“Let’s just say he’s branched out a bit. Walmart is pretty stiff competition, you know.” Warm fingers cupped Paul’s cheek. “No refund policy, though.”
Paul stepped into the tenderness Kriss offered. “Doesn’t need one.”
Around them, big flakes of snow drifted down. Paul was too busy being kissed to notice.


Entry #8: Endless Love by Tess MacKall

            The midnight hour approached and Evelyn lay in bed waiting. Her stay at the beach house had been intended to overcome the loss of her husband. Caroline, her sister, had insisted she needed to come to terms with his death and find peace. At first she’d been afraid and questioned her sanity. Now she simply accepted what had transpired. All that mattered was Marcus.

            Translucent, nothing more than the essence of a milky moonbeam, Marcus appeared. She held her arms open and he floated toward her. How she ached for his touch-to know the silken feel of his lips, to savor his taste.  

            He leveled his body to hers, melded within her flesh, and possessed her wholly. ‘Twas only the mere kiss of air to her skin, yet unparalleled passion ignited within the depths of her soul and burned through her veins. Her body arched, desperate to feel him, but fell into nothingness. Tears spilled to her pillow.

            “Join me, my love.” A shadow of a whisper found her.

            Stunned, Evelyn’s eyes widened. He’d never spoken a word before, just loved her through an exquisite merging that left her with an endless, painful need to be with him.

            “How, Marcus?”

            “I’m waiting on the cliff.” His vaporous entity lifted from her and vanished.

            Evelyn sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. She donned a wispy, white wrapper and rambled through the house in search of him. “Marcus!”

            “The cliffs, my love.”

            His words seeped into her mind and drew her to his voice. Her fear of heights had kept her from strolling there during the day, but now she had no choice. Love outweighed cowardice. She breathed deep and flung the door wide.

            In the distance, his gossamer form emerged. Barefoot, Evelyn ran to him. Chilled air filled her lungs with the brackish scent of the sea that lay beneath the jutting rocks. An orange moon sagged low on the black horizon and cast an ethereal blush across the murky water. White capped waves burgeoned and curled, crashing against the shore.

            He faded away and she screamed his name, “Marcus!”

            His whisper rose from the dark depths and found her on the cliff. “I’m here. Join me.”

            Lured to the edge, she trembled. “I’m afraid, Marcus.”

            His hand reached for her, enveloping her in a swirl of wind that hurled them upward into the silvery veil of stars. Evelyn lay her head upon Marcus’s chest, once more touching the warm flesh of her beloved husband.


            Sunlight swept across the water, tinting the waves into a glimmering blue. Marcus stared at the jagged rocks below. He draped his arm across the shoulders of the beautiful blonde beside him. “As her only heir, I trust you’ll play your role well.”

            “Almost as well as you, dear departed Marcus. She always was a bit too emotional. I guess it was the death of her.” Caroline molded her body to his and laughed.


Entry #7: Full Moon Mating by Lex Valentine

The clouds parted, allowing the full moon to bathe the earth in its silvery light. Jensen shivered. Halloween was the wrong night to be caught outdoors. Every witch and wizard on the planet would be casting spells. Tendrils of magic could wind themselves around a person and the next thing you knew, you were enchanted or cursed.

Jensen locked her car, turning toward her house. She had almost reached the door when she felt a tug on her arm. She whipped around, her pale blonde hair lifting in the breeze. Her sharp grey eyes searched the yard. It was empty. Yet she had felt the presence of another. Halloween. Full moon. Out in the open alone. She might as well have a target painted on her ass.

“Oh, but that would be a waste of a perfectly fine ass.”

Jensen stiffened. She knew that voice. Heat filled her as the shadows shifted into the shape of a man.

“Bram.” Her heart slammed against her ribs as she spoke the wizard’s name.

One long fingered hand caressed her jaw, his thumb stroking over the wildly beating pulse in her throat. “Aren’t you glad I’m not a vampire? I could have drained you by now,” he murmured silkily.

Jensen shivered. His touch was driving her mad with lust and he knew it.

“It’s a full moon too, which means you’ll not be able to resist me,” Bram smiled, his white teeth flashing in a devastatingly handsome face. “I can’t resist you either, Jensen. You’re Alpha. You were meant for me.”

Bram’s fingers tightened around her arm, and he pulled her down the drive, into the moonlight. “Show me!” he ordered, his dark eyes glittering.

Jensen stared up at him, completely overcome with lust from the heat cycle thrust on her by the full moon. Bram bent and kissed her hard, his teeth scraping her bottom lip, making it bleed. Jensen growled, the pupils of her eyes elongating. Bram’s tongue flicked over her fangs and she shuddered.

He pulled away, his hands ripping her shirt in two. Her pink nipples stiffened in the cold air. “You’re rare. The only white were on the planet and now you’re mine,” he whispered. “Shift for me, Jensen.”

With a piercing howl, Jensen’s body dissolved, her pale skin becoming white fur. She nipped at Bram’s hand, drawing blood, then ran down the drive. He stared after her, eyes alight with lust. She stopped and thrust her nose to the sky, howling mournfully. Then she swished her white tail at him. She might be in a heat cycle because of the full moon, but she was still Alpha. It was her choice who she would mate with. Tonight, it would be Bram.

He stepped toward her and she grinned, fangs gleaming. If he was lucky, he would survive the mating and she would keep his wizard ass. If he didn’t survive, then he had no business rousing a white werewolf on a full mooned Halloween, now did he?


