A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, a Thorn by any other name, is still…a prick.
Mac Egan! You shoulda known better! You have been thorned!
For the uninitiated, “Thorning” is the act whereby I take your private emails to me, and decide that they really need to be broadcast without your consent to the entire world. Tis my duty. And I would be remiss in my duty if I did not post the email that accompanied Mac Egan’s entry as a finalist into our contest You Didn’t Write That.
Here is what Mac confessed, followed by his entry.
I know I have in the past viewed these writing challenges as the literary equivalent of Iron Chef, with you as the “beloved chairman.”
Most of the time my initial reaction to the prompts is apprehension, feeling as Bobby Flay or Masaharu Morimoto does when they are handed a jar of dill pickles and told, “Here – make these into an appetizer, an entree, some side dishes, a dessert and a tasty drink.”
But this prompt? This was more like receiving a five-pound bag of all-purpose flour! So . . . ordinary . . . so common . . . so impossible to work with due to the endless possibilities.
Hopefully I have risen (get it? Flour? Risen?) to this challenge.
Rising to the occasion should be the yeast of Mac’s worries. But you might say he rose to the occasion.
And here is Mac’s entry into our contest:
Tag, Still Not It
Luis pushed through the doors of the police station and had his cell phone dialed before he reached the bottom of the concrete steps. With his free hand he pulled his hoodie up to protect himself from the cold night air.
“Why don’t you listen, huh? Did you forget what I told you about copying my tag? Did you? You were supposed to use Persian Blue, not Egyptian.
“Nah, it don’t matter, anyway. Lasko’s lazy. He won’t try to build a case just on a tag. Yeah, I’m heading there now.” Luis checked the phone’s clock and broke into a jog towards the bus stop.
Luminess slid into a booth at the diner and traded fist bumps and palm slaps with Streaker, Handz, and CoCo Charlie.
“We still on?” Streaker asked.
“Definitely,” Luminess answered. “I gave Lasko too much credit. We’re safe unless he catches us with paint on our hands.”
“He’s lazy,” chimed in Charlie. “He prolly can’t even tell the difference between Egyptian Blue and Persian.”
“Shut it,” snapped Luminess. “You screwed up. Charlie’s right, though,” he said to the others, “and this changes everything about the plan. We won’t need decoys.”
“So, when?” asked Handz.
Luminess pulled out his phone as he answered. “Tomorrow night.”
The booth filled with ringtones and alerts. The three guys looked at the image of Luminess’ preliminary sketch displayed on their screens. There was no doubt Luminess had the soul of an artist.
“South wall of the Art Museum. It’ll get assigned to Lasko.”