When I was a little girl my favorite book in the whole wide worlds was A LITTLE PRINCESS by Francess Hodgson Burnett.If you don't already know the story Sarah Crewe is a wealthy, popular school girl who is kind and imaginative until her father dies and leaves her penniless. The Headmistress of her boarding school, Miss Mention, lets her live in the attic as a maid. Even with hardly enough to eat, no more silks and dolls, and strenuous exhausting work she remains kind and hopeful, whispering stories to the other servant girl to make the cold and hunger more bearable. Sarah is eventually restored to her former wealth much to the chagrin of Miss Mention but that is not the point. Sarah was always a princess whether her circumstances expressed it or not.
Due to the recent nuptials of a certain royal couples there has been a lot of talk this last week about princesses. Does royalty only belong to a long forgotten age? Should we allow our daughters to romanticize the unrealistic concept of being a princess?
If their concept of "princess" is limited to pretty dresses and hansom princes then I agree with the feminists. Absolutely not. But when I think of princesses I always think of Sarah Crewe's stunning imagination and knowledge of her own worth despite what anybody eles tells her. I was eight years old when I first read A LITTLE PRINCESS but I can still remember a long night time ride in the back of a van with a window that wouldn't close. I thought of Sarah's imagination and pretended that I was in a carriage full of soft fur blankets and warm chocolate to drink while I waited to get home to rest. I can still remember the dark tunnel at the natural history museum that I was afraid to enter until I decided to think of it as the diamond mines Sarah's father finds. Sarah Crewe's story taught me to imagine. It taught me to believe. I don't know if I could have survived childhood without it.
So this month's Liteary Idol Challenge (no I didn't forget. Just waxing nostalgic for a minute there) is to write a princess story or fairy tale 50-1,000 words. What is your take on royalty and princesses? The symbolism? The reality? send your interpretation of it all to me at:
featherzines@yahoo.com
by Sunday, May 22nd and I will post it to be voted on Monday May 23rd.
Showing posts with label Literary Idol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Literary Idol. Show all posts
Monday, May 2, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
V: Very Awsome Story
Ok, I cheated. I used a qualifier. If it makes you feel better. V: Versus. As in Jack Vs. Them, the title of said Very awsome story.
This piece was submited to the Literary Idol Fertility Challenge. Unfortunately it was the only story submited so there won't be any voting this round. I considered writing one myself for it to compete against but wouldn't feel quite right if mine ended up winning. So, I pre-anounce Kris O'Connel April's Literary Idol for the following tale of out of control growth.
Congradulations Kris! Your zine and gift card will be sent to you forthwith.
Jack vs. Them
I had been lost before, but never this lost, never this displaced. Where I had come from the world was quiet and simple, I had known nothing of chaos and nothing of destruction. But that seems like so long ago, not in days but in life changing events.
I had come here out of greed, the food was plentiful and easily to obtain. They had warned me, there is no happiness there, not for one like you, but I didn’t listen, I never listened, And now this place. It wasn’t that I was in pain or even uncomfortable, it was the animals here. There were so damned many of them, flowing like streams down thin corridors, too many too feed from the food around them and yet they summoned it without work then without a flinch they would cast the excess food on the ground. I did not belong here amongst these creatures.
One morning they had come and taken all the bounty from our land, then they crawled into the belly of a larger noisier animal that created a vile black air around itself, leaving a barren spot that would take seasons to restore. They had not followed any of the ways that I was taught and I hadn’t seen why I had been taught those ways until that day, so much beauty and elegance was destroyed in so little time. But it was so easy for them, I had to follow. I had to know how they had taken so much so easily I wanted to take as they did; at least I had thought that.
I had followed them only a short distance before I found this “forest”. But the trees where so perfectly shaped and so very tall, the almost seemed to emit light during the day and definitely did during the night. The forest was alive with sound but none of them comforting, and all around these animals would continually work entering and exiting these perfect trees, raising them and tearing them to the ground. There forest edging ever closer to mine.
And in these moments I knew I could never stop them, they were too many and too great. What could a jack rabbit do to stop the endless progression of the human race?
This piece was submited to the Literary Idol Fertility Challenge. Unfortunately it was the only story submited so there won't be any voting this round. I considered writing one myself for it to compete against but wouldn't feel quite right if mine ended up winning. So, I pre-anounce Kris O'Connel April's Literary Idol for the following tale of out of control growth.
Congradulations Kris! Your zine and gift card will be sent to you forthwith.
Jack vs. Them
I had been lost before, but never this lost, never this displaced. Where I had come from the world was quiet and simple, I had known nothing of chaos and nothing of destruction. But that seems like so long ago, not in days but in life changing events.
I had come here out of greed, the food was plentiful and easily to obtain. They had warned me, there is no happiness there, not for one like you, but I didn’t listen, I never listened, And now this place. It wasn’t that I was in pain or even uncomfortable, it was the animals here. There were so damned many of them, flowing like streams down thin corridors, too many too feed from the food around them and yet they summoned it without work then without a flinch they would cast the excess food on the ground. I did not belong here amongst these creatures.
One morning they had come and taken all the bounty from our land, then they crawled into the belly of a larger noisier animal that created a vile black air around itself, leaving a barren spot that would take seasons to restore. They had not followed any of the ways that I was taught and I hadn’t seen why I had been taught those ways until that day, so much beauty and elegance was destroyed in so little time. But it was so easy for them, I had to follow. I had to know how they had taken so much so easily I wanted to take as they did; at least I had thought that.
I had followed them only a short distance before I found this “forest”. But the trees where so perfectly shaped and so very tall, the almost seemed to emit light during the day and definitely did during the night. The forest was alive with sound but none of them comforting, and all around these animals would continually work entering and exiting these perfect trees, raising them and tearing them to the ground. There forest edging ever closer to mine.
And in these moments I knew I could never stop them, they were too many and too great. What could a jack rabbit do to stop the endless progression of the human race?
Friday, April 22, 2011
R: Reminder
I just wanted to remind anyone who is interested in the Fertility Challenge that the deadline is the 24th.
Friday, April 8, 2011
G: Genesis
This is the piece I submitted to win my ten pages in Notes From Undeground. I thought it would be a good example of how loose you could be with the Fertility Challenge. And I rather like it.
Genesis
The silence was first. Then a word. Tangible or not, life began.
Some called it the void but can anything really be void? Can even nothing be not at all? We have tried to answer over and over what that word was that began life but what came first? What was the darkness that was nothing?
“I am dead.” The girl threw herself onto the bed and pounded at the floral bead spread. “I am dead, I am dead, I am dead.”
“You are not dead.” The mother stroked her long thin hand against her daughter's black colored tangles. “You are heart broken. It will pass. It always does.”
