(Who newt?) Literati! We have a newt-comer to our contest! First time on what Peggy Dobbs referred to as our playground! Let’s welcome Connie Nguyen, invited here by Stefani Allison. Connie has the prologue for a futuristic story. Some of you may be offended by the use of the “F” word, but we are …
We have a newt-comer to our contest! First time on what Peggy Dobbs referred to as our playground! Let’s welcome Connie Nguyen, invited here by Stefani Allison. Connie has the prologue for a futuristic story. Some of you may be offended by the use of the “F” word, but we are not censors, only editors, and try to remain newtral in such matters.
There is still time for you to enter this contest yourself, and a chance to win $250, and an adult size order of fame.
And here is Connie’s prologue to her work-in-progress called
By Connie Nguyen
“Just paint my skin. I want to look the same as when I was a little girl.”
But there was no way that the woman could become the vivid eyed, dreamy little cherub in the photo again. Newt’s pigments hid the grey, bruise-mottled skin. But not the missing nostril and chunk of lip. Not the extra lumps that the woman tried to pass as breasts by jamming them into a misaligned bra. Not the shedding wisps of hair that she still had to brush off the woman’s face even after Newt thought she secured everything under a cap.
“In here. Take what you need,” the woman pointed at her purse with a mangled, twisted finger. Well, what was left of it anyway.
Newt helped herself to a few grimy coins, but took note of the small crumple of bills. “Ma’am, if you like, for just a little bit more, I’ve been working on a device, think of it like a cheaper prosthetic if you will. It’s for grabbing and holding things. It’ll help not just during your lunch date today, but¾”
“Good heavens, no,” the woman tilted the mirror lamp closer, checking to see whether the light would betray her now peachy, dewy face. “Money is tight as it is. Besides, my husband might notice more than just a few missing coins this time; though why he wastes money buying the paper every day, I don’t know. It’s not like we ever read anything new in there, am I right?”
Newt didn’t smile back, not that the woman paid any attention. She was wrapping an intricate silk scarf around a sunken neck and flaky scalp, tucking away lonely threads of hair. How many of Newt’s tools could the woman have bought with that money instead of a luxury Scraper scarf?
One final pose in the mirror and the woman joined the rest of her Morph brethren outside in their repeat pilgrimages to The Skyscraper. Damnit, that shade on her skin was too orange and way too flat. How was Newt to ever work in The Skyscraper’s Science Department if she couldn’t even manage that? Deny it all she did, Newt was no different from everyone who flocked to that ridiculous, proud behemoth, fighting to feast on its leftovers and bask in its glow.
Still, why didn’t anyone else see it? That jutting out from the sea of shacks, The Skyscraper looked exactly like a giant middle finger saying, “fuck you.”
Here is a video in which Newt Rockne inspires the staff at A Word with You Press to write their very best, couching literary achievement in football metaphors.