GBA(s)FC #2 - Winners Announcement

As with last time, the votes were very close, and everyone who submitted a story is deserving of congratulations. This is another instance where it often came down to single votes being the difference between one prize and another. There were some really excellent stories and some great writing this time around.

Thank you all for taking part. Unless you did not take part, in which case I urge you to give it a whirl next time.

Author's Choice Prizes:
1st Place Entry #12 "My Short Story" by Stray
2nd Place Entry #9 "Forget-Me-Not" by Reading the Signs
3rd Place Entry #16 "Rings" by Jason Evans
4th Place Entry #14 "Seeds of Truth" by Sognatrice
5th Place Entry #15 "Queen Size Bed" by The Perfect Neurotic

Jury Prizes:
1st Place Entry #24 "Pull" by Joni
2nd Place Entry #17 "Are We Not Men?" by Kyklops

Honorable Mention
Entry #4 "Paolo and the Snakes" by Seamus Kearney

Congratulations, everybody, whether you won an official prize or not. Winners can claim their badges from their reposted entry. I also made this participant badge if anyone who entered would like one.

All the entries have been moved to the current year, so please use the "Growth Fiction Contest" tag to find the entries from now on. You old links will not work. Also, authors are now allowed to respond to their comments and to link to their entries. Please also check the links and let me know if anything has gone amiss.

The Jury...

I wanted a jury which could reflect the various viewpoints and background of my Blogreaders. To that end, I assembled a crack team of readers who include a few writers (three entrants to this very contest, as well) in three different countries. At least one is a published novelist. Another is the only person with whom I share a meal on a regular basis. And then there was my mom. Here's a little bit about them.

Juror #1 is GoodThomas, a friend, writer and fellow blogger who is also one of the strange Workers I was telling you about not all that long ago. He's good people. Entry #19.

Juror #2 is Bass Monk, with whom I eat breakfast on Saturdays. He was in map of july for many years with me, and is a fantastic musician. On occasion, he also graces us with a blog post.

Juror #3 is Minx, who became my blogfriend back in November when she told me to get off of her blog if I could not handle sarcasm. She's got a book out, but still seems to make time for frivolous flash fiction contests like this one. I owe her a map of july cd. Entry #8.

Juror #4 is Verilion, a self-described wanderer in Paris. Her quote about herself on her website says: "I write in bed, I write on the metro, I write at work, I write at home, I write, I write, I write..." So...she writes some. Entry #5.

Juror #5 is my mom. She does not keep a blog. She was nice enough to read your entries without too much grumbling. Since this contest required her to be reading and voting on Mother's Day, she probably deserves a special nod for taking part.

GBA(s)FC #2 - Closed

Well the votes have been cast and there's some counting to do. Check back later for the revelation of the authors, the jury and of course, the prizewinners.

Update: unveiling and winner announcement will occur at or around 11pm (CST) tonight.

Ballots

Just a friendly reminder for all the wonderful entrants to the GBA(s)FC #2. If you have not yet cast your ballot for your favorites, they are due Monday night by 11pm (Chicago time). I've already gotten a fair amount of ballots, but I just want to remind those who have not voted to please do so.

I sifted through the first round of jury votes tonight. I think it is a testament to the strength of the entries this time that 15 of the 25 entries received official votes from the jury. Many of them also expressed to me that they could have easily chosen 10 or more entries that they liked for one reason or another. It seems to me that, had I allowed them pick even one or two more, all of the entries might well have received votes.

Currently, the jury is sequestered and looking over the shortlist of the entries which received the most votes. They are so sequestered, in fact, that even they do not yet know who else is serving on the jury. I am looking forward to revealing them almost as much as I am looking forward to unmasking the authors at the close of the contest.

After the contest closes, I will be posting a sentence or two into the comments section of the fifteen entries which received jury votes. These comments will represent the opinion of one or more of the jurors.

That's all for this contest-update post. Just keep the votes a-comin!

What if he was Heathcliff?

Headed up to the 32nd Ward tonight to see Michael Penn play at Schuba's. Schuba's is the type of place that makes for good concerts, and they tend to book the sort of acts who will benefit from the intimacy of the room.

Michael is the brother of Sean and the late Chris Penn, and you may recall him having a hit in 1990 with "No Myth," which you might think is called "Romeo in Black Jeans" or possibly "Someone to Dance With." He makes fun of this confusion in concert. He also hates to banter between songs.

It isn't that he cannot entertain a crowd with idle chat, it just seems to be something in which he has no interest. He's always looking for ways to replace this activity with something else. At a show I attended in 2000 (a tour with his wife, Aimee Mann) they used a comedian to handle all the chat that might need to take place while musicians were tuning. He was a great fit for the show, and the whole night was hugely entertaining.

This time, he had a microphone set up near the sound board for the audience to have a try. He told us that anything was fair game except for comments about him or Q & A. Most of us were reluctant to get up and try to entertain the crowd, but a couple of folks got up there and told a joke. I can't say this added much to the show, as Mr. Penn was far and away the best entertainer in the room. He usually got a laugh just responding to the person with the microphone. But of course, no one had come to see Slightly-Tipsy Middle-Aged Woman do her comedy routine.

