So.
This textFIGHT, which is open to EVERYONE (I am an egalitarian supreme ruler), will be to tell me a story. It can be fiction; but you have to make me believe it really happened, whether or not it actually did happen. Something embarrassing that you did or that happened to you once, that time you were in danger...the time your mother did that thing with the kitchen appliances and it shocked you. I don't care what the story is, but you must present it as (as the book snobs say,) literary non-fiction. Again, whether it actually *is* fictional, I don't care. Nobody will know but you if it *actually* happened.
It doesn't even have to be something that happened to *you*. Just something that happened which you know about.
Length, girth, and volume is completely up to you. I should prefer prose, but if you'd like to write a narrative poem, you go right ahead. I shall be offering a prize for the winner of this competition. I shall send the victor something of mine or something of my creation, whether that's a selection of books from my library, or a batch of cookies, I don't yet know. Perhaps the entrants should comment on what sort of prize they would like, from the examples given below.
The deadline for this contest is March 31th. Extra points will be given to any entrant who brings a new textFIGHTer to the board.
Here are the judging criteria:
Spelling/Grammar - if it's readable, I'm good. No points awarded for good grammar/spelling.
Content - 25 points
Style - 25 points
Bringing in a new textFIGHTer - 30 points
Entering textFIGHT for the first time - 50 points
I know this doesn't add up to 100. I'm a writer, not a mathematician.
LET'S GET IT ON!
Possible prizes:
1. Batch of cookies (alert cenobyte to any food sensitivities/allergies)
2. Batch of books (from cenobyte's library)
3. Batch of socks (home-made; may take time)
4. Batch of bats (I'm kidding. I want to keep my bats)
**Addendum: If you'd prefer to send me your submission by email, you may do so at c3n0byte at gmail dot com. I will post it in the comments section here, but you may wish to remain anonymous or some such silly thing.
Posts
6 comments:
Anndraya - I
I don't know how old I was, the day W.O. Mitchell came to our town library. I think it was before grade four, when the Dukes of Hazzard was the cool Friday night t.v. show. Likely it was still when “The Beachcombers” was the show to watch. Anticipated Sunday nights: sometime after the Wonderful World of Disney, and Lorne Green's Animal Kingdom, we could find out what Nick (Bruno Gerussi) and his faithful sidekick Jessie (Pat John) were up to at Molly's Reach.
But when W.O. Mitchell came to town, I must have been at least six, because that's how old I was when I got an “autograph book” for a birthday present. And it had sat unused in a drawer for a year or two by then. Because where was I going to collect autographs in this small remote town? There was the lawyer the school was named after - I took music lessons in the apartment above his law office every Tuesday. There was Goatman Bob McCabe, who was quoted by the naughtier children at school. But the only autograph I'd collected so far was the famous and long-moved-away hockey player who came to our school to give a motivational speech. Some kids had O-Pee-Chee hockey cards for him to sign; I had my trusty autograph book with gold-edged pages.
I didn't even like hockey; it was often on at the same time as The Beachcombers, and so hockey fans in our house had to resort to the radio on Sunday nights.
They announced it at school – W.O. Mitchell would be appearing at the regional library, to do a reading. Obligingly, maybe even interestedly, my mom brought me to the familiar library – children's section on the left, regular fiction in the middle, a semi-private table and chairs in the far right corner. The smell of books. In the basement, occasional travelling exhibits came through, but usually it only housed a small collection of taxidermy that got pushed aside for highland dancing on Monday nights.
W.O. Mitchell read from his book, standing in front of the librarian's checkout counter; afterwards, people applauded. Then the same people pressed forward to have books signed and to shake his hand. He did not smile once. He looked angry.
I didn't have a book. Not one of his, anyway, but I'd seen it on my parent's front room coffee table, so I knew he was bona fide famous. AND he was from Saskatchewan – just like all of us in the room.
Anndraya - II
But I had my autograph book with me, clutched in my child-damp hand. And I'd been reading since I was 3 or 4, and I was always in the library, so I don't remember if it was me, my mother, or the librarian who mentioned to W.O. Mitchell that I might be a writer one day. But let's say for the sake of memory that it was me, because that's the way I remember it.
A ferocious look came over his face.
“Why in God's name would anyone want to do that? Pick a new career before it's too late. Or get used to utter misery,” he growled, scrawling his name roughly on one of the small lavender pages in my autograph book. (Which depicted a grey tabby kitten perched in a shoe on the white padded cover. Because clearly kittens in shoes have everything to do with obtaining autographs.)
And I decided at that moment that I definitely did NOT EVER want to be a writer, never in a million years and probably not even after a million and one. I would sooner be a hangman, or collect the garbage, or shovel snow for quarters, or go through the apartment garbage cans for beer bottles, which we already did every Saturday anyway. (Then we spent it on Popeye candy cigaretts and Fanta.)
I left the library very deflated; real authors were horrible people. They were mean and old and grouchy. They were like Relic in The Beachcombers.
I don't think I ever got another autograph in that book.
But this winter I was having tea with a writer I much admire and we were talking about process. And she gave me the wonderful idea to put notes on the wall. Notes that you can move around, jot ideas on, and have a physical “map” while you do your every day work – hers used to be in the laundry room so that when she was washing her kids' clothes she could be thinking about her manuscript, and structure. She uses index cards. She can move them around, and they help her keep larger projects manageable and flowing well.
“I got that idea from W.O. Mitchell,” Maria Campbell said. “He was such a good mentor to me.”
