five

There were some martyred saint stories in my childhood.

five

For the most part one writes in the head first. The words float around and line up. So it's something I can do when I am working on other tasks.

workingoutaname

I'll assume that stillthinkingaboutanameorwhateveryournameis means me, right? haha, that's hilarious.

To respond to your note: I don't think I'll enter again. That story is also very close to me in a similar way that it is to you, and as soon as I saw the word list I knew it was that story that I needed to tell.

Thank you for the offer of an extension, but I don't mind not being in the running for the final prize. Knowing that my entry had an effect (affect? I still don't know which is which...) on you is enough payoff for me.

chelydra

omigosh, five, you know I only NOW noticed number 86, a whole NEW story!!!

So it's not a self-flaggelation thing I guess, just uncontrollable waves of words like your ever-proliferating ever-changing pictures, with word-count fixes an excuse to go back and get everything more right than it was, in most cases...

midnightpoet

Marius! SQUEE! Awesome to see you here! What a wonderful story. I have missed you!

chelydra

workingoutaname,
so you DID know whereof you spoke, so to speak... that would explain it, then... condolences... i'll give it another try and see what happens.

workingoutaname

Thank you. But really, don't worry if you feel you can't judge it fairly. I'm not going away any time soon, so I'll be around for the next TW challenge, whoever wins.

chelydra

working,
On first reading (and seeing your profile with your age, too young for such experiences) I assumed you'd just learned enough about writing to be able to conjure up a story that coincided uncannily with real feelings you could never have felt yourself - by chance? by power of imagination? by reading of such feeling in fiction or non-fiction? by logical deduction of some kind? I had no idea. The one explanation that did not occur to me was that you knew these feelings as well as anyone from the best and worst possible source, the actuality. And your actually must have been infinitely more poignant than mine in this case (we'd been out of touch for many years, she lived into her early fifties). So I was feeling the impact of your pain, and you made it feel like my own - no doubt you did the same for other readers too.

That's real writing, real communicating, real art, and especially now that I'm fully understanding how you earned it, the Annabelle Lee Award is becoming more and more of a real and meaningful recognition in my mind, and I hope it will be in yours too. Poe was such an archetypal character, we tend to forget that his Annabel Lee was just as real as ours were, and his feels too. I still can't think of your story in the context of a competition, but the context in which I can think of it is far more significant than any contest. Someone else is going to win the putting-words-together-cleverly contest and run the next ThinkWrite comptition. You won the letting-words-convey-whats-in-your-heart-into-other-hearts contest (which was not a contest but you did it best).

chelydra

"...and his feelings for her too." was of course was I intended. Though the typo was sort of nice in its own way.

midnightpoet

Not that it is eligible for anything anyway, but this is 274 words...433 divided by 274 approximately equals half of Pi - so it counts, right? ^_^

*********

late at night I hear whispers
in the moonlit treetops

they call to me they

sing

to my soul

is it real or
am I just imagining these
voices

calling out to me

in the dark

so many years alone now
may have
driven me

insane

but I believe the
voices
are real

sometimes if I close my eyes and look
up at them
I can see a small hand

wave

a pleasant greeting

they know me
I think
even better than I know them

and I know them well
my only friends

at the base of the tree
I sometimes leave

a raspberry or two
and maybe some apple
slices

treats for my friends

I want to sit and
guard
these treats to keep
away scavengers

one time a raven stole
it all

away

but if I watch my friends
won’t come for their treats
they are

voices

to be heard not seen

I try to catch a glimpse
as I stand at my window and
iron my sheets but the fruit
is there one moment and then

gone

leaving nothing behind
but barely heard musical
scales of laughter
and maybe a

whisper

of thanks

I fear that on my tomb
the word crazy
will be carved
instead of my name because
that’s what they all call me

insane

I’ve forgotten my own
name over the long years
when I’ve
only been known as
the crazy old woman
in the purple house
on the hill

my friends don’t think
I’m crazy

my friends always come
back

the whisper is like a kiss
from a lover and

silence

like a bite from a wolf.

ladyhwin

Suffering under a massive headache... but I managed to get it written.... I'm not sure if this counts as cheating or not... instead of both pieces being 216.5 words, one is 216 and one is 217... just couldn't fit a half-word into the second one...

*********

Her brow creases in concern and she clings to his hand, begging him not to leave.
Sadness fills his e yes as he gazes down at her, seeing her so full of fear and apprehension.
“Rowan,” her words are cut off by his soft kiss.
“Don’t say it,” he whispers, stroking a wave of her raven-black hair. “She is strong. I will soon return.”
She shifts her gaze from his face to the ship lying in the harbor. She tries not to loathe the massive form, but she does. In her mind the iron hull is a prison, a tomb, swallowing its victims like a wolf devours its prey. She can see a man as he scales the rigging, and she shudders.
He leads her to a nearby shop and barters with the merchant for a bushel of raspberries, her favorite.
“Why must you go?” she whispers, so faint he wonders if he actually heard her.
“What would you have me do?” with a sigh, he takes her hand.
“Listen to the wind, darling. When she rattles in the treetops on a moonlit night, know that you are forever in my heart. I will always come back for you.”
A tear escapes her as he hands her the fruit, kisses her softly and strides away. Forever.

ladyhwin

And Number Two - this one is rather personal to me compared to the other one... hmmm...