He still sounds amazing, and there was a kazoo solo. What more needs to be said?

Schuba's was one of the places we were very hungry to play during the map of july years, but both times they asked us to come down were times when we were already booked to play another room. It was painful to have to decline. I'd still love to play Schuba's, but I have to admit that my chances are pretty slim unless I put together another band. Might happen one of these days. Who knows?

*****

Don't forget to vote for your favorites in the GBA(s)FC #2. Take another look at the rules (at the bottom of the contest page) if you have any questions about how to do this.

GBA(s)FC #2—Closed to new entries

The contest is closed to new entries, and voting is now open for the jury and authors. If you fall into one of those two categories, please read all the entries and cast your vote. Author votes are due by May 14th at 11 pm CST, and Jury votes are due by May 12th at 11 pm CST.

Whether you are voting or not, all the entries are comments-enabled so make sure you take a moment to tell your favorites why you liked them.

Smaller turnout than last time, but 25 is not too shabby, and the quality of the entries is very high. There are some great ideas, some great writing. All in all, I'm very impressed—and grateful to those of you who took the time to compose something.

If you missed the boat this time, look for GBA(s)FC #3 August 1st.

Regular blogging should resume shortly.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #25

White Lies
by Brilliantdonkey

"Hey Okie wait up! There is someone I want you to meet." Okie turned in time to see Blaine and another man approaching.

"Okie this is Dan," Blaine began, "he will be joining us in the marketing department. Dan this is ….."

"Take a freaking picture, It will last longer!" Okie screamed.

"What?" Dan stammered, "I wasn't staring."

"Sure you weren't, that's what they all say. By the way, my eyes are up here."

"Okay, okay I was staring a bit, but I couldn't help it. I'm sorry."

"Go ahead."

"Excuse me?"

"Go ahead and ask. It isn't like I haven't heard it before you know. Real or fake right? That's what your thinking isn't it?"

"Well, I,,,,,,uhhhhh, yeah I guess I was thinking that," Dan replied.

"So go ahead. At least have the balls to ask." Okie replied holding out his hand to Blaine. In the eight years they had known each other Okie had never lost this bet. Not once.

"It's okay, No such thing as a dumb question right?"

"Okay, real or fake?" Dan asked sheepishly.

"Real."

While he still hated it, Pinnochio, 'Okie' to his friends had learned to deal with this common occurrence. It was all part of being who he was. He had even come to enjoy the shocked looks on people's faces.

"No way!"

"Way, it is as real as the one on your face. I have a rare disease. They don't know what actually causes it, but every time I tell a lie it grows."

"So you what? You telling me you just don't lie anymore?"

"I try my best not to, as you can see I wasn't very successful early on."

"Even a little white lie?"

"Well, very rarely."

"I don't see how you do it. That must be tough to live with."

"It could be worse, I got off lucky actually."

"Lucky? How so?"

"Well my ex-wife has kind of the same problem. It caused our divorce."

Dan looked nervously over to Blaine sure his leg was being pulled. Blaine could only nod his head in agreement.

"But I thought you said you quit lying? Did you wait too long?

"I said kind of the same problem. In my case it causes my nose to grow. In her case it was her butt."

"Oh, so you left her because her butt got too big? Kind of shallow don't you think?"

"No, I LIKE big butts, I can not lie, you other brothers can't deny."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," Pinnochio said laughing.

"If it wasn't the butt, then what was the problem?"

"It was the lies I couldn't take. It was the lies she apparently couldn't leave behind."

" No pun intended."

All three men burst out laughing as Okie's nose immediately began to grow.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #24

Pull
by Joni

I’ve been with him for so long I am only mildly surprised to find that I can’t depart from him. Not that I want to. Now that he is finally aware that I am more than a dream his thoughts pound against me like ocean waves. He tells me a story I’ve long known. He pleads. He prays. Not to me, dear boy, not me. He lies like a broken scarecrow across the thread-worn couch, darting questions at me. I shoot back my answers, but the sieve of his mind holds on to little. Sitting next to him, I share his frustration. Well, I suppose I am not really sitting, but I imagine it like that, so it may as well be true.

I dare say he hurts more than anything that has inhabited this house, and that is saying something. Fascinated, I watch his chest rise and fall in ragged breaths and notice the wet sheen on his forehead, skimmed across by the pale moonlight. His wordless story pours over me like an exquisite rain. I drink in the delicious pain, the fragile sorrow. Regret and loathing paint themselves upon me. He is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever beheld. He shivers, and I long to hold him. I am here, I say. I am here. I think he hears me.

I think of the time before he came to this house, a beacon in the long darkness of my loneliness. Until then I had been kept company only by my own memories, playing over and over like a solitary phonograph. They wearied me, but I had learned to push away the regret of resisting the Pull. When it had come, I just couldn’t tear myself away from that beautiful girl in the bathtub, skin white as bone china in a scarlet soak. She was so pretty lying there. Why had I never seen she was so pretty? I traced the lines of her face, her collarbone, shoulders, so that I would never forget. I didn’t watch when they took her away.

