I was currently involved with Knucklehead’s Bloggy Idols, but was eliminated during the first round. All I have to say is, the bookies are happy and my wallet is full. Take that in any way you want.
Meanwhile, the Clarity of Night contest is now closed for submissions. Since I’m not sure how long voting will take, I can’t give any update. I did enter my piece to go along with the photo. Want a sneak peek? Okay. Here you go:
by Michelle Hickman
“Silence, oh you mocking birds!”
I hear them flying overhead, your calls painful in my heart. Wings beat upon my head, causing my feet to stumble. Let not your dirge strike fear into my soul. I cast you out! I cast you out!
The stones cut into my bare soles, telling me I’m alive. But who cares? I may be, but she is not. Gone. Her life more fleeting than the downdraft keeping the feathered one aloft. Oh, how I wish I could seek such eternal sleep. Yet the violin case bangs into my thigh, urging onward. Keep going. Almost there.
A short distance as straight as the crow flies.
Autumn leaves flash a bit of white nearby. My knees buckle. There she is. My sweet one. Stark. Cold. Flesh picked clean by the scavengers perched among tree limbs. Feathers drift downward to become her funeral shroud covering her bones, shielding her nakedness.
Let me play a bit of something for you.
The violin rests on my shoulder. The bow slides across the strings. Our song drifts throughout this desolate place. The notes echo against the cliffs. Was it only last month when we walked along here? Yes, it was last month, during our argument, when the heat of our anger caused my arms to thrust out.
You fell. You screamed your last aria.
I play our song. Cry out, you mocking birds! Join in with my requiem. Let your voices reach the heavens where my sweet now resides.
I know . . . I know . . . where’s the humor? Where’s the twist ending? Where’s the gold stiletto slamming into the little imp’s chest?
Look. I had to follow the rules of the contest and write a story to go along with his photo. The photo was in monochrome colors of staring through bare branches up at a flying bird. These are the feelings I got from the photo.
And these are the impressions I associate with these feelings . . .
In other words, Tragedy. So summoning my inner muse, who screamed and ran away over my demands concerning this writing, I channeled Shakespeare through supernatural means. He screamed and ran away.
So I had to wing it. Thus this piece of . . . well, whatever that took me three minutes to write and 1 minute to edit.
Okay, honestly, I only write humor for this blog. All my other writing projects are strictly on the darker side. Hey, Edgar Allan Poe is my all-time favorite writer. You don’t find funny by reading and emulating Poe.
So this blog is my relaxation treatment. I can let the funny out here and you can roll your eyes and say, “Oh gawd, can’t she be serious for once?”
Anyway, let’s get back to talking contests. All of them said I had a chance on winning, but what do I know? I’ve never heard a contest tell me the truth. They get your hopes up, saying your special, and then the contests laugh behind your back and buy the other girl in the bar a drink. The cheaters!
Wow, “talking contests?” That was a bad joke even for me.
Seriously, as for the other two I’ve entered, if I haven’t already
And if you hear the cracking of bones, you’ll know the bookies got a hold of me for a bad fix over a different writing challenge. Please send help.
Please . . .
*WHOO-HOO! I won a query critique from the ladies over at Shooting Stars! Happy dance... have to do my happy dance...*