****

Twilight settles heavily over the western plains, bringing with it lurking shadows and howling wolves. In the deepening darkness two forms slowly meander their way around, picking through the raspberry thickets, searching intently for the remotest hint of green to nibble.
The wind whistles mysteriously in the treetops nearby and the smaller of the two creatures throws up her head in alarm. She is a black horse, blacker than a raven’s feathers, blacker than the darkness of a tomb, except for a silver star set right between her eyes.
The second horse snorts in contempt at the noises in the moonlit night. She paws the ground nervously, her energy rising until it explodes of the scales in a terrific burst of speed. Her mane ripples, her tail waves proudly in the wind, that gentle wind which covers her neck and shoulders with kisses from the sky, little drops of rain that laugh as they touch.
The black horse races alongside, whinnying in excitement to her companion. They gallop swiftly, their hooves striking the ground with iron strength, echoing in the still night air. The stars laugh in the sky, dancing around the moon in fascination patterns and colors.
The horses pause in their race, snorting their freedom to the wind and the sky, joyful to be alive.

five

“Whisp--” Quiet. There will be no hatching. She/he, will never be a child.

A crow pecks Milly’s toe, then falls over. Birds belong in treetops, but like a wolf without a pack, this one wandered alone too long. Black is black, lifeless bird. Sand is not a proper place to bury one so dark. Anubis can keep his scales. Milly knows herself, no feather outweighs her heart.

Such noise. A hymn? Who could think the tide might help?

A wave washes over and recedes; it takes the carcass with it.

Gravity pulls at Milly’s belly. There is still iron within. Her mouth falls open. Not to speak, there is nothing to say.

She drops to her knees. The wave returns without the bird. The ocean is a liquid tomb.

Folding over, she waits as another wave comes. She squeezes sand between her fingers, and icy water rushes into her nostrils and her mouth.

Nature has other ideas. Milly’s out of the water, rolling over to face the sky. She is done choking on a mix of air and water. She wipes her lips and licks her hand. Salt and raspberry gloss. Harsh to kiss?

Later, moonlit, she finds her hand on her own flesh, and catches herself breathing deeply and her muscles yielding as she rubs

five

Ladywin, I hope feel better quickly. Nice pieces.

chelydra

It's always hardest to see what's in front of your nose

staring you in the face

hidden in plain sight

after all my fussing around with the deadline to accommodate ladyhwin and others who might be inspired to send in a last minute entry

i went and announced the winner right here, loud and clear, caling an end to this challenge

and i didn't even know i had done that until a couple of hours later

ruining it for everyone, potentially

and especially ruining the joy, pride and pleasure of any 'official' winner(s) i might have announced at the time i said i would...

(The Hallelujah Chorus just burst into my headphones unexpectedly)

...because no self-respecting writer, even an amateur dabbler (like me f'rinstance) interested only in entertaining a few ThinkDraw buddies, would regard it as anything but a disappointment, almost an insult, "to win the putting-words-together-cleverly contest and run the next ThinkWrite competition" when someone had already "won the letting-words-convey-whats-in-your-heart-into-other-hearts contest (which was not a contest...)"

Congraduations, whatsyournameagainialwaysforget. Please accept as eligible any entries that arrive here before noon GMT with my wordlist and various wordcounts, in case two or three people are furiously trying to finish their masterpieces by the official deadline.



Even with all the dynamite that kept arriving toward the end, I had not wavered in my conviction that the MumClan had won hand's down, for a number of very good reasons—
I thought Mum's own second story was a very worthy winner on its own, and I continued to think that until I realized that what I was calling the AnnabelleLee prize was obviously the real prize, and that she hadn't won it.
Her first story, much as I was drawn in by the opening and approved of its message, had already dropped out of the running in my mind before her second one unexpectedly showed up, because it hadn't made me feel I was captured and condemned to slavery. I say this because it means Mum was not a factor while I was fussing with SonTwo's word-count, and I wasn't kidding when I slipped and said I thought SonTwo was looking like a winner (on his own). I only tonight realized that my response (or non-response) to SonOne's widely-acclaimed contribution had been fatally affected by my aversion to anything involvering serious sorcerors, the same factor which later killed off Ladyhwin's massive contribution before I even read it. In Daughter's story I thought the last line in particular was priceless. In some ways, maybe most ways, Mum's 2nd story is still my favorite submission. Perhaps her third story was its equal; I never tried to judge it because the second one was already enough. front-runner. And SonTwo's poem was still looking as good as ever the last time I looked, a couple of hours ago. So there would have been nothing unfair or extraneous at work in the clan collectively winning the prize, and I still wish they had, because I was really looking forward to seeing what happened would have next and everybody else would have been too — and every one of them legitimately would have helped earn it too, depite my perverse and inexplicable prejudice against sorcery (even stranger considering that I've been a semiprofessional sorcerer myself for about 45 years if you count astrology). It would have been great, the four of you holding conferences to thrash out the next competition, arguing over the next winner, and a great learning experience, not least for Mum herself. Maybe next time, or the time after that, if y'all keep keep going at the same level, and inevitably and soon it will happen if you get any better at this. I can't guarantee it will be a collective prize, which would depend on the whim of the judge and should be reserved for challenges when all are as fully committed as in this one. (Mum, drag your hubby in next time, his absence is inexcusable. Or better yet, kids, drag your father in.)