So I stayed in this house, thinking of that girl and what they did to her. The house had emptied soon after the girl had gone and all I had to do to fill my time was forgive. Turns out, that didn’t take very long. I waited for the Pull to return, but it stayed away. The people did too.

Until he came with his spoons and needles. I watched him douse the last of his dreams with those little melted rocks and felt the ache of understanding. He is here almost always, alone, but not alone. I claim him now, an extension of myself. I know him like no one of his kind can, every particle afire with love for him. He is my Pull now. He is ready to go and, this time, so am I. Hello, love.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #23

Allen
by Flenker

Allen looked out his bedroom window and saw the progress being made on the newest addition to the city's "skyline." Or rather, the first addition. Where there was once an antique store next to an empty lot now loomed the skeletal structure for the high rise, promising to bring a new era toLendale . Allen was preparing to enter a new era of Allen. He was graduating in a week, getting married in a month, and moving to Portland with his blushing bride at the end of the summer. He was thinking about all of these things, as well as how one would go about becoming a crane operator, when his phone interrupted with with a start.

"Hey honey, what're you up to?"

"Nothing, just getting some work done around the apartment," he lied. Allen was sitting amongst empty boxes. Boxes that had been sitting empty for about a week, awaiting the belongings that would make the cut. Items that wouldn't be making the trip halfway across the country would be placed in the empty trash bags that were still on the kitchen table.

"Good! It's about time you start packing up. August will be here before we know it. We don't have a lot of free time between now and then!"

"Yeah, I know"

"What's up? Why do you sound so glum? Are you worrying about the money again?"

"No, it's not the money, I know we'll be okay."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm a little nervous about the whole moving thing, leaving this life behind."

"But aren't you excited, too? I mean, this is a big step in our lives, we'll be moving on to new and exciting things! And most importantly, we'll be moving on together. You are not going to be alone in this."

"I know. I am excited. It's just that when I look at this new building going up, I feel like Lendale's growing up while we're growing up, and that when we come back to visit, we won't recognize it, everything will be different, and the same will go for you and me."

"But you'll be the same person, and I'll be the same person. I promise you, people won't forget you. Everyone changes, it's just a part of life. But anyways, I need to get back to work. I'll be home around 4 tonight,Steph said she would come in early. So we can talk more then, if you'd like, okay? I love you!"

"Love you too, Kim. Bye babe." He set the phone down, and with one last glance out the window, started packing.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #22

The Scar
by Heart in San Francisco

All my life, I have felt her presence. Waking in the morning, last thing at night, I feel her with me. Her breath, her warmth, her cries.

Missing her feels like amputation, like the other half of my soul is gone.

I loved her with all my heart, and she loved me with hers. We dwelled in perfect happiness together. Until we didn't.

I tried to tell Mother about it once, and she said that everyone feels like that, that life is lonely and I'd better get used to it.

But I don't think other people feel as if they have been cut in two or are missing a major organ.

Last summer I was 12, swimming at the lake. The cutest boy in school smiled at me and held my hand as we swam beneath the surface, diving for pennies.

He asked me what the scar was from, the long scar on my back that I had never seen. I couldn't tell him. He traced it with his fingers. It felt so good.

I asked Mother about the scar. Her face got stiff, the way it does when I ask her things she doesn't want to answer, like questions about sex. She doesn't think I'm old enough to know about babies, but I'm too old to believe in storks. I know my questions scare her.

She cleared her throat a bunch of times and took my hand. She said I had a sister, a twin, who was attached to me when we were born. She said that we were conjoined. We were back to back, exactly alike in every way.

She had my eyes, my nose, my hair and ears, exactly. She was my other half.

The doctors said we both would die if they didn't separate us. Mother and Daddy didn't want us to die. Only one of us could live, and I was the stronger baby.

They all agreed to kill my sister to save my life.

We were eleven months old. My sister, my twin with my eyes, my nose, my hair and ears, died so I could live.

I murdered my own sister.

It isn't fair that I got to live instead of her.

Sometimes I wonder if she hates me, but I don't think so. I think she's waiting for me to live my life and die so we can be together again. She must be so lonely.

Mother says that I must live for both of us now, that my sister would want me to be happy. She is sure that my happiness will make my sister happy, too.

But I am not so sure that she is right.

How can I live my life when she didn't get to have hers?

It would be so easy. I could swim in the lake until l was too tired to swim anymore, and then I would be with my sister again. The other half of my soul.

I would feel her with me forever. Her breath, her warmth, her cries.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #21

Tagalong
by strugglingwriter

It had been there his whole life, at first just a tiny patch of skin on his shoulder tinted slightly darker than the rest. As he got older, however, Duce began to notice changes. When he was five years old, the growth began to spout one hair, then several hairs, then a mound of hair. Duce's parent's tried all sorts of hair removal techniques, but the more they tried, the thicker it grew back.

What was once merely an inconvenience became unbearable in junior high, as the growth continued to expand into a mound nearly the size of his head. Duce never got above a C- in gym class, refusing to ever play on the "skins" team. By his senior year, Duce could no longer cover up his problem with baggy shirts, eventually having to order specially made clothing with large openings in upper torso.