“It won't.” the girl said. “It doesn't. I might as well be dead.”
The mother looked out the window at her gate's broken hinges then back at her daughter's young face, puffed red with tears. Not as young as it had been a day ago. Perhaps not as young as an hour ago. “No.” she said “It doesn't. It won't. But you aren't dead.”
Connie watched the small plant grow. First a small white streak poking its head out of the soil then a tiny shoot in pale green with thin papery leaves getting ready to spread from the center. She'd never planted it. It could have been a weed. If she had been a clever gardener she would have removed it. If she had been a clever gardener the geranium and lavender seeds she had planted in neat little rows on the other side of the yard might have grown larger than her hand before they shriveled. But she was not a clever gardener and the weed –if it was a weed –showed promise.
The child pointed up at the stars. “Big Dipper!”
The grandfather shook his head. “That one's Virgo. The virgin. She's a mother.”
The child scrunched his chubby face with stubbornness. “Teacher said Big Dipper.” He stretched his voice on the word 'big' and held his hands far apart.
The grandfather smiled. “If you want to call it the Big Dipper you can.”
“They followed it.” The child said. “The slaves at the war. Teacher said.”
The grandfather looked again, imagining the child trapped in the mother's womb. “You may be right Danny.” he said “Maybe they did follow those stars.”
Everything wise has already been said. Has it been heard?
Art is the scream of humanity. A piece of ourselves trying to break out of the confines of our bodies. Of our lives. Of what we have defined ourselves as.
Broken.
The streaks in the mirror were cracks. Fragments of slanted reality. Her fingers rubbed themselves raw through the thick weave of the rag in her hand but they would not come off.
“They won't come off.” Rick said from the other side of the one room apartment. He rolled over in the bed and let the sheet fall off the surface of his chest. “You can't make a smooth surface out of something rough.”
Viki turned around and gave him a sardonic expression. “That's what glass is.”
He stared at her.
“A smooth surface made from something rough.”
“Oh.” he yawned. “Well you can't do it again. Not unless you have a furnace.”
Viki looked again at the mirror. The snag of green fabric from the cloth. The spec of blood from her finger. The way her crooked reflection made her left eye look three times the size of her mouth and her cheek look like she had a scar across it instead of yesterday's makeup. “Ok.” she said. “I’ll find one.”
The streets were dark, the stars a faint sprinkling of dust over the towering height of the skyscrapers. Viki clutched the heavy round form of the mirror under one arm and her heels clattered against the concrete. It was early morning but not quiet. A car's horn sounded from somewhere. The door to the pizzeria on her left opened and a young boy with dark curls and a dreamy expression shook a snowfall of flour out of a rug.
Ice. Viki was looking for a fire. Where could she find a furnace in the city?
The jeweler maybe. Still. There was something in the boy's eyes. He would know a fire if he saw one. He shook out his rug again. Bits of the powder got caught in the cracks of Viki's mirror.
He opened his eyes and the light pierced through to his mind. He closed them again, smarting from the pain. It had been a long night. He wasn't ready for a long morning.
Viki looked at the bright orange streaks the sun made across her mirror. Now there was a furnace. So far above her she couldn't see it. Only the reflection of it from millions of years before she had been born. The heavens. The only place the distance of time could be breached. Or was that light?
He slept on, dreaming deep where there was no sound and no sight. He tried to open his eyes again inside his mind but he only saw more darkness. More silence. More stillness. His own body would not move.
The plant thrived. Connie watched as the leaves opened up beneath the light of the sun. She watched as buds began to form and then fan out in a delicate trumpet shape. Soft sky colored petals on a long vine of green. A weed? The woman down the street said it was. She said morning glories would take over a garden and choke out all the wanted plants. Well none of the plants Connie had wanted seemed to want her and she wasn't sure that she didn't like the morning glories better anyways. So she watered them.
Viki stopped and let a taxi drive by. The tourists were across the street fingering through the glass beads and polished stones of the craft fair.
A smooth surface made from something rough. A stone. That was what had cracked the mirror to begin with. A decorative piece of earth she'd placed too close to the edge of her shelf.
Falling.
He woke. The darkness was real this time instead of in his head. It had texture. Pieces of gray that formed shapes around him. The piano. The drapes Viki had closed before she left. Her shelf of nick-knacks. Recognizing what they were didn't make them any less sinister.
The glassblower twisted his lips and bent low toward the melted sand. Air trickled through his teeth and then it wasn't melted sand anymore. It was a boat. With a tiny flat sail the size of a paperclip. Viki looked at the miniature flame blower in his other hand then at her broken mirror. A piece of glass fell out and landed with a clink next to her pointed heel.
The glassblower smiled at her. “What can I do for you?”
Viki picked up the piece of glass, careful not to let it cut her finger. She held it up to the light, watched the sun warp into a piece of glitter, then looked at the glassblower. “Can you make me a piece this size? In violet?” She pulled another piece off the mirror. “One like this too. In amber.”
The morning glories died. Connie went into town to visit her mother for a few days and when she came back there was nothing left of them but a withered vine of gold that crumbled at her touch. Perhaps she ought to have asked the woman down the street to water them while she was gone but the spring had plummeted into a sweltering summer. They couldn't have had too much life left in them anyways
Viki hung the mirror back on the wall, admiring the scattering of color it cast over the window.
Rick looked up from his plate of eggs. “What's that?”
“My mirror.”
He made a gurgling sound as he swallowed. “What did you do to it? How will you see yourself?”
She turned to look at him. “The way I am.”
An unfinished story. A piece of nothing. A shriveled plant. What came before is what comes after.
Silence
Genesis
The silence was first. Then a word. Tangible or not, life began.
Some called it the void but can anything really be void? Can even nothing be not at all? We have tried to answer over and over what that word was that began life but what came first? What was the darkness that was nothing?
“I am dead.” The girl threw herself onto the bed and pounded at the floral bead spread. “I am dead, I am dead, I am dead.”
“You are not dead.” The mother stroked her long thin hand against her daughter's black colored tangles. “You are heart broken. It will pass. It always does.”
“It won't.” the girl said. “It doesn't. I might as well be dead.”
The mother looked out the window at her gate's broken hinges then back at her daughter's young face, puffed red with tears. Not as young as it had been a day ago. Perhaps not as young as an hour ago. “No.” she said “It doesn't. It won't. But you aren't dead.”
Connie watched the small plant grow. First a small white streak poking its head out of the soil then a tiny shoot in pale green with thin papery leaves getting ready to spread from the center. She'd never planted it. It could have been a weed. If she had been a clever gardener she would have removed it. If she had been a clever gardener the geranium and lavender seeds she had planted in neat little rows on the other side of the yard might have grown larger than her hand before they shriveled. But she was not a clever gardener and the weed –if it was a weed –showed promise.
