I'm into Day #7 of the 15 For 15 contest at Writing.com. Halfway there! Each day, out of the 50 entries the contest judge chooses her five favorites as that day's "winners." Top pick gets 1004 points, second gets 1003, and so on. A scoreboard is updated every day. If you miss two entries in a row, you're dropped from the competition. At the end of the 15 days, the writer with the most accumulated points "wins." (Prizes of the sites virtual tokens are awarded the first, second and third place winners.) Of course, it's not about the points. If you stretch your writing muscles, rising to the challenge every day and producing creative, inspired entries, you WIN.
That said, I won yesterday, earning 1004 points. My entry follows, but first here's what I wrote for the current photo which will be judged today:
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| When I first saw it, I groaned. I suck at fantasy writing. I went the metaphor route, instead. |
Heinous m ~ o ~ n ~ s ~ t ~ e ~ r HatreD
Asphalt black, arched back, winged warrioR
Terrorizing, blow torched words; boiling anger-spA
Rancor rooted in fearful heart ~~ RaginG
Extinguish your flaming snout! Spout no mO'
Decide to love, even that which you have yet to learN
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| And here is yesterday's prompt. The squirrel in this photo is actually a Malabar Giant Sqirrel. Lives in India. Go figure! My entry is below. |
Miss Pamela Parrot, while grooming the long red feathers in her right wing, noticed movement below on the forest floor. She pulled her beak away and cocked her head so she could see better out of the facing eye.
What in tar-nation? she wondered.
A furry mass of vibrant blue and red scuttled to the base of a long-dead tree just opposite the tree Miss Pamela perched upon. Her pupil dilated and constricted, trying to better focus on it, as the thing climbed with lightening speed to the topmost nubs of broken trunk. It was only then that she could pinpoint what she was seeing.
"Little Scotty Squirrel? Is that you?"
Scotty Squirrel didn't answer. He stared straight ahead, whiskers twitching in concentration. At the same time the tip of his pink tongue snuck out the corner of his snout, he lifted three paws off his wooden perch. Wobbling wildly, he clamped his claws back down, righting himself before he tumbled into the airy void. Then, composed, he tried again.
"Scotty? Son, what are you doing there? And what's happened to your beautiful golden coat. Looks like someone tried to paint a canvas with your pelt!" She cackled at the thought.
Scotty almost lost his balance again and glared at Pamela. She eyed him again, and a thought dawned in her mind. Slowly, she lowered the leg tucked up against her breast and wrapped the talons around the branch, side-by-side with the other claw. Scotty seemed relieved and placed again all four of his paws on solid wood.
"I've come," he began, then cleared his throat. He began again. "I've come, Miss Pamela, to ask your hand in marriage."
Miss Pamela began to laugh, but caught herself just in time. Little Scotty's eyes were bright, hard. He was completely serious.
Miss Pamela tossed her head, then bowed it. Raising her eyes, she said, "I'm very flattered, Scotty. Honest, I am! But, dear, we are two very different species."
"But I love you!"
She stretched her wings, flapped them before refolding them at her sides. "You are the sweetest little thing! But we live different lives, eat different things. And besides, I'm so old, I remember when your great-great-great-great grandparents were born!"
Scotty Squirrel carefully stood on his two hind legs. A breeze threatened to topple him but he held fast. When he was sure of his balance, he looked up and into Miss Pamela's eyes. "It's okay. You aren't ready. I understand. I can wait...."
As he raced down the tree trunk headfirst, he wondered what on earth parrots ate...
What in tar-nation? she wondered.
A furry mass of vibrant blue and red scuttled to the base of a long-dead tree just opposite the tree Miss Pamela perched upon. Her pupil dilated and constricted, trying to better focus on it, as the thing climbed with lightening speed to the topmost nubs of broken trunk. It was only then that she could pinpoint what she was seeing.
"Little Scotty Squirrel? Is that you?"
Scotty Squirrel didn't answer. He stared straight ahead, whiskers twitching in concentration. At the same time the tip of his pink tongue snuck out the corner of his snout, he lifted three paws off his wooden perch. Wobbling wildly, he clamped his claws back down, righting himself before he tumbled into the airy void. Then, composed, he tried again.
"Scotty? Son, what are you doing there? And what's happened to your beautiful golden coat. Looks like someone tried to paint a canvas with your pelt!" She cackled at the thought.
Scotty almost lost his balance again and glared at Pamela. She eyed him again, and a thought dawned in her mind. Slowly, she lowered the leg tucked up against her breast and wrapped the talons around the branch, side-by-side with the other claw. Scotty seemed relieved and placed again all four of his paws on solid wood.
"I've come," he began, then cleared his throat. He began again. "I've come, Miss Pamela, to ask your hand in marriage."
Miss Pamela began to laugh, but caught herself just in time. Little Scotty's eyes were bright, hard. He was completely serious.
Miss Pamela tossed her head, then bowed it. Raising her eyes, she said, "I'm very flattered, Scotty. Honest, I am! But, dear, we are two very different species."
"But I love you!"
She stretched her wings, flapped them before refolding them at her sides. "You are the sweetest little thing! But we live different lives, eat different things. And besides, I'm so old, I remember when your great-great-great-great grandparents were born!"
Scotty Squirrel carefully stood on his two hind legs. A breeze threatened to topple him but he held fast. When he was sure of his balance, he looked up and into Miss Pamela's eyes. "It's okay. You aren't ready. I understand. I can wait...."
As he raced down the tree trunk headfirst, he wondered what on earth parrots ate...
