What? Two posts in one day? I know. It is not like me to do such an odd thing, but I felt that it was my duty to share this with the few people that have taken the time to read up on my meanderings.
And, away we go !!!
While farting around on Blogger, I have bumped into some really interesting blogs along the way. Some, that I wish I could "unsee" and some that I have really enjoyed. But, one in particular, 52 Weeks of Wordage, has peeked my curiosity while waking up a creative world that I had never fully tapped into. Stef, founder and CEO of the aformentioned blog, has a contest every week that offers up a stage for aspiring writers and dopes like me to share our stories, poems, etc. This is how it works. Every Monday, Stef post's a picture of her choosing and after you have studied it's contents, she asks that you submit your take on the picture. You can express it in the form of a song lyric, a poem, an excerpt of a book etc. Then, at a certain time the following Thursday or Friday, your time is up and entries are sent off to a knowledgable panel of judges, consisting of her family & friends, who then sift through each entry, pick out their favorite one's and pass them on to Stef for the final decision. The winners do not receive a cash prize or a trip to the Bahama's. Instead, you are awarded an honorable mention and access to share your creativity with the thousand or so people that follow her blog, and to me, that is worth much more than money. (Although, I could use some extra loot)
And the reason for this long winded post? I decided to enter a little piece of a story I had fathomed up some time ago, just for the sake of sharing something. Something that I would normally hide away to keep from garnering criticism. And it turns out, a few people like it enough to make mention of it. That is the big news. And, this is my oppurtunity to thank Stef for doing what she is doing. It makes a world of difference for the few that are inclined to keep their voices silent. (Below is my submission if you are interested in reading it)
She watched the long stretch of road while dad scurried about to replace the flat. It is an urban legend around these parts that the hills have eyes. Sissy sat there, still. I could feel the tension that she wrestled with. I could almost taste her fear.
I feel so useless here in this back seat, and my damn leg itches underneath this cast. It is chilly out here in this dead land "Sissy, the tire". As she turned to roll the spare toward dad, my attention was drawn to the road. A mile or so away, I saw him, arms spread wide, walking down the middle of this old stretch. You could almost see death rolling like waves behind him.