The child pointed up at the stars. “Big Dipper!”
The grandfather shook his head. “That one's Virgo. The virgin. She's a mother.”
The child scrunched his chubby face with stubbornness. “Teacher said Big Dipper.” He stretched his voice on the word 'big' and held his hands far apart.
The grandfather smiled. “If you want to call it the Big Dipper you can.”
“They followed it.” The child said. “The slaves at the war. Teacher said.”
The grandfather looked again, imagining the child trapped in the mother's womb. “You may be right Danny.” he said “Maybe they did follow those stars.”
Everything wise has already been said. Has it been heard?
Art is the scream of humanity. A piece of ourselves trying to break out of the confines of our bodies. Of our lives. Of what we have defined ourselves as.
Broken.
The streaks in the mirror were cracks. Fragments of slanted reality. Her fingers rubbed themselves raw through the thick weave of the rag in her hand but they would not come off.
“They won't come off.” Rick said from the other side of the one room apartment. He rolled over in the bed and let the sheet fall off the surface of his chest. “You can't make a smooth surface out of something rough.”
Viki turned around and gave him a sardonic expression. “That's what glass is.”
He stared at her.
“A smooth surface made from something rough.”
“Oh.” he yawned. “Well you can't do it again. Not unless you have a furnace.”
Viki looked again at the mirror. The snag of green fabric from the cloth. The spec of blood from her finger. The way her crooked reflection made her left eye look three times the size of her mouth and her cheek look like she had a scar across it instead of yesterday's makeup. “Ok.” she said. “I’ll find one.”
The streets were dark, the stars a faint sprinkling of dust over the towering height of the skyscrapers. Viki clutched the heavy round form of the mirror under one arm and her heels clattered against the concrete. It was early morning but not quiet. A car's horn sounded from somewhere. The door to the pizzeria on her left opened and a young boy with dark curls and a dreamy expression shook a snowfall of flour out of a rug.
Ice. Viki was looking for a fire. Where could she find a furnace in the city?
The jeweler maybe. Still. There was something in the boy's eyes. He would know a fire if he saw one. He shook out his rug again. Bits of the powder got caught in the cracks of Viki's mirror.
He opened his eyes and the light pierced through to his mind. He closed them again, smarting from the pain. It had been a long night. He wasn't ready for a long morning.
Viki looked at the bright orange streaks the sun made across her mirror. Now there was a furnace. So far above her she couldn't see it. Only the reflection of it from millions of years before she had been born. The heavens. The only place the distance of time could be breached. Or was that light?
He slept on, dreaming deep where there was no sound and no sight. He tried to open his eyes again inside his mind but he only saw more darkness. More silence. More stillness. His own body would not move.
The plant thrived. Connie watched as the leaves opened up beneath the light of the sun. She watched as buds began to form and then fan out in a delicate trumpet shape. Soft sky colored petals on a long vine of green. A weed? The woman down the street said it was. She said morning glories would take over a garden and choke out all the wanted plants. Well none of the plants Connie had wanted seemed to want her and she wasn't sure that she didn't like the morning glories better anyways. So she watered them.
Viki stopped and let a taxi drive by. The tourists were across the street fingering through the glass beads and polished stones of the craft fair.
A smooth surface made from something rough. A stone. That was what had cracked the mirror to begin with. A decorative piece of earth she'd placed too close to the edge of her shelf.
Falling.
He woke. The darkness was real this time instead of in his head. It had texture. Pieces of gray that formed shapes around him. The piano. The drapes Viki had closed before she left. Her shelf of nick-knacks. Recognizing what they were didn't make them any less sinister.
The glassblower twisted his lips and bent low toward the melted sand. Air trickled through his teeth and then it wasn't melted sand anymore. It was a boat. With a tiny flat sail the size of a paperclip. Viki looked at the miniature flame blower in his other hand then at her broken mirror. A piece of glass fell out and landed with a clink next to her pointed heel.
The glassblower smiled at her. “What can I do for you?”
Viki picked up the piece of glass, careful not to let it cut her finger. She held it up to the light, watched the sun warp into a piece of glitter, then looked at the glassblower. “Can you make me a piece this size? In violet?” She pulled another piece off the mirror. “One like this too. In amber.”
The morning glories died. Connie went into town to visit her mother for a few days and when she came back there was nothing left of them but a withered vine of gold that crumbled at her touch. Perhaps she ought to have asked the woman down the street to water them while she was gone but the spring had plummeted into a sweltering summer. They couldn't have had too much life left in them anyways
Viki hung the mirror back on the wall, admiring the scattering of color it cast over the window.
Rick looked up from his plate of eggs. “What's that?”
“My mirror.”
He made a gurgling sound as he swallowed. “What did you do to it? How will you see yourself?”
She turned to look at him. “The way I am.”
An unfinished story. A piece of nothing. A shriveled plant. What came before is what comes after.
Silence
Thursday, April 7, 2011
F: Fertility (Literary Idol Challenge)
Spring is in the air. (well actually, at the moment fog is in their air but fog leads to rain and plants need rain to grow so . . . yeah. Spring. Just the colder part) The pollen. The growth. The richness of the land. Animal births. The festivals of fertility. Spring is so much more exciting than summer. Everything is shifting and anything could happen -- is about to happen.
For this this month's Literary Idol Challenge:
Write 50-1,000 word story that in some way ties into the ideas of birh, change, and the celebration of life.
Send your submission to:
featherzines@yahoo.com
before Monday the 24th, on which day I will post the submissions to be voted on. I know a lot of you will be pretty busy with the A-Z challenge so I tried to keep the theme pretty loose. You can always dig up something you've worked on in the past. If it doesn't obviously feature fertility you can include a sentence of two explaining how you feel it connects to the general idea. Thank you all so much! I hope to see some of your masterful storytelling soon!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Apologies and Proof I Am Not Dead
I beleive I owe you all an apology. First, for not providing you with the Magical Stranger stories I promised for you to vote on last monday and, second, for disapearing and not offering you an explanation as to why there were no stories to be voted on.
I do apologize. I am quite sorry.
I would further above apology with a promise that such things will not happen againt but, for the first part at least, I can not be sure that it won't. Perhaps I ought to realize that once a month is a little much for a contest and admit defeat but . . . I've never been very good at that. Besides, there is still the finalist prize to be given away in June and there has been at one winner so far. It wouldn't be fair to take her out of the competition. So there are three more rounds left. Depending on participation there may or may not be stories to vote for after the challenges are issued. I will promise, however, to provide you with a story of my own that meets the challenge should there be no other participants. Just in case you come by looking for something to read.
