Mustang. Mustang who? Must Stang show us how it’s done? Literati. You wimps! This contest either did not inspire, or, more likely, it was too tough for you to attempt! Only five entrants in the contest! So I asked our judge, Mike Stang, to show us how it’s done. His entry does not count, though …
Must Stang show us how it’s done?
Literati. You wimps!
This contest either did not inspire, or, more likely, it was too tough for you to attempt! Only five entrants in the contest! So I asked our judge, Mike Stang, to show us how it’s done. His entry does not count, though at times when I have been the judge, I simply used a pseudonym in order to win, especially when I offered really kuhl stuff as a prize. In the past I have entered under the name Mac Eagan, Peggy Dobbs, or KYLE Katz.
Soooo…Under the guise of fairness, everyone who entered the contest is automatically a finalist, and you are hereby given a new prompt by which you shall be judged. YOUR NAME WILL NOT APPEAR until after the contest, to increase the likelyhood that I myself will win again.
Here is your prompt: “All I want for Christmas is my——” Fill in the blanks. Your entry must be EXACTLY one hundred words excluding title. The prompt can appear anywhere in the story. Must be received by Thursday, November 29th midnight, sent to firstname.lastname@example.org and as a separate word attachment. As Sarah Palin would say, “You know the drill, baby.”
Winner will be announced this weekend so we can get right into our next contest.
But I digress. Here is
What Do You Mean, Cliché?
Okay, all bets are off.
After a story…after my own heart, I stand buck-naked and all hell breaks loose but, by the same token, it’s business as usual. I can hear the roar of the crowd. I can see their lips moving. “A little less talk and a lot more action.” “The bits and pieces don’t go together.” “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” (I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.)
To make a long story short, not to make a mountain out of a mole hill, nor make an ass out of myself—mercy me—I would like to make ends meet. To monkey with a story and fly by the seat of your pants is like fighting fire; it may even get you on the road to riches. Oh, to have the world on a string, yes? Worth its weight in gold, no? A flash in the pan? But do the ends justify the means?
“Do they?” I turned to Penny on the bus who looked bored to tears.
“Don’t know…won’t know till you look at it twenty-twenty. Think Picasso had his eye on the donut?”
“He danced a fine social fiddle, like you, hot footing it across town. Don’t be so sure of failure boy, the body is still warm.”
“You still dabble in the art?
“For all our sakes, no. I’m through saying it—you say it, you’re the dark horse now.”
The bus stopped and Penny took a breath. “Deal with it.”