Entry #6: The Death of Jonathan Grant by Grayson Reyes-Cole

A black and white photo, scratched, creased, faded in spots remains as testament to Johnathan Grant’s short life. In it, the little boy stands alone against what looks like a gray sky and black grass. He stares blankly up at the photographer. He could be looking into the camera.

He isn’t.

He wasn’t.

He had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that appeared clear in the sepia tones of the picture. Maybe they were blue. Maybe green. Assuredly pale near the point of white beneath black lashes. His gaze even now is like a grasping hand…

In the picture, the boy wears a severe black suit and an inquisitive expression. His head lolls just slightly to one side, but he continues to stare, to silently request. He holds something in his hand, but the picture quality will not reveal it not matter how long and how hard it’s studied.

Jonathan Grant, a silent child, was nine years old when the image was captured. On that day, Jonathan Grant was also the victim of one of the most vicious and mysterious murders in the county’s history.

On a sunny but windy day, 54 years ago, twelve children executed Jonathan in art class.

Hair pulled off her face with a tortoiseshell band, broad cheeks, cardigan even in summer, his teacher, a Mrs. Fenton, was gone for no more than twelve minutes. Office Assistant, America Gonsalves, had met Mrs. Fenton in the main hallway and together they entered the classroom finding Jonathan and the other children. America stood stunned and silent while Mrs. Fenton screamed and screamed and screamed.

Another photo taken on that sunny, windy day: Compact, intense, the twelve stand in a circle around Jonathan’s body.

Every child-little boys and little girls in dingy, ill-fitting smocks-are bathed in blood gone black in the photo. Cheeks smeared. Hands soaked. Every child bears serious, dutiful gazes.

All hold art instruments: sculpting trowels, carving knives, precision cutting blades. Long after the photo, each of the 63 punctures and cuts on Jonathan’s body were matched to at least one of the twelve blades.

This next image is difficult. A photograph of Jonathan Grant.

Same black suit. Same wide, clear, disconcerting eyes. Except this image was captured from above his still form. A shoulder sticks out of one jacket sleeve awkwardly. Beneath, his shirt is ripped to shreds and deep lacerations cover his frail chest and arms, even one punctured his cheek in a long, swollen, black gash. The boy’s eyes are open and staring, it seems, with colorless content. His forehead is smudged with some sort of charcoal symbol. One open palm reveals another such symbol.

The children all admitted to their parts in killing Jonathan Grant. The police, psychologists, and parents asked why they did it during separate questioning sessions. Each child told the same story:


“Jonathan Grant was the devil. The angel told us there is only one way to kill the devil. Then he taught us how to do it. We learned it by heart and we used it. We did good. We killed the devil. It took all twelve of us. The angel told us it would. The angel told us how to do it.”


An angel? Yes, an angel. When they were asked to describe the angel, they all-separately-gave only a name.

Not one child blinked. Not one child breathed. When parents and psychologists and policemen sat on the edge of their seats nearly tipping forward but holding steady so as not to startle their fragile children, each one stated with calm reverence: Jonathan Grant.


Entry #4: SHADOW by Rita Vetere

After finishing up the late shift at work, I gulped the dregs of my coffee before heading home. At just after midnight, I locked up the deserted building and made my way across the silent emptiness of the parking lot, carried along by a chilly blast of late-October wind.

            I was halfway to my car when I saw it. The wolf-like dog that emerged from the shadows beyond the parking lot was black as coal, its fur spiked and matted. The sight of it moving purposefully through the empty lot raised my hackles. My trepidation only increased when the animal came to a stop next to the driver-side door of my car. It lifted its massive head, training its red-rimmed eyes on me.

I stopped in my tracks, not ten feet from it, eying the animal cautiously. No domestic dog, this. Collarless, it had obviously been roaming wild for some time, probably riddled with fleas, possibly rabid. The menacing look in the dog’s bloodshot eyes caused fear to rise in my throat like battery acid. The animal remained perfectly still, marking me with its strange eyes, daring me to make a move.  

            In the absolute silence of the deserted lot, I could hear its hot, panting breath. I imagined its razor-like incisors at my throat, the rancid smell of its breath in my face. Sweat began to trickle down my back, despite the icy wind that made my eyes water. The showdown continued, neither of us moving. Saliva dripped from the dog’s mouth as it panted with impatience. I tried to slow my racing heart and mounting panic, knowing the animal could sense my dread.

Seconds ticked by, and I knew I had to act before fear immobilized me completely.  Reckoning I was closer to the passenger door and could get there before the dog was able to travel around the car, I took my chance.

            I almost made it. My fingers grasped the door handle, just as the hound came tearing around the back bumper like damnation. It sprang at me, leaping into the air on powerful hind legs, its teeth bared, a low growl deep in its throat. Too slow, I raised my arms to protect my face, closing my eyes against the sight of its slobbering mouth and sharp fangs. I felt its mangy fur brush my face as it swept by me, heard its ferocious growl of attack.

            From behind me, someone screamed in terror. Unharmed, I opened my eyes and spun around. The dog stood over the supine body of a man, his open jaws at the man’s throat. On the pavement nearby, the blade of the attacker’s knife glinted in the moonlight as the animal continued to hold the mugger at bay with its deadly maw.

Five minutes later, I watched as the police summoned by me led the gibbering thug to a flashing cruiser. I looked with fresh eyes at the now-docile dog panting at my feet. Opening the car door, I issued an invitation. The dog scrambled in, licking my hand in passing. He’d emerged from the shadows to protect me, and Shadow is the name I gave him before taking him home.

–  End –

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