As to proof that I'm not dead, --or wasn't dead and now have come back to life or perhpas am a ghost typing from the grave --here is some of what I was doing last week instead of apologizing for not having any stories for you:
"Touring" the creative writing classes on campus about Notes From Underground
Writing essays
Attending writing criteque with some very awsome writers
Writing more essays
Reading Victorian poetry
I also may have written an essay or two
Happy writing friends and in case you want to start mulling over it, next month's Literary Idol Challenge will be about fertility.
I do apologize. I am quite sorry.
I would further above apology with a promise that such things will not happen againt but, for the first part at least, I can not be sure that it won't. Perhaps I ought to realize that once a month is a little much for a contest and admit defeat but . . . I've never been very good at that. Besides, there is still the finalist prize to be given away in June and there has been at one winner so far. It wouldn't be fair to take her out of the competition. So there are three more rounds left. Depending on participation there may or may not be stories to vote for after the challenges are issued. I will promise, however, to provide you with a story of my own that meets the challenge should there be no other participants. Just in case you come by looking for something to read.
As to proof that I'm not dead, --or wasn't dead and now have come back to life or perhpas am a ghost typing from the grave --here is some of what I was doing last week instead of apologizing for not having any stories for you:
"Touring" the creative writing classes on campus about Notes From Underground
Writing essays
Attending writing criteque with some very awsome writers
Writing more essays
Reading Victorian poetry
I also may have written an essay or two
Happy writing friends and in case you want to start mulling over it, next month's Literary Idol Challenge will be about fertility.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Literary Idol Challenge: The Magical Stranger
You may have begun to see things like this around the grocery store
in order to remind you to drink a lot of Guinness on the 17th in celebration of some people (which may or may not include you) being Irish
or . . .
You might sit around the fire and re-tell the story of how St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland.
Political and religios implications of the event aside, the story capsulizes a common theme in literature. The "magical" stranger who comes and brings harmony and wisdom to a select region. Pollyanna, Chocolate, Mary Poppins. Sometimes the Stranger stays and sometimes they leave once everyone's troubles are fixed but they always teach a community in a state of distress how to create richness and magic in their lives. Thus we come to March's Literary Idol Challenge:
Write a 50-1,000 word story that incorporates a Magical Stranger
As always feel free to play with the theme however you like. Use an object instead of a person or maybe the "fix it" is much darker than it first appears. Whatever you come up with, send it to:
featherzines@yahoo.com
by the Sunday, March the 2oth and I will post it Monday, March the 21st to be voted on.
(also, I've added something to the list of Literary Idol Finalist prizes)
in order to remind you to drink a lot of Guinness on the 17th in celebration of some people (which may or may not include you) being Irish
or . . .
You might sit around the fire and re-tell the story of how St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland.
Political and religios implications of the event aside, the story capsulizes a common theme in literature. The "magical" stranger who comes and brings harmony and wisdom to a select region. Pollyanna, Chocolate, Mary Poppins. Sometimes the Stranger stays and sometimes they leave once everyone's troubles are fixed but they always teach a community in a state of distress how to create richness and magic in their lives. Thus we come to March's Literary Idol Challenge:
Write a 50-1,000 word story that incorporates a Magical Stranger
As always feel free to play with the theme however you like. Use an object instead of a person or maybe the "fix it" is much darker than it first appears. Whatever you come up with, send it to:
featherzines@yahoo.com
by the Sunday, March the 2oth and I will post it Monday, March the 21st to be voted on.
(also, I've added something to the list of Literary Idol Finalist prizes)
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Literary Idol Challenge: The Ode
People like love stories. Happy ones. Sad ones. It doesn't matter. We like the passion that overcomes reason and the feeling of conection between two people (or maybe that's just me). Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Ron and Hermione. Samuel Vimes and Lady Sybil (my personal favorite.) Literature is infested with couples. And here we are, two weeks away from the fated day celebrating that higher level of being called 'Love'. But what other relationships can be charactorized with that kind of passion and dedication? A father for his son? A painter for his art? A farmer for his land?
For this month's challenge I ask you to write a story that focuses on the love and passion for something or someone. An ode.
The word range is 50-1,000 words. (Altered this month because I will allow poetry for this challenge.)
Traditional couple love stories are, of course, just fine, but remember that there are other kinds of love that make people just as crazy. I'd like to see at least one or two of those.
Send your entry to:
featherzines@yahoo.com
and come back February 14th to vote on your favorite entry.
(For complete rules to Literary Idol go HERE)
Happy writing. May your words be laced with love and inspiration.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Topsy Turvy Results! First Literary Idol winner.
The stories have been written
The entries have been read
The votes have been counted
and
the very first Literary Idol is
*insert whistles, noise makers, feet stomping, and bells jangling from fools' over sized feet here*
Erin Kane Spock with her untitled story about a little girl taking care of her mother.
Congradulations Erin! Send the address you would like your gift card sent to to:
Featherzines@yahoo.com.
(I will send the zine too but it may take longer as I am waiting on some pieces from my illistrator before I can print it)
Thank you again everyone who sent in submissions or voted. Come back next month for the next Literary Idol Challenge (*hint* what holiday is next month?)
The entries have been read
The votes have been counted
and
the very first Literary Idol is
*insert whistles, noise makers, feet stomping, and bells jangling from fools' over sized feet here*
Erin Kane Spock with her untitled story about a little girl taking care of her mother.
Congradulations Erin! Send the address you would like your gift card sent to to:
Featherzines@yahoo.com.
(I will send the zine too but it may take longer as I am waiting on some pieces from my illistrator before I can print it)
Thank you again everyone who sent in submissions or voted. Come back next month for the next Literary Idol Challenge (*hint* what holiday is next month?)
Monday, January 17, 2011
Topsy Turvy Entries! Come vote!
Thank you to all who sent me entries for this contest (and to those who helped spread the word). I was so excited to read your work and it was very brave of you to let me post it up and invite commentary.
Here are the stories that turned up.
Story One: Untitled
“You’ll be okay, Mommy. Just use the bucket if you have to throw up. Try to be careful not to get it on the sheets.” Lily’s small hands did their best to be soothing as she secured her mother’s long hair into a bun. It was better to do this now than to have to worry about it getting gross stuff in it that she would have to wash out later.
Her mommy whined and pulled away, almost knocking her off the bed. “You’re hurting me!”
“Shhhh, shhhh.” Lily rubbed her Mommy’s temples, behind her ears. “You’ll be fine. Be my brave girl, okay?” Mommy’s head was hot to the touch.
