:: Contest Number Seven! ::, The Women / The Winners Options

[the posse]

CONTEST NUMBER SEVEN

The Women

This is a creative writing contest, and TC is choosing the winners.
You have one week to read the book, conjure the muse, and answer the question.
So shake this story out of your sleeve:



What did Miriam dream of the night she received the telegraph at Leora's house?



Please congratulate our two first place winners: Ruth and lynnbarry!
T.C. couldn't chose between you two, so you both win!

#1

The Women
by Ruth

The others lived their little house lives, family home existences, ducked in the valley, hidden behind trees, but modesty had never been a fault of hers, she was a castle of the Neuschwansteinian sort, medieval stone walls, fairy spires, proudly build on the highest ridge, umweht von Himmelsluft, she possessed thousands of rooms, didn’t know them all herself, there was a different dining hall for every day of the year, bedrooms with lake-sized pillows, dressing halls where mustachioed tailors de Paris piled up Matterhorns of clothes, pantries stuffed with delicacies, labyrinths of wine-cellars, Mexican pharmacies and scream-stifling dungeons, well, you shouldn’t descend to deep, but no need to, the servants would get you everything you wished for, would arrange alleys of flowers which blossomed out when you walked past, tulips, lilies and roses, and weren’t roses his favorites, so why did he want to leave, Frank, why was he hurrying through the corridors she had to close before him, running down the stairs she had to painfully twist, fleeing towards a shimmer of sun behind the velvet curtains, screaming “Light! Air!”, oh the little man, the nature’s child, would sleep in the grass and sip at morning’s dew as if it were champagne, but she loved him all the same, what was he afraid of, she lit the candles to study his face, ah, he had drawn a map of her, thinking he might get out like this, how stupid, and now he looked out the window, estimated the height, calculated the risk, reasoning, always clinging to logic, killing passion with his rationalism, but fine, than she would have to burn for both of them, groaning she widened the chimneys, there came his air, the logs on the fireplace crackled, Bavarian oak, the best wood you could get, longest-lasting, the flames rose higher, reached the stuccoed ceiling, and was he still cold, still, her dearest Frank, no need to worry, she would take care, he was shivering, but she would make him warm, the carved joists already on fire, the gold-plated wallpapers sparking adorably, burn she could and burn she did.

TC's review:

#1

The Women
by lynnbarry

She couldn’t help but cheer for her Frank, even in her sleep. He was the embodiment of genius. She dreamed about working with a moistened to malleable perfection lump of clay (no marble this time), back to working the land in hand, so to speak, the way he wanted things to be (as if she was on that godforsaken dung-infested Taliesin doing everything organically). At long last she was doing what she loved more than she loved Frank himself (and her self-appointed preoccupation with loving a living legend); she was working her sculptor’s magic, and her being a mere woman (and not a male, magnificent enough to create something, anything, a thing); she was (twitching gleefully in her sleep) making a bust of her beloved Frank. Dreaming about it made it real to her.

She used her thumbs to gouge out Frank’s eyes in the lump of clay, eyes she was as familiar with as she was of brushing her nicotine weary teeth four-six times a day (Frank always hated her smoking) or stabbing a pravaz into the flesh of her own leg; she knew Frank’s eye sockets.
In her dreamy state she worked his clay eyes like a blind person reads a new person’s face, the stroking useful for painting a picture of the new person in the blind person’s mind’s eye. Frank’s face was as firmly implanted in her mind’s eye as was her own name, “Miriam,” or her friend Leora’s birthday or her favorite tobacco products. He was her drug of choice, even above her drug-filled pravaz or her cigarettes. Her love for Frank was like the hot poker that sears the sides of cattle, branding them for life.

Working the clay (unlike the sensations she experienced when she chiseled a block of marble) sent pleasurable electric-like currents through her hands, up her arms to her perspiring armpits and shoulders and on to her sinewy back, down her spine, under her bottom and into her private area where she welcomed Frank whenever he wanted her, and he wanted her as much as randy rabbits want other rabbits.

She built up his noble looking prominent clay nose, followed by his clay lips, lips she had tasted so often she could almost taste the taste of them as she worked and as she tasted the taste, she was reminded that he had strongly objected to her sculpting a bust of him; this particular hard-to-swallow remembrance brought about rage, the kind of rage you feel when you realize you are never going to be what you are supposed to be and that makes you bite your lip so it bleeds unrequited warm blood, and then you clench your fists so hard that before you know it the clay thing you are molding is nothing more than a goddamn glob of goo, waking you up with an, “I love you Frank,” on your lips (cattle always bellow as their sides smolder).

TC's review:

#3

Poor Miriam's Dream
by Nobel K. Thomas

No, she isn’t exactly flying, more like suspended upon a gurgling flotilla of alluvial mud, in the midst of some kind of parade seeping through the otherwise sparkling streets of Tokyo. The Imperial still stands, the master’s conception erect, and it will surely endure until the end of time.

Strange, a genuine hidalgo stinking of green chili and fried onions materializing just now complete with drooping moustache and oversized sombrero, presiding over the reflection pool and addressing them in French. “Your presence is requested in the Peacock Room.” Why of course.

Standing next to Frank, who looks as befuddled as she, gazing down a long wood-paneled hall that contains no windows but only door after door after door. “Frank, why so many doors?” and now a knowing satisfied grin spreads across his big Welsh head.

The Spirit is immortal truth. Yet something aches, pulsing between her legs, but no, not exactly between her legs but near that certain critical spot, the needled flesh of her upper thigh, the mind connecting the dots while the soul silently acquiesces. Matter is but mortal error.