"I really I think I should have it removed," said Duce, gesturing to his shoulder.

"I think it's fine," said Andrew, trying his hardest not to look directly at his friend's ailment. "The doctor doesn't seem to have a problem with it and it doesn't seem to be hurting anything."

"Oh, really?" said Duce grabbing Andrew by the chin, forcing him to look at his shoulder. "Do you think it's easy talking to women with this thing on my arm? I haven't had as much as a peck on the cheek from a woman in over ten years!"

"Maybe you could grow your hair long?" said Andrew rubbing his now sore chin.

"Have you seen my head lately?" said Duce. "It would take one massive comb-over to cover that thing up."

"How about butterfly collars? Y'know, retro look?"

"That's one trend I think should stay dead," answered Duce. "Besides, you know it wouldn't cover it. Let's face it, that thing on my shoulder is ruining my life. It's gotta go."

"Uh, excuse me guys," said a voice to Duce's right. "I'm right here, you know. I can hear you."

"I'm sorry," said Duce. "It's all true, though. Bad enough I have to share a body with you, the least you could do is not tell every girl I meet about my bed wetting problem."

"I think it's better to be honest up front," said the voice. "Besides, you do know whoever you date I have to date too, right? I thought I told you I think I'm gay."

"Uh, I think you pretty much confirmed that one last Friday," said Duce, wincing. "At least I keep an open mind."

"I could have you removed," said the voice, changing the subject. "Would you like that?"

"I was here first," said Duce. "You can't do that. Squatter's rights. What do you think Andrew?"

"I guess two heads aren't always better than one," said Andrew, laughing at his own joke.

"You're an idiot," said Duce and his wayfarer in unison.

"I know," said Andrew, hanging his head in shame.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #20

A New Start
by Adele Lemon

She stood at the sink washing her hands of the dirt. Drying them on the tea towel, she brushed the hair out of her eyes and looked out the kitchen window. There in the back corner of the yard she could see the seedling she'd just planted, wishing it to grow quicker than she knew it would. Perhaps one day, when it was tall and able to give off shade she could sit underneath it and think about him without feeling the pain. But not today, it was still too soon.

She planted the weeping willow to remind her of the time needed to heal. For a few minutes today she actually forgot about it. The physicality of digging the hole, getting down on her knees to add the fertilizer. Mixing the peat with her bare hands. Taking the cutting of his hair out of her apron pocket and dropping it in the hole. She stood there for a few minutes, looking down before finally placing the seedling on top. This ritual had to mean something, the book said it would.

The book was something she found shortly after it happened. It was almost as if it had been waiting for her. She doesn't remember buying it, but those first couple of days were all a fog. Again she thought about therapy. The stack of pamphlets were still on the counter by the fridge, Dealing With Grief, How To Move On. She just couldn't bring herself to pick up the phone. If she were to seek professional help , then she'd be expected to talk about it. And right now denial was easier.

She went over it again in her head. It wasn't her fault, how could it be? She loved him with all her heart and soul. It was an accident. The hot, stinging tears she cried every night were real. She wouldn't cry if it was her fault would she? Maybe it was the brutality of the investigation that still had her shaken. The way the detective looked at her when he questioned what happened that night. Those questions needed to be asked, it was just routine, the other officer had said as he gently rested his hand on her shoulder.

The tears started again. It seemed so long ago now, that night. That horrible night. She'd get through this with her own strength and she would heal. All she needed was time to forget.

Wiping the tears from her face she walked outside into the back yard to look at the seeding that she'd just planted. Yes time will heal these wounds, she was doing the right thing. She felt the evening sun warm her skin and breathed in the fresh air and she smiled. Next door her neighbour was on the back deck and gave a wave. She waved back and thought - they don't know about the last time. I won't let it happen again.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #19

Thinking of Others
by GoodThomas

He was a man of seventy, give or take a year or two. He was the age he was supposed to be. At that time. His hair was grey, his face showed the wrinkles of age, his skin a pale pink. When he smiled, his face curled into itself like a soft wave at the shoreline.

As he entered the elevator, the muted lighting shone above him and around him, pushing into him like a forced glow. He smiled at the man before him, a tall man in a yellow t-shirt with too many words, and a swirl of pink and brown lines he could not follow. He reached behind the tall man and pushed a button for his floor and stepped backwards toward the opposite elevator wall. The tall man was resting his hands on a stroller and inside the stroller slept a little girl. She was angelic, with soft hair that fell and curled in wisps. She opened her eyes, looked up to him. She reached out with her hand, her tiny fingers outstretched. He smiled. How could he not? A child, a little girl like that melts you, he thought, instantly, entirely. A grandchild he never had. So full of life, of hope, of possibility.