Lily got up and scampered to the bathroom to find the medicine. Cursing to herself, she unscrewed the adult-proof cap. These were far too easy to open. She wished the manufacturers would stop making the medicine taste so good. If Mommy were able to figure out the lid, and Lily was sure she would given enough time, she would probably down the whole bottle of Margarita flavored Tylenol.
Mommy sobbed again and burped loudly in the general direction of the bucket. Lily brought over a syringe full of the lime green liquid and Mommy smiled.
“Medicine!”
“Remember, medicine is only for when we are sick.”
“I know already, Lily.”
Lily excused Mommy’s tone of voice. Mommy was a sick woman and needed compassion, not a lesson about attitude. “If I give you the medicine do you think you can keep yourself from throwing up?”
Mommy nodded, burping once more.
Well, if she threw it up, they could always try a cool bath to lower the fever. It was never Lily’s first inclination: getting Mommy into and out of a bath required strength and a functioning knowledge of physics. Lily did well enough, but it was always a struggle.
It was exhausting taking care of a sick Mommy. She hoped she could get some sleep tonight before she had to be at school in the morning. Mrs. Weston had said they were going to make marshmallow snowmen and Lily didn’t want to miss that. If Mommy didn’t get better, she might have to take the day off and stay home with her. She didn’t want to miss school if she didn’t have to. First grade was a very important growth year
My commentary:
Let me just say that I want some margarita flavored Tylenol. This is a very cute piece with smooth, sold writing. The role reversal is presented in a way that makes me believe it. Lily is caring and responsible but even in the small space we are given it is clear that she still thinks like a six year old and cares about six year old things. There isn't a major story arch taking her from one point to the other but I don't feel we need one in this case. It is enough to see that a small girl who would normally be the one who needs caring for is willing and able to take care of her mother.
Story Two: Trithos
There was a time long ago, When people would be granted an extraordinary gift so others could learn from their story. Trithos lived during these times and Trithos was granted a gift, he could live three times.
Trithos took his gift and put it to immediate use and his name was known in every winery and every eatery there was no time when Trithos was without food or drink because he would borrow from everyone, he had 2 more lives to pay them back, so he didn’t think twice about it. This continued for several years and Trithos grew massive and his wine slowed him while his food choked him and Trithos was dead.
Trithos was born his second time, and from an early age he had a debt to many people. It wasn’t long before Trithos decided that he didn’t have to work it off, he had one life after this, he could just steal everything he needed and enough to live from. So he traveled far from anyone who knew him and he murdered a wealthy family and took there belongings and sold them for a great amount. He paid his debt but his portion did not last long and it never did time and time again until Trithos was known as a villain and the sight of him was awful and he died alone.
Trithos was born for his third and final time. Everyone still knew who he was “Trithos the vile”. And so he was imprisoned for the rest of his life. Trithos had many long hours to think to himself and very little company that was even less kind. Trithos felt he had wasted all three of his lives before the final one had begun, he had to do anything he could to make one of them count. From those moments forward taught the guards who told the world he would teach them and he taught them to work hard, not to take what is not yours and to always take the honest route.
And although Trithos spent the rest of his life imprisoned he was content knowing that People he couldn’t see outside his world were making there days count because of him.
My commentary:
The idea of someone with three lives to spend is very intriguing and I think this was, for the most part, handled well. The fact that because Trithos has been given so much more he only wastes so much more is depressingly accurate. I like the vague, old tale quality of this piece but can also see how it would benefit from some more specific details and world building. Three life spans are a lot to cover in 1,000 words or less but a few specifics about the mistakes Trithos made during his first two lives could go a long way in helping us understand who he is and who he becomes. It would also drive home his solace at the end by giving us, people a long way off, something particular to learn from. The conclusion itself could also have been more powerful if it had been left unstated simply by going back to idea in the opening line: that all these gifts are given so that others could learn from them. Trithos could wonder what on earth others could learn from him when he had done everything wrong and begin telling the guards what he would do different if he had been given a fourth life to live. There are also a lot of grammatical errors that trip the reader up but, over all, the arch and concept of this piece hold together nicely.
I will also say that the first time I read this story I didn't see where the “topsy turvy” element was but on closer examination a teacher who has made all the mistakes can be very upside down indeed.
Story Three: Moment
As we hold hands we push our way through the crowded entrance to the theater. The room is already dark and the seats filled with people. We look at each other with our eyes wide. Somehow we manage to find seats. The movie begins and its interesting and funny and amazing yet for some reason I just... Just have to know what the other movies are like.
"Lets go sneak into the other movies." I turn to Him and say.
"What? Why? Don't you like this one?" His face looks hurt but my curiosity wont yield.
"well yea I like this one a lot but i just have to see the others. We can come back and finish watching this one later." I smile but my eyes beg.
"OK.." He gives in.
We leave the theater room my body filled with anticipation. We enter into the other theater room. The screen is filled with bright colours... Or is it a stage? There's people dressed head to toe in bright yellows blues greens and purples. Almost neon's. They look almost as if they're wearing body suits with beaks on their head. In the back ground there's huge bright flowers. The characters are dancing around and... singing? How I love children shows. Before I can figure out what it is about they begin dancing off the screen and onto the now large space between the seats and the screen. They interpretive dance around this large neon splattered drum in the center of the open floor. He and I float out and dance with them. My head spinning with colours and music. We're part of the music.
I suddenly get a craving for soft serve so I turn around to where the seats used to be, but now a serve yourself ice cream dispensers line the walls? I place the cone that is in my hand underneath a vanilla dispenser and pull down the lever, but it squirts melted ice cream out in all directions! So I try the next one, this one chocolate, but it does the same thing! so I try a few more going down the line frustrated, but they all do the same thing. Till finally I reach the last one that squeezes out vanilla and chocolate swirl. I turn back around to the dancers to tell Him, who was now also wearing bright colors?... about the ice cream when I realize I can't taste it. I look back at the stage and see that the ice cream had splattered all over the entire room including on the floor underneath the dancers feet . Why is this happening? The frustration coming back full throttle. Then some of the dancers fall slipping on the white cream splatters onto the floor.
A male dancer wearing bright but dark blue dropped a girl dancer wearing yellow because he slipped. Everyone gaspes including the audience Somewhere behind the ice cream dispesners. Is the girl hurt? Is she dead? Every one starts running around frantic. I look at my ice cream. I still can't tast it. When I look back at the girl she is gone. What Is going on? Am I part of the show? They try to redo the moves they had been in the middle of doing, but it just isn't the same, and the girl doesn't leap up into the blue guys arms. She isn't there at all... Where is she? The croud all makes a disappointed "Oh!" sound... My skin gets hot. This is all my fault. What have I done? The dancers and Him Come toward me angry and yelling. Their faces distorted and strange.
"You ruined the engagement proposal!"