Meanwhile – back at the parade. Teams of toothy Japanese smiling, straight black hair framing excited eyes, they’re a dime a dozen. The white Japanese flags with their red circles flapping in the breeze. That red square she secretly loathes. F L L W. But she is the great architect of her own dreams. She has no use for the protractor or the T-square. It is all there inside her head – a multidimensional blueprint detailing her spiraling ascension.

An endless, dark hallway. The smell of polished wood. No windows, no natural light. Which door to choose? Alone now with the sound of hesitant heels on scrubbed wood plank and there awaits one open door. With reluctance she enters and stares at the frozen façade of the rancho de Taos. The reek of onions and tequila, the tickle of whiskers upon the back of her neck. Again, in perfect French: “Let us not confuse intelligence and ambition with wisdom and purity of heart.”

Something buzzes by her ear, the Wisconsin state bird, the oversized mosquito, and had they followed her all the way across the continent in frenzied packs of nervous nellies? God forbid, the tiny winged beasts, forever orbiting the peaceful mind – damned culprits, deliverer of yellow fever, the plague of Memphis with its aches and the coffee ground vomitus smeared with intestinal blood. She is young again and sees the ghost of Molly Puckett wading into the Mississippi, jaundiced and sad, and Molly turns to wave goodbye with those red dripping eyes and who in their right mind wants to be young again?

Farewell Memphis and the misery of yellow fever, bastard child of that forgotten capital of ancient Egypt, long live the shrine of the yellow man, the pyramid revived. The Imperial Hotel still stands - divine and stubbornly erect.

Something presses against her bottom.

Oh. It is time to relieve him again.

All three winners will receive a signed, personalized first edition hardcover of The Women.

And a special thanks to everyone who entered, your submission were wildly imaginative, and choosing the three winners was extremely tough!

Thanks so much for entering, and being patient for the results!

Best,

TC & The Posse

::

original contest thread here

[Q-Force]

Youtube link to view castle

Youtube link to learn about the castle

[TCB]

To Winners and Mr. Q-Force: Congratulations, winners. And Q, what a festive way to celebrate. I find that a little horn-blowing and yodeling early in the day always clears my head. TCB.

[lynnbarry]

To Winners and Mr. Q-Force: Congratulations, winners. And Q, what a festive way to celebrate. I find that a little horn-blowing and yodeling early in the day always clears my head. TCB.

Thank you, TCB and Q!

As for the horn blowing and tooting ones OWN horn and all that alternative rock...I held my own while singing the alto parts of the old HE IS RISEN type hymns at church yesterday next to my visiting for 24 hours pitch perfect son Pat...and dad used a walking stick (only) after two years of hearing the words, "possible amputation" uttered by his vascular surgeon...and sis brought a fake piece of hair to kid me with since I used to buy wigs and change my look on a regular basis while growing up (think we all had it on our heads at some point during the day)... and she created a birthday cake out of rice cakes since I am gluten/casein/soy/egg/fructose intolerant (hard to cut the cake--I am a funsucker at b-day time)...and our soon-to-be leaving the compound son cooked the whole friggin' dinner so hubby really could have the whole day off from cooking...yeah...so I'll try a little yodeling, twittering, heck, skipping while whistling "The Flight of the Bumblebee"...life is LARGE LATELY...LOVE IT!


*quick pic before Pat headed back to the city, and Brad playing and singing a little Creedence Clearwater (CCR) for mama outback in the studio*

This post has been edited by lynnbarry: Apr 13 2009, 07:18 AM

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[utobya]

Just wanted to say thanks to TCB and the Posse for running the contest. I consider myself damn lucky to "show". Probably all depended on the "architect of words" mood or whether he had that third coffee.

Noble K. Thomas aka toby aka utobya aka Ben Drinkin (just to set the record straight)

ps: book arrived safely

[Q-Force]

The book arrived OK in OK... LOL, I had to throw that out there.... snicker, snicker. Congratulations once again!

[lynnbarry]

Nobel,

There are congrats from many on the OFF TOPIC forum, but here I am again to say CONGRATULATIONS!

[lynnbarry]

THANK YOU!!!!!!!!

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[Q-Force]

Lynn, let's see the personally inscribed autograph.

[lynnbarry]

Ask and ye shall receive...THANKS, Q!


Ruth? Has your copy arrived yet?

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 signed_copy_of_THE_WOMEN_for_winning_contest.jpg ( 301.59K ) Number of downloads: 9
 TCB_review_of_winning_entry.jpg ( 336.29K ) Number of downloads: 8

 

[Q-Force]

Lynn, why is the commentary evaluation crumpled? It should be perma-plaqued, or framed at the very least!

[Mizterious]

Oh Lynn, I am so happy for you! How marvelous! You are on your way or further down the road now! Accept my heartiest congratulations.

Love,

Miz

P.S. Thanks so much for sharing the photos. You look so pretty! Your hair has gotten long, it's very becoming.

[Andrea K. C. T.]

Ruth? Has your copy arrived yet?

Hi,

my copy arrived just yesterday.
Thanks a lot Mr. Boyle! I'll treasure the custom label saying 'book' and 'gift'. And I also like your handwriting!
But I have a question (or maybe one of the messagistas knows?): What is the last word in my review(c...iveness)?

Cheers,
Ruth

[Q-Force]

What is the last word in my review(c...iveness)?

Cohesiveness

[lynnbarry]

Q,

LOL...The paper and the book were wrapped in white paper and the edges of the review were bent over the edges of the book...don't worry I will flatten it out and frame it, for sure!

Miz,

ahhh thanks!

Ruth,

CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!