As he looked down at her bright blue eyes, he was suddenly awash in a flood of memories, tumbling upon him like light, overflowing. One memory after another, thoughts, feelings, sensations. Being so small, so like this little girl, looking up at his mother, standing at the kitchen counter, listening to the sound of her chopping vegetables. Holding his father’s hand, walking along the lake. As a fifth-grader, a first kiss behind a neighbor’s garage, next to some chopped wood and two silver garbage cans. Falling in love with Gloria Stewart one spring day as they read each other’s essays in a high school English class. Seeing her on their wedding day, her veil lifted above her head, feeling his heart explode inside his chest like a starburst. That day, ten years later, when Scottie was only seven, drowning in the lake at their summer cabin. His life, their life, ripped apart, forever spinning afterwards. And then losing Gloria only late last year to cancer, after eleven years with Alzheimer’s.

Memory after memory, from nowhere, and everywhere, washed over him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself against the wall. A ding rang from above and then the large, heavy elevator doors slid away from each other and with his extended forefingers, he pushed himself from the wall. He moved past the man, past the little girl in the stroller and crossed into the hallway. The little girl watched as he took two steps forward and stopped. The glassy interior of the apartment building overtook him and suddenly, he vanished. As if he were never there.

The little girl smiled in his direction, at the thought of him. She knew she would never dream this man again.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #18

Paint
by Miss Understood

I walked alongside him through a Steel Blue corridor, my heels tapping annoyingly on the resin floor. My apprehension seemed obvious against his confident, rubber-soled stride, and reaching for his hand I prised my fingers between his. He twitched as we touched, but curled his palm over my knuckles, looking straight ahead. My thoughts hurtled ahead of me, past the double doors to haematology, past the double doors to oncology, past a sign listing far too many ‘ologies, past the staircase leading to the cafeteria where they serve cold coffee in polystyrene cups.

The air pushed heavily on my shoulders. The silence was deafening.

My eyes saw the thick, red line take a sharp left, long before we had reached it. Danger Red. Blood red. An angry Flame Red, stretching out before us and leading us to a place of no return. My stomach turned, twisted itself, and dropped to my bowels, as my heels continued to click, following the line. When we reached the Consultant’s room, when my eyes were awash with Buttercup Yellow, I allowed myself to breathe.

“Please, take a seat.”

He was married, the Consultant: his pristine Polar White coat hung effortlessly from his body, pressed to perfection; a thin, sharp crease slicing through each of his sleeves. I glanced at Henry, noticing the smudge of grease on his shirt, the fraying material on his left knee, the scuffed toes of his leather shoes. I sighed. He was always neglecting himself.

Henry’s face was vacant. He watched the man shuffle the papers on his desk, his eyes rigid with apprehension, his right hand rubbing the fingers of his left. They were strong hands…working man’s hands. Reaching out, I cupped my palm over his and squeezed, sliding my thumb over the flaking splodge of Honey Brown. For the past four nights he’d been painting the bedroom…
“I have the results of the Biopsy, Mr Matthews, and I’m…”

Oh God. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. I’ll do anything…just please, please, don’t let him die. Don’t let my husband die…

I turned to him, desperate to reach out…desperate to pick off the fleck of Paradise Gold clinging to his hair. I pictured the half finished conservatory, and squeezed his hand again.
“…and I’m pleased to say the growth is benign. It’ll be a simple procedure, just a local anaesthetic and….”

The room spun, and blurred through my tears.

“Signal Orange."

The Consultant looked at him, his eyebrow arched curiously. “Excuse me?”

I, too, turned to face him. “Henry?”

He was reaching for the stapler on the desk, the corners of his mouth creasing into a smile. “Signal Orange,” he said again, looking at it. Then he stood up, replaced the stapler, straightened his jacket, and walked to the door.

“It’s over, Marjorie,” he said, plucking the paint chart from his inside pocket and tossing it to the floor. “No man can…”

He cleared his throat.

“...I can’t change the colour of this marriage.”

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #17

Are We Not Men?
by Kyklops

"Get that thumb out of your mouth right now, Joey," his mother is scolding him. "You're almost five, it's time you grew up." He liked sucking his thumb. It felt good. Eventually, though, he stopped.

-----

He's in the principal's office. He's in trouble. "Joey, Nancy says you stuck gum in her hair and that several times you've punched her on the shoulder. Is this true?" "Yes, sir." "Well, son," the principal says, "that kind of childish behavior is unacceptable. You'll be going to junior high next year, so I think it's about time you grew up and started acting like a man." "Yes, sir, I'll try."

-----

He has a black eye. His father is looking at him with a strange mixture of pity and disgust on his face. "For Christ's sake, Joe, you mean you didn't fight back?" "No, I didn't, Dad," he replies. His father thunders, "listen up, boy. No son of mine is going to be the high school punching bag. If you're going to be a man, you have to grow up and learn to fight like a man. You got that?" "Sure, Dad."

-----

He's in court. He's in trouble. A few weeks ago he got drunk and took a baseball bat to a bunch of cars in a parking lot. He's done stuff like this before. The prosecutor is speaking. "...and so, your honor, we can see a clear pattern of alcohol abuse coupled with violent, anti-social behavior..." Later, after sentencing him to probation and community service, the judge looks right at him and says, "Joseph Ryan Johnson, this is your last chance in this court. It's time to grow up, young man, or the next time I see you you'll be going to prison. Do you understand me?" "Yes, sir. Thank you."