"Look what you did!"
"You just had to get ice cream!"
"Look what you did!"
"She was supposed to be my fiance!"
"What is wrong with you?"
"I wanted to stay and watch the other movie. But no, you HAD to see all the other ones too!"
Proposal? What? I didn't know? How was i supposed to know? No. No! I didn't' mean to! But it is all my fault and I did do this... Now I'd lost Him. And the poor girl. was she OK? oh god what have I done? But it's to late.
I wait in the booth at this western themed bar. It's empty and silent. Everything is the same bleak and bland colour of wood. The floor, the seats, the tables, the two steps leading to the upper level closer to the bar, and the odd elaborate carvings on the back boards of the booths where I sIt, my head in my hands. Something is about to happen. Something is coming.
It was all my fault and so I must lose everything.
My family appeares in front of me asking so many different questions all at once I can't make any of them out. But I know why they are here.
I had lost them too.
Then they all go silent.
I'm now standing.
I feel... weird... week... sweaty...
I look down at myself. My skin. It's leaking. Leaking blood. Whats happening? It begins dripping down to the floor.
My knees buckle underneath me and I fall to the wooden floor, a pool of blood all around me.
Its over. This is it.
My body feels more and more drained and I can hardly breath. Till I have to give up... I stop breathing. It's not as painful as I thought it'd be...
I stare up at the lights on the sealing. Everyone just huddles around me and watches. Watches as everything goes fuzzy.
My commentary:
I like the dream quality of this piece, enhanced by the present tense. Many of the descriptions are a bit vague however and the writer could have edited and polished a bit more.
Send the title of the pieces you would like to vote for to
featherzines@yahoo.com
Polls close at noon tomorrow (Jan 18) pacific time.
NOTE: My commentary is not in any way conclusive. It is a single opinion and only meant to get you thinking, not sway votes or decide the worth of a piece. If you disagree with me please say so. The participating writers deserve it.
Here are the stories that turned up.
Story One: Untitled
“You’ll be okay, Mommy. Just use the bucket if you have to throw up. Try to be careful not to get it on the sheets.” Lily’s small hands did their best to be soothing as she secured her mother’s long hair into a bun. It was better to do this now than to have to worry about it getting gross stuff in it that she would have to wash out later.
Her mommy whined and pulled away, almost knocking her off the bed. “You’re hurting me!”
“Shhhh, shhhh.” Lily rubbed her Mommy’s temples, behind her ears. “You’ll be fine. Be my brave girl, okay?” Mommy’s head was hot to the touch.
Lily got up and scampered to the bathroom to find the medicine. Cursing to herself, she unscrewed the adult-proof cap. These were far too easy to open. She wished the manufacturers would stop making the medicine taste so good. If Mommy were able to figure out the lid, and Lily was sure she would given enough time, she would probably down the whole bottle of Margarita flavored Tylenol.
Mommy sobbed again and burped loudly in the general direction of the bucket. Lily brought over a syringe full of the lime green liquid and Mommy smiled.
“Medicine!”
“Remember, medicine is only for when we are sick.”
“I know already, Lily.”
Lily excused Mommy’s tone of voice. Mommy was a sick woman and needed compassion, not a lesson about attitude. “If I give you the medicine do you think you can keep yourself from throwing up?”
Mommy nodded, burping once more.
Well, if she threw it up, they could always try a cool bath to lower the fever. It was never Lily’s first inclination: getting Mommy into and out of a bath required strength and a functioning knowledge of physics. Lily did well enough, but it was always a struggle.
It was exhausting taking care of a sick Mommy. She hoped she could get some sleep tonight before she had to be at school in the morning. Mrs. Weston had said they were going to make marshmallow snowmen and Lily didn’t want to miss that. If Mommy didn’t get better, she might have to take the day off and stay home with her. She didn’t want to miss school if she didn’t have to. First grade was a very important growth year
My commentary:
Let me just say that I want some margarita flavored Tylenol. This is a very cute piece with smooth, sold writing. The role reversal is presented in a way that makes me believe it. Lily is caring and responsible but even in the small space we are given it is clear that she still thinks like a six year old and cares about six year old things. There isn't a major story arch taking her from one point to the other but I don't feel we need one in this case. It is enough to see that a small girl who would normally be the one who needs caring for is willing and able to take care of her mother.
Story Two: Trithos
There was a time long ago, When people would be granted an extraordinary gift so others could learn from their story. Trithos lived during these times and Trithos was granted a gift, he could live three times.
Trithos took his gift and put it to immediate use and his name was known in every winery and every eatery there was no time when Trithos was without food or drink because he would borrow from everyone, he had 2 more lives to pay them back, so he didn’t think twice about it. This continued for several years and Trithos grew massive and his wine slowed him while his food choked him and Trithos was dead.
Trithos was born his second time, and from an early age he had a debt to many people. It wasn’t long before Trithos decided that he didn’t have to work it off, he had one life after this, he could just steal everything he needed and enough to live from. So he traveled far from anyone who knew him and he murdered a wealthy family and took there belongings and sold them for a great amount. He paid his debt but his portion did not last long and it never did time and time again until Trithos was known as a villain and the sight of him was awful and he died alone.
Trithos was born for his third and final time. Everyone still knew who he was “Trithos the vile”. And so he was imprisoned for the rest of his life. Trithos had many long hours to think to himself and very little company that was even less kind. Trithos felt he had wasted all three of his lives before the final one had begun, he had to do anything he could to make one of them count. From those moments forward taught the guards who told the world he would teach them and he taught them to work hard, not to take what is not yours and to always take the honest route.
And although Trithos spent the rest of his life imprisoned he was content knowing that People he couldn’t see outside his world were making there days count because of him.
My commentary:
The idea of someone with three lives to spend is very intriguing and I think this was, for the most part, handled well. The fact that because Trithos has been given so much more he only wastes so much more is depressingly accurate. I like the vague, old tale quality of this piece but can also see how it would benefit from some more specific details and world building. Three life spans are a lot to cover in 1,000 words or less but a few specifics about the mistakes Trithos made during his first two lives could go a long way in helping us understand who he is and who he becomes. It would also drive home his solace at the end by giving us, people a long way off, something particular to learn from. The conclusion itself could also have been more powerful if it had been left unstated simply by going back to idea in the opening line: that all these gifts are given so that others could learn from them. Trithos could wonder what on earth others could learn from him when he had done everything wrong and begin telling the guards what he would do different if he had been given a fourth life to live. There are also a lot of grammatical errors that trip the reader up but, over all, the arch and concept of this piece hold together nicely.
I will also say that the first time I read this story I didn't see where the “topsy turvy” element was but on closer examination a teacher who has made all the mistakes can be very upside down indeed.
