I love writing challenges and contests. And I’m as impatient as all heck. I just hate waiting for it to be over to get to see all the other entries and finally hear who won. So, I figure, why wait?
Here’s a computer, here are writers, let’s do this!
The contest will start at 1:30 EST.
The Rules
- You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre.
- You must directly reference today’s prompt: net
- Post your entry as a comment to this post.
That’s it. I’ll close the contest at 1:45. That’s five minutes to write, and a window of ten minutes to make sure your entry posts without errors. Or five minutes to dither, five minutes to write, and five minutes to make sure your entry posts without errors. Or ten minutes to fuss about not having the time to do this today or who the heck cares about that and then five minutes to write and hit the “post” button and pray it works the first time.
But we have to have a winner, because it’s no fun if you don’t get to hear that yours was the best ever. So, voting!
At the close of the contest, if there are more than six entries, I’ll seek out a few writers to be this week’s nomination committee. (If you’re interested, please email me.) They’ll have two hours to email me their two nominations. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EST I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
(I’ll join the fun but won’t be eligible to win, since I got inside information on the prompt.) 😉
For updates, you can follow my blog, subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.
What’s the prize?
Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.
A Few Notes:
In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry.
I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.
This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.
The boy threw the net in the water again, and waited as it settled before he pulled it up.
Empty again.
"Not fair," he thought. "Why does it work for them?"
He looked over at the children on the other dock, laughing and squealing over the tiny fish flipping about in the net. Their dog barked at the wriggling mass, jumping back a bit with each one.
The boy halfheartedly threw the net into the water one last time.
The fish was so big that it ate him.
I just cannot seem to stay entirely on target when I'm using prompts. *sigh* Oh, well. I'm putting it up anyway (in a different comment).
She looked out at the crowd from behind the curtains. Heart pounding, stomach roiling, limbs shaking. This was not what she signed up for.
What was she doing here? She was a professional dancer, but this didn't feel like professional dancing. Pulling her head back from the heavy velvet, she walked back to her dressing room. There was no way she would back out now. She signed a contract and she would give them a show to remember.
She slipped her satin robe off and grabbed the package of stockings on the table. Time to get dressed. The fish-net stockings almost snagged a few times, but she managed to slide them on without making any of the holes larger. Her corset followed. She pulled her assets up with her hand so they threatened to spill out if she leaned over too far. Checking her makeup and overall look in the mirror, she nodded, determined.
As she stepped on stage, the crowd went wild. She smiled.
The show must go on.
Bethany tried it on. Secured it with several bobby pins over her hair. A mesh to capture the unruly snakelike strands of hair created by lack sleep and nightmares.
She took the hair net off and set it on the vanity beside the vixen-red lip stick, the glass jewelry box, and the abandoned wedding ring.
Snapshots of Bethany and her mother stacked along the edge of the mirror. Her mother's eyes stared back at her. The same gray eyes, hope lost, dulled.