-----

He's standing in the delivery room. His wife has just given birth to a baby boy. He's a father. He's overcome with joy, but later, as he's standing outside smoking a cigarette, his joy is replaced by terror. He's terrified of the responsibility that's just been delivered to him. He's talking out loud to himself. "Jesus H. Christ, Joey-boy, what are you gonna do now, eh? You can't fuck this one up, asshole. No siree. It's time to grow up, boy, and start acting like a man... whatever the fuck that means..."

-----

He walks into the living room and sees his four-year-old boy on the sofa watching TV. The boy is sucking his thumb. A reprimand springs to his lips, but he stifles it. He pauses for a moment, and then joins his son on the sofa.

"Hey Tommy, whatcha watchin'?"

"Spiderman. But it's finished."

"Uh huh. Let's have a talk, OK Tommy?"

"OK, Daddy."

"You know how me and Mommy are always buggin' you about sucking your thumb?"

"Yeah...?"

"I want to tell you a secret. When I was a little boy I sucked my thumb, too."

"... really...?"

"Yeah, really...."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Well, let's see..."

Last day for entries

Just wanted to quickly remind you that the contest is still open for new entries until 11pm CST (GMT -6) on May 7th.

There are 16 up so far, and I'm hopeful that some more are on the way. If you haven't read them yet, click the graphic at left and check them out. Some pretty nice ones this time. While the number of entries is smaller this time, there is no loss of quality, and I'm sure picking favorites will be difficult for all the voters.

*****

Minx is a good blogfriend and author who was nice enough to mention the contest on her blog lately. She also mentioned some reasons why people take part in blog competitions in general.

She says:

Why would you want to enter a competition?

Before blogging I had only entered a few competitions. The whole fussy business of reading through the interminable rules and regs and then submitting the right type of copy to the right important person sort of pissed me off. You never knew if your submission was even read and only got feedback if your paid extra on top of the entry fee.

Blog comps are great. Not only do you get to see your work up somewhere else but you also get to link to some new blogs and make connections with writers who are all in this same mad boat. Apart from anything, even if you are writing out of genre and length they are a massive discipline (a word I loathe), they keep your fingers flexed and your mind sharp.

So even if you are toying with the idea of entering the next one I say - go for it. You have nothing to lose because it is not really about the winning, is it?

Very well said, my Minxish friend.

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Speaking of interminable rules, I feel compelled to issue this reminder: all authors are to remain anonymous until the contest concludes and the entries are updated with the author names and links to the corresponding websites on May 15. This was pretty clear in the rules, but I came upon someone today who referred to their entry by number on their website. I struggled with what to do for a good chunk of the day before deciding that the entry is no longer eligible for prizes. I'm not going to take it down, or mention any specifics, but I do ask that you make sure you have read the rules in full before participating in the contest. I believe this was an honest mistake, but a violation of the rules nonetheless It would be unfair to the other participants if there were no consequences.

My competition is not about prizes, and it exists only to encourage people to write. As I wish for the votes to be cast on the strength of the writing (without other influencing factors), I decided before hosting my first contest to make all entries and voting anonymous. In addition to making sure that people are voting for the stories they like best—rather than simply choosing their friends—it also provided some fun last time, when the entrants were all unmasked and people could see whose entries they had liked. I hope that some people found some new blogs to read through that.

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Anyway, as of this writing, you still have about 21 hours to get your entry finalized and submitted. I, for one, am looking forward to reading the rest of the entries.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #16

Rings
by Jason Evans

Wind leaned on the grass. From horizon to horizon, the world bowed under skies of gemstone blue.

Water trickled. A wall of saplings twittered in hot summer soil.

---

A black bear heaved onto its rear legs. It's shape cut a void in the night and sliced away the moon.

Claws bit into bark. Slapping again and again, they shredded until the life blood was nipped and flowed.

The bear dropped down, tatters of wood fluttered where--

---

Her shirt creased as his hands reached up her body. She raised her hands and curled herself back against the tree.

He kissed every line and shadow of her neck.

She moaned as his dropped to where his hands cupped her--

The world washed green. A warning tone beeped.

---

Bullet rain pounded.

Tree limbs clattered and trunks groaned.

An explosion of light slammed a nearby tree. The wood split and charred. Wisps of smoke danced between the drops then disappeared.

---

A rope looped and stretched away to another trunk. Clothes dripped in the mottled shade.

An ax chopped into the stump and stuck. A woman wedged more firewood on the cooling fire. She poked the steaming water and swirled the clothes in the suds.

---

Musket balls thudded. Shattered branches fell. Cut weeds tipped.

Silver smoke drifted through the forest like fog.

"Reform the line! Hold ranks!"

Another volley sizzled though. Hollow hits cut through long buttoned coats. Men fell.

"Present! Aim! Fire!"

---

Orange lit the low floating clouds above the forest.

Squirrels shook in the hollows. Their breath pulled away the heat.

An inferno wave roared through, then reversed. The wind was unsettled, changing. Rivers of sparks swirled high in pillars of--

---
---

Leo uncoupled the KaraKara probe from his temples and set it on the gleamy table.