Story Three: Moment
As we hold hands we push our way through the crowded entrance to the theater. The room is already dark and the seats filled with people. We look at each other with our eyes wide. Somehow we manage to find seats. The movie begins and its interesting and funny and amazing yet for some reason I just... Just have to know what the other movies are like.
"Lets go sneak into the other movies." I turn to Him and say.
"What? Why? Don't you like this one?" His face looks hurt but my curiosity wont yield.
"well yea I like this one a lot but i just have to see the others. We can come back and finish watching this one later." I smile but my eyes beg.
"OK.." He gives in.
We leave the theater room my body filled with anticipation. We enter into the other theater room. The screen is filled with bright colours... Or is it a stage? There's people dressed head to toe in bright yellows blues greens and purples. Almost neon's. They look almost as if they're wearing body suits with beaks on their head. In the back ground there's huge bright flowers. The characters are dancing around and... singing? How I love children shows. Before I can figure out what it is about they begin dancing off the screen and onto the now large space between the seats and the screen. They interpretive dance around this large neon splattered drum in the center of the open floor. He and I float out and dance with them. My head spinning with colours and music. We're part of the music.
I suddenly get a craving for soft serve so I turn around to where the seats used to be, but now a serve yourself ice cream dispensers line the walls? I place the cone that is in my hand underneath a vanilla dispenser and pull down the lever, but it squirts melted ice cream out in all directions! So I try the next one, this one chocolate, but it does the same thing! so I try a few more going down the line frustrated, but they all do the same thing. Till finally I reach the last one that squeezes out vanilla and chocolate swirl. I turn back around to the dancers to tell Him, who was now also wearing bright colors?... about the ice cream when I realize I can't taste it. I look back at the stage and see that the ice cream had splattered all over the entire room including on the floor underneath the dancers feet . Why is this happening? The frustration coming back full throttle. Then some of the dancers fall slipping on the white cream splatters onto the floor.
A male dancer wearing bright but dark blue dropped a girl dancer wearing yellow because he slipped. Everyone gaspes including the audience Somewhere behind the ice cream dispesners. Is the girl hurt? Is she dead? Every one starts running around frantic. I look at my ice cream. I still can't tast it. When I look back at the girl she is gone. What Is going on? Am I part of the show? They try to redo the moves they had been in the middle of doing, but it just isn't the same, and the girl doesn't leap up into the blue guys arms. She isn't there at all... Where is she? The croud all makes a disappointed "Oh!" sound... My skin gets hot. This is all my fault. What have I done? The dancers and Him Come toward me angry and yelling. Their faces distorted and strange.
"You ruined the engagement proposal!"
"Look what you did!"
"You just had to get ice cream!"
"Look what you did!"
"She was supposed to be my fiance!"
"What is wrong with you?"
"I wanted to stay and watch the other movie. But no, you HAD to see all the other ones too!"
Proposal? What? I didn't know? How was i supposed to know? No. No! I didn't' mean to! But it is all my fault and I did do this... Now I'd lost Him. And the poor girl. was she OK? oh god what have I done? But it's to late.
I wait in the booth at this western themed bar. It's empty and silent. Everything is the same bleak and bland colour of wood. The floor, the seats, the tables, the two steps leading to the upper level closer to the bar, and the odd elaborate carvings on the back boards of the booths where I sIt, my head in my hands. Something is about to happen. Something is coming.
It was all my fault and so I must lose everything.
My family appeares in front of me asking so many different questions all at once I can't make any of them out. But I know why they are here.
I had lost them too.
Then they all go silent.
I'm now standing.
I feel... weird... week... sweaty...
I look down at myself. My skin. It's leaking. Leaking blood. Whats happening? It begins dripping down to the floor.
My knees buckle underneath me and I fall to the wooden floor, a pool of blood all around me.
Its over. This is it.
My body feels more and more drained and I can hardly breath. Till I have to give up... I stop breathing. It's not as painful as I thought it'd be...
I stare up at the lights on the sealing. Everyone just huddles around me and watches. Watches as everything goes fuzzy.
My commentary:
I like the dream quality of this piece, enhanced by the present tense. Many of the descriptions are a bit vague however and the writer could have edited and polished a bit more.
Send the title of the pieces you would like to vote for to
featherzines@yahoo.com
Polls close at noon tomorrow (Jan 18) pacific time.
NOTE: My commentary is not in any way conclusive. It is a single opinion and only meant to get you thinking, not sway votes or decide the worth of a piece. If you disagree with me please say so. The participating writers deserve it.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Literary Idol Challenge: Topsy Turvy
Twelfth Night is three days away. If we lived a few hundred years ago (and myabe on a different continent) we would raid the lord's house and take over his household for the night or march through the streets of London with a procession honoring a choir boy chosen to be bishop untill sunrise. Alas, such rituals are no more. I shall have to make due with a Twelfth Day Cake and bowl of Bishop's Cup. However, in honor of the more extreme mode of celebrating this already too seldom celebrated holiday, my first challenge for you this year is to write a story in which everything is turned on its head.
Construct 250-1,000 words around a premise that hinges on a status quo being obliterated.
Reversal of roles is certainly a fun way to do this but it could be anything. An object that is typically reguared as unimportant is suddenly in major demand and worth millions. Your protagonist wakes up one day to find the sky beneath his feet and the earth hovering over his head. Create a society in which criminals make the laws. Have fun with it, use any genre and be as outlandish as you want.
Send your entry to:
featherzines@yahoo.com
and come back January 17th to vote on your favorit entry.
(for complete rules to Literary Idol go HERE) or scroll down.
Happy twelfth Night! I can't wait to see what you come up with.
Literary Idol Rules
To enter send an approximately 250-1,000 word story based on the month's challenge to featherzines@yahoo.com. Don't forget to include your name.
The stories will be posted unanimously to be discussed and voted on. The names of participants will not be revealed but you are free to promote and defend your story in any way you like.
To vote send the name of the story you wish to vote for to featherzines@yahoo.com. Entrants are welcome to vote. One vote per reader please.
The discussion will be open twenty four hours before the winner is announced.
The writer of the entry with the most votes each month will receive:
The title Literary Idol,
A copy of Taliesin Winter 2011 Issue
A 5$ Starbucks gift card and,
An increased chance of winning the final title and prize at the end of six months (June)
The final title will be awarded to the writer who earns the monthly title the most times and will consist of:
The title of Literary Idol Finalist
A 25$ gift card for Barnes and Nobles
An interview about their latest writing endeavors to be posted on Taliesin
A copy of Notes From Underground
A snazzy pen and,
Publication of the piece of their choice in the Summer 2011 edition of Taliesin
You may enter as many times as you like even if you have not entered for any of the previous months
The stories will be posted unanimously to be discussed and voted on. The names of participants will not be revealed but you are free to promote and defend your story in any way you like.