In order of appearance —
Midnightpoet has been prasied to the skies already, including by me. Deservedly so. As I expect even she must know—and the stability and security that comes from knowing one's own worth might be what accounts for that selfless graciousness that makes ThinkWrite such a relaxed little refuge from real life even though it seems to have an awful lot of murders and other horrors festering in its quiet tree-lines streets...
I read so many liking-trees-better-than-people essays in the past that after a while there were no surprises. Mdawrcn, though, gave me a few, including a real eye-opener—I had never realized that their ironlike substance is actually a major reason I like trees better than people, though I couldn't say why that is. Seems counterintuitive, doesn't it? Counter to cultural conventions of lovableness being soft and cuddly and childlike, anyway. Maybe there's a lesson in there


... at that point i fell asleep... (except that I went back and added a sentence or two to too-brief blurbs about Midnight and Mdawrcn)...

....and since I just awoke to find Ladyhwin came through, let's drop that suggestion that whateverthefuggin%$#@ahahereitisourwinnerhashisownnamenowworkingoutaname screw up his own stewardship by trying to accomodate the leftovers and stragglers from Challenge LXXXIX — he deserves to start off with a clean slate.

I'm going to post this now, try to make some headway on my way-past-urgent cartoon deadlines, then meet old friends for a wine-soaked late lunch, and will be back sometime to complete the run-through of contestants and their various virtues and announce a runner-up or two or three or ten, or more likely hand out customized prizes for these astonishing creations...

There is a dramatic backstory to this decision about who won that would make for heartbreaking and powerful literature if I were equal to the task of relating it adequately, but I'm not, so I won't... or maybe I will...

...why not...

...I'll try anyway...

... no I won't, I need to get cartoons done.

chelydra

Just one postscript to note that it was NOT the aforementioned backstory that won the challenge for nowiforgotyourfrigginnameagainsorryrememberedagain workingoutaname ... it was the backstory (or my reluctance to let into my consciousness) that I saw later was preventing me from letting you be even eligible for the prize, until I went back and re-read not what you had written but what I had written to you and finally woke up to what was going on in my addled convoluted mind.

Apologizes for too many egregious typs in previous message and perhaps this one too.

mayke i mean make that typos not typs


Very briefly, another note - to Hazer - your story was heartfelt, personal, well-written, it had all the qualities of workingoutaname's liittle story but one... yours was about the experience
his was the experience
not his experience, though that was its source
but the readers' own experience made real in the present in the reading
and readers is plural because what others wrote showed i wasn't the only one
and when that happens it kinda puts all other considerations into the shade

there was a lot of dynamite tossed around here, more and more, faster and more furious, as the deadline approached

but there was only one atomic bomb


at least a dozen stories and poems i liked better and thought were better in lots of ways

but only this one little story did the most important thing stories can do

force the reader to confront and acknowledge what's going on inside and in real life

(maybe that means any reader, in this case as in the case of all great literature; as noted above, apparently it wasn't just me that it affected as it did)

that's a skill a writer probably can't acquire accept at great personal cost and it's probably not a fair exchange, and certainly eighteen is far too young to have it but there it is

and that's that.

chelydra

last very quick ps:
just to make sure that the things I said here about wishing the MumClan had won, or about liking other stories better than yours, do not have the effect of making this seem like a half-heartedly or grudgingly awarded first prize...
it's anything but that.
i can't think of more than a couple of decisions i've made in my whole long life that felt as right as this one.



T H E E N D


until i get around to adding those runner-ups and/or other sorts of prizes, and say somethng about each entrant (which was one of midnightpoet's nicest touches last time), which might not happen for a fw days.

ladyhwin

Great job, chelydra... I think you've done an awesome job of hosting and of choosing the winner. TW winners have always been based upon personal enjoyment, even though, like you, I try to be fair to everyone
Congratulations workingoutaname, and welcome to the TD site! I remember you from the other site too

mum23

Congratulations workingoutaname! In a field of amazing contenders, your story is a most worthy winner. I was deeply touched by it too.

chelydra, thank you, and I second ladyhwin's congratulations for hosting this challenge so marvellously well. Your musings were as enjoyable and entertaining as the official entries.

marg

Congratulations workingoutaname and chelydra !

Of course, I'm peeved at not getting the honourable mention I wanted :-...

..but I'm rapt that you, chelydra, have managed to encourage 6 pages of contributions and that workingoutaname has established a great name in ThinkDraw

Loved it all - roll out the next challenge, WOAN !