A voice spoke from the console. "Command?"

"I'm finished with that one."

"Re-shelving."

The crawler lifted from the dark and light, dark and light growth rings of the tree. Laser light winked out.

Robotics pulled the disc from the player. It was a wedge of fossilized tree embedded in circular isomers.

"Command?"

The boy rotated through his school notes. "Do you have anything from Asia in the sixteenth century?"

"One specimen. Sophora japonica. Chinese Scholar Tree. Growth: Village environment. 489 readable years."

"I'll see that one."

Robotics hummed. A thin slice of tree emerged from a slit in the archive wall. It settled on the player, then spun.

Leo engaged the KaraKara probe and dialed though the growth rings.

He pressed play.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #15

Queen Size Bed
by The Perfect Neurotic

When my mom was in high school, her nickname was ‘Twiggy.’ Boys just went crazy over her, and my father was no exception. The first time he saw her, she was walking down the aisle in their homeroom. Dad told me he knew right then that he would marry her someday. Mom was only thirteen at the time and not interested in Dad at all, but he didn’t mind waiting. His patience paid off, he married her right out of high school … and said it was the happiest day of his life.

Growing up, Dad would always tell me, “You get your looks from your mom. She was the prettiest girl in school.” He was so proud of it, just like Uncle Dave during hunting season hanging those deer right out front of his garage. My uncle has a hook inside the garage for the small ones, but when he gets a big buck, everyone on the road has to see it … whether they want to or not. Dad said if Dave had married pretty, he wouldn’t need to show off dead deer.

My mom once told me, "Men measure their years in life by what vehicle they drive at the time, but women use numbers on the scale." Dad bought his first sports car five years ago, right after Mom gained fifty pounds.

In her diary, I read how he pulled a pair of jeans off their bed and said to her, “Would you want someone with your pants size?” All she told him back was, “Yes, I would.” I read that and wished she had said a lot more. That she was still the same girl he married … underneath. That she was still the one he promised to love in sickness and in health, till death do they part, and all the rest of it.

Watching Mom, I know obesity is a sickness, but one that can’t be hid away. Difference between my Mom and a drunk, she wears her disease on the outside. An alcoholic can go anywhere without having to be embarrassed, but not fat people, especially fat women. People think it’s okay to make fun of my mom because they don’t see she has feelings. They don’t realize she had years of being one of them.

I’m the only person left to help her and I love her too much to take the one thing that comforts her away, even if it’s killing her. I think Dad left a space so big in their bed, Mom had to fill all of it because she covers every inch of their queen size bed now.

I still hope someday Dad will come back and realize he just made a mistake. I wish he’d give Mom a reason to get better. Just look her in the eyes and say, “You weren’t just the prettiest girl in school, but the love of my life. I can wait this out.” I can too.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #14

Seeds of Truth
by Sognatrice

Anna cupped her growing belly as she leaned over the sink and stuck two fingers into the soil of the basil plant on the windowsill.

Still not time to water.

How many basil plants had she killed in her overanxious desire to see them big, leafy, and oh so healthy?

Not this time, she swore.

So instead of filling up the watering can, she peered out the open window past the basil and saw a bumblebee buzzing around her orchids. She used to be afraid of anything with stingers, but after much trial and error, she learned that if she let bumblebees do their thing, they wouldn't even notice her. Her only job was to cultivate the orchid seeds and keep them alive for when a bumblebee's turn would finally arrive.

"Unbelievable! Another car bomb," yelled her husband from the next room.

She heard the unmistakable pop of the recliner being unreclined, but her eyes remained fixed on the furry black and yellow visitor.

Although she considered digging out her camera to capture the moment, she didn't want to lose a single second of the golden sunlight catching the white of her orchids, which made her squint, and, accordingly, smile. And besides, just because she had accepted coexistence with Bernie, as she called the bumbler, it didn't mean she trusted him.

So she shifted her weight onto her right foot, crossed her arms, and titled her head for a better angle.

"How we can continue to stay there when it's obvious that they're going to have to build their own country with their own rules?" asked her husband, tapping the remote control on his leg in time with Bernie's fluttering wings. "Honey, come here and see this," he said.

"Why don't you come here and watch this instead?" she said without turning towards him.

After one last look at debris, he turned off the television, threw the remote on the couch, and joined his wife at the window, standing just behind her.

Over her shoulder, he watched the bumblebee kissing the orchid's waiting, yellow lips.

"You know that the laws of aerodynamics say that a bumblebee can't fly?" he whispered into his wife's ear, careful not to disturb the romantic moment before him.

"Obviously no one told the bumblebee," she whispered back, and they laughed.

As the bumblebee moved on, she noticed some weeds had shot up in the cement cracks of the walkway. She didn't remember seeing even a hint of them yesterday.

"I'll get those tomorrow," her husband said, following her gaze. And then the tiny sprouts of basil on the windowsill caught his eye.

Perfect, he thought, envisioning a rich pesto in their future, and hugged his wife, wrapping his arms around his world.