To vote send the name of the story you wish to vote for to featherzines@yahoo.com. Entrants are welcome to vote. One vote per reader please.
The discussion will be open twenty four hours before the winner is announced.
The writer of the entry with the most votes each month will receive:
The title Literary Idol,
A copy of Taliesin Winter 2011 Issue
A 5$ Starbucks gift card and,
An increased chance of winning the final title and prize at the end of six months (June)
The final title will be awarded to the writer who earns the monthly title the most times and will consist of:
The title of Literary Idol Finalist
A 25$ gift card for Barnes and Nobles
An interview about their latest writing endeavors to be posted on Taliesin
A copy of Notes From Underground
A snazzy pen and,
Publication of the piece of their choice in the Summer 2011 edition of Taliesin
You may enter as many times as you like even if you have not entered for any of the previous months
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Literary Idol Replay: Write a “Book a Minute”
Last month I announced my intentions to begin a Literary Idol contest. It turned out no one had time to compete but maybe you will all have more time on your hands this month. I’ll go easy on you this month but don’t get used to it.
When I was taking a Shakespeare (are you scared yet?) class at our local community college my sister and I were trying to decipher some sort of meaning out of the play Henry IV and came across this site. Inspired by their brilliance here is the “Book a Minute” we compiled for Henry IV to help us better understand all the complexities that are Shakespeare.
Falstaff: I like to drink!
Hotspur: I like to fight!
Prince Hal: I like to drink AND fight!
(There is a battle in which Hotspur dies, Prince Hal does some heroic stuff and Falstaff takes credit for other people’s heroic stuff)
So this month’s assignment? Write a “Book a Minute”. Condense the essence of any novel, play or epic poem into something that can be read in a minute or less. E-mail your entries to:
Featherzines@yahoo.com
I will post the entries to be voted on Monday, June 14 so make sure you have them sent in by then.
Edit: A condensed version of your own work is also acceptable
When I was taking a Shakespeare (are you scared yet?) class at our local community college my sister and I were trying to decipher some sort of meaning out of the play Henry IV and came across this site. Inspired by their brilliance here is the “Book a Minute” we compiled for Henry IV to help us better understand all the complexities that are Shakespeare.
Falstaff: I like to drink!
Hotspur: I like to fight!
Prince Hal: I like to drink AND fight!
(There is a battle in which Hotspur dies, Prince Hal does some heroic stuff and Falstaff takes credit for other people’s heroic stuff)
So this month’s assignment? Write a “Book a Minute”. Condense the essence of any novel, play or epic poem into something that can be read in a minute or less. E-mail your entries to:
Featherzines@yahoo.com
I will post the entries to be voted on Monday, June 14 so make sure you have them sent in by then.
Edit: A condensed version of your own work is also acceptable
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
I fear I must apologize
I am dreadfully sorry. I don't have any Literary Idol entries for you to vote on today as planned. We'll try again next month shall we?
Friday, May 14, 2010
One Last Reminder
Just one last reminder that submissions for Literary Idol close Monday the seventeenth. Don't forget to send a retelling of a myth to:
Featherzines@yahoo.com.
Featherzines@yahoo.com.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Literary Idol. Challenge One: Retell a Myth
I once said that I would never watch American Idol.
I lied.
Not that I don't still think it feeds America's delusions of grandier and preoccupation with fame with mediocre entertainment and the empty promise that it could be you next time. But on nights when nothing interesting is going on and I have too much a headache to read it gives me something to criticize (yes, you do know Simon is always right) and every once in awhile there is some actual talent showcased.
At any rate, I've noticed that pretty much every occupation has a reality show connected to it. Every occupation that is except writing. Understandable. It wouldn't be very visually stimulating to watch a group of people on lap tops trying to beat each other in whatever challenge they've been assigned even if only hot writers were allowed. However, I don't see why we shouldn't get to have something similar. And therefore I am going to conduct an experiment.
Literary Idol
Here are the rules. Every month I put out an assignment. Anyone who wants to participate can e-mail me their short story/chapter/poem/flash fiction at
Featherzines@yahoo.com
I will draw a two week deadline after the gauntlet has been thrown and then start posting the pieces to be voted on. They will not be unanimous so feel free to use your wit and charm however you like to roll in more votes.
We won't be doing the actual Idol format of voting people off because I realize that some people might want to participate one month but not have time every month.
The winner then gets . . . the good feeling of having won and bragging rights to the title "Literary Idol" for a month. I would offer a critique or something but if I were honest I would admit that if you really want me to critique your work all you have to do is send it to me. No contest needed.
And so, may the games begin.
The first challenge, as stated in the title, is
Retell a myth. Whatever your interpretation of what a "myth" is. (fairy tale, urban legend, ancient mythology, local mythology, commonly believed false fact, historical myth . . .)
e-mail me your piece by Monday May 17th and the voting shall begin.
*Insert frightening music here*
I lied.
Not that I don't still think it feeds America's delusions of grandier and preoccupation with fame with mediocre entertainment and the empty promise that it could be you next time. But on nights when nothing interesting is going on and I have too much a headache to read it gives me something to criticize (yes, you do know Simon is always right) and every once in awhile there is some actual talent showcased.
At any rate, I've noticed that pretty much every occupation has a reality show connected to it. Every occupation that is except writing. Understandable. It wouldn't be very visually stimulating to watch a group of people on lap tops trying to beat each other in whatever challenge they've been assigned even if only hot writers were allowed. However, I don't see why we shouldn't get to have something similar. And therefore I am going to conduct an experiment.
Literary Idol
Here are the rules. Every month I put out an assignment. Anyone who wants to participate can e-mail me their short story/chapter/poem/flash fiction at
Featherzines@yahoo.com
I will draw a two week deadline after the gauntlet has been thrown and then start posting the pieces to be voted on. They will not be unanimous so feel free to use your wit and charm however you like to roll in more votes.
We won't be doing the actual Idol format of voting people off because I realize that some people might want to participate one month but not have time every month.
The winner then gets . . . the good feeling of having won and bragging rights to the title "Literary Idol" for a month. I would offer a critique or something but if I were honest I would admit that if you really want me to critique your work all you have to do is send it to me. No contest needed.
And so, may the games begin.
The first challenge, as stated in the title, is
Retell a myth. Whatever your interpretation of what a "myth" is. (fairy tale, urban legend, ancient mythology, local mythology, commonly believed false fact, historical myth . . .)
e-mail me your piece by Monday May 17th and the voting shall begin.
*Insert frightening music here*
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