And somewhere back in my childhood memory, I forgave the old coot. If I'd really listened to him, I'd probably have a lot more money by now.
It's too bad I don't have my autograph book anymore, because there are a lot of famous people who come through Saskatoon - but then again, unless you're getting a letter or a credit card slip signed, it just doesn't seem cool to ask.
So I don't.
[Ed. Note - that was one submission from Anndraya, split into two comments. Because apparently, you can't comment with more than 4,096 characters. That's hardly a comment at all.]
It came up in discussion the other day that old people don’t party much. When they do, it often takes a form that is unrecognizable as a party, and said festivities end early so everyone can shuffle off to bed.
It’s why old folks in my neck of the woods use “100% Pure Party from Concentrate”. Just pour and…BAM! Party’s over.
I experienced “the old ways” one day when the hunting was slow. I was hunting for white tails with a couple of gentlemen who are much older than me, and when the deer disappeared after their morning feed, these guys weren’t inclined to get out of the nice, warm half-ton and go walking through the bush after them. So now what?
“Well…we could stop in and see if C—- is still alive. That’s his place just down the road. If he’s still breathin, he’ll have the coffee on.” I sighed and removed the magazine from my rifle.
A few minutes later we were standing in front of a farmhouse door. We knocked and after a minute or so and some muffled shufflings, the door swung open revealing the smallest, oldest man I’ve ever met. He stood there squinting at us in his gray wool socks, green khakis, and plaid shirt. His face looked like a dried up, leathery apple. But then he smiled and his eyes sparkled outward.
“JAYZUSS! D—! R——! WHAT THE HELL ‘R YOU GUYZ DOIN’ HERE THIS TIME OF THE MORNIN? AND WHO THE HELLZAT WITCHOO?” I was quickly introduced as the husband of so and so who’s so and so’s brother’s cousin’s kid.
“WELL SHIT! IT’S A PARDY! C’MON IN THEN. I JUST GOT THE COFFEE ON!” The old man led us across his boot room and into his kitchen. The place smelled like strong, rusty coffee and fresh baking, with a mild undercurrent of cow shit. (If you’re from around here, you’ll understand how this quickly put me at ease.)
Coffee was poured, the sugar bowl brought out, and this tiny old man shouted out the decades and the news.
“YOU KNOW W—, DONTCHA! SEEN HIM JUST LAST WEEK! HIS DAD DIED AND LEFT HIM SOME MONEY SO NOW HE’S DRIVIN A REAL FANCY RIG! YEP – SAW HIM LAST WEEK WHEN I USED THE TRACTOR TO PULL HIM AND HIS FANCY RIG OUTTA DA SLOUGH!”
“GEEZ SHE WAS A LOOKER – BUT MEAN! DROVE THEM BOYSSAH HERS RIGHT OFF THE FARM! THIS WAS 55 OR 56, I THINK.” You know, stuff like that.
Soon enough the coffee pot was empty, and C—- got to his feet. “HANG ON,” he said looking me right in the eye, “I WANTCHA TA TRY SOMETHIN.” He shuffled off to a cupboard and returned with a 40-ounce rum bottle.
Hmmm, I thought to myself. It’s a little early for rum, but I don’t want to be rude. I think I like this old guy. I should’ve realized that things weren’t as they seemed when the older gentlemen I was with started to chuckle and shake their heads. I dismissed their reaction as the old notion that it wasn’t 5 o’clock somewhere.
“What’s that, C—-?” asked my hunting partner, hoping to clue me in. “Sippin whiskey?”
“NOPE! BURNS YER LIPS IF YA DO THAT!”
“So you still drink that stuff, eh C—-?” my partner said, giving me one last chance.
“SURE DO! KEEPS THE WORMS AWAY!” He set the bottle on the table and brought out four of the tiniest shot glasses I’ve ever seen. They were thimbles made of coloured, etched glass. He poured out our measures, quickly and steadily, and took his own between his leathery fingers.
“HERE’S TO YA!” he exclaimed, and drank it down. I did the same.
Imagine, if you can, all the great things from every party you’ve ever had…combined with all the things that turned your guts inside out. Add the things you’ve done and don’t remember…along with all the things you remember and regret. Take all those things, gently and firmly, and squeeze out the juice. Distill that juice down to 200 proof, 100% purity. Add pepper. Cleverly store this “100% Pure Party from Concentrate” in an old rum bottle, and pass it off on unsuspecting city-slickers when they come calling. Silently watch the look on their face when they drink it, thinking it’s straight rum.
My sweet Lord, it tasted like I’d been shot in the face with a musket and minie ball. The clock in the back bedroom ticked. The radio quietly droned out some long-forgotten country favourite. My throat flamed and smoked from the inside out, and spit flooded my mouth so violently I couldn’t speak for fear of drooling all down the front of my shirt.
One thimble of pure party, my friends. One thimble.
That’s how they “kick it old school” in these parts.
“Jesus…” I managed to rasp after several incredibly long moments, “I thought this was rum.”
“HELL NO!”, the old man laughed, “I MADE THAT MUHSELF! USED GRAPES! WANT ANOTHER ONE?”
“Hit me,” I gasped, even though the party was clearly over for me. When in the presence of my elders, I try not to show weakness. I also let them play their jokes on me as many times as they like.
They’ve earned their party.
I wrote up my entry on my blog:
http://mmrilla.squarespace.com/rilla_blog/2011/3/20/my-textfight-story.html
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