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #13

The Mission
by Canterbury Soul

For the first time in twelve years, Farah could wake up from her slumber seeing the morning sun. She thought she was dreaming initially. She could still distinguish colours. The sky had finally cleared. It looked flawlessly blue. When was the last time I saw blue, she wondered with a faint smile. She checked the monitor that read “31 Jan 2674, 7:06 a.m., Marina, Singapore Sector”.

She pushed the green button. “Sustainability module disarmed,” a voice dictated. She pushed the yellow button. The capsule opened. She raised herself slowly from a horizontal posture and sat. Then with a rather mighty effort, she stood up.

The smell of fresh air exhilarated her and she gave her body a huge stretch. For a minute or two, she just stood there absorbing the rare snowless moment, eyes closed. The heat from the Sun not only warmed her physically, it actually spoke to her heart and soul. There is hope after all, she thought.

Farah opened her eyes and made a visual 360º scan round her capsule. Barring the thick layers of snow, nothing had changed a bit. The Sheares Bridge still stood mightily tall about a mile away. The Esplanade’s unique spiky rooftop still looked comical despite the snowcap it sported. The casino skyscrapers still dominated the whole landscape with their sheer size and millions of glass panes that reflected the sunlight brilliantly.

Then it dawned on her she was standing right in the middle of the snow-caked Singapore River. The storm must have taken her all the way here. She looked around again. She was alone.

She remembered the drill. She stooped and pulled out The Hub from a side compartment of the capsule. She pressed the power button on The Hub. Then, she held it with both her hands and stretched her arms. A purple laser beam scanned her eyes. “Farah Abdullah, T43556777G, female, aged 74. Please proceed,” read the monitor on The Hub. She then positioned The Hub directly above her head. “Scanning brain chip in progress, please do not remove The Hub,” a voice echoed. Seconds later, she could hear The Hub again, “Brain chip scanned. Message sent. Community activated. Please proceed to build community.”

Farah removed The Hub from her head, and kept it in a sling bag. She had the mission in mind. She was not looking forward to it, but she had to do it for the sake of mankind. She stepped out of the capsule and began trudging through the snow on the river.

Barely a minute later, she heard several beeps from The Hub. She took it out and stared at the monitor.

“Lee Teck Hong, T99574112Z, male, aged 17. Location: Raffles, Singapore Sector.”

“Charles Rajandren, T25872144A, aged 24. Location: Bangalore, India Sector.”

“Marco Paldini, T09866352C, aged 80. Location: Naples, Italy Sector.”

“Kevin Jones, T23234098M, aged 45. Location: New York, American Sector.”

Her heart sank when she read the next line, “No other surviving males within The Hub’s radar. Please proceed to build community.”

GBA(s)FC (Growth) Entry #12

My Short Story
by Stray

I poke my tongue into the hole. Wiggle it back and forward, back and forward as sweet salty metal floods my mouth. My jaw muscles ache with oral gymnastics. Just can’t. Quite. Get it out.

I need it to be today. Can’t wait til tomorrow or it will be too late. But it won’t come, here, now, cross legged on the floor mouthing god-songs midst a hundred others, shiny shoed and freshly freckled.

It was 50 pence last time. Three comics and a 5p mix. Sherbert stinging the fresh wound. A tingle so delicious that I bite my lip to bleeding every Sunday morning now. Parables of pain and suffering wetting my appetite for flesh and fizz.

I can feel it loosening. Can draw air through the gap, bubbling through the blood and whistling like a nearly-closed car window. The same one I blame the bruises on.

Sometimes it is good to be known as clumsy. Short and clumsy, me.

Playtime. I crunch confidently, recklessly, into the apple I swapped my crisps for. Juicy pink fluid is flowing down my chin, and I am forcing my bite deeper and deeper, willing the fruit to take hold, to take control. There is no relief. A single strand refuses to relinquish.

Grinning at myself in the grubby tarnished mirror over the miniature sink I lose patience. I taste pencil shavings and the fluffy insides of my pockets on my finger tips, grasping at the tiny target on my lower jaw.

I twist through 180 degrees. It burns and I don’t care. I twist it back, aware of time ticking, of bodies in the corridor, of skip-steps back to classrooms. I count myself down, eyes closed like on the diving board over the big pool. I know I am brave. Brave enough. Braver than them. Pull.

The pain is up and gone so quick I have already forgotten it. The red spat into the sink so loud against my silence that I don’t want to wash it away. With butter fingers I take the tiny prize from my palm and wrap it in cheap yellow tissue. Shove it deep down in my pocket.

The first hand on my back could almost be an accident, but I know. I know. The second is more targeted, perfectly placed between shoulder blades and I stifle a cough and quicken my pace. The third comes at the doorway to the classroom, disguised so adeptly that the teacher shoots me a look. Be More Careful she stares at me. I don’t care. Tomorrow this will be over.

I have made catapults and slingshots. I have thrown snowballs and punches. I have dreamed of superpowers, studied comic strips and I know what works and what doesn’t. I have a plan.

This morning, hard earned, the 50p presses sharply inside my fist. Falls heavy on to the chemist counter. I tiptoe to take the bag slid across the counter. Be Careful he says. But it’s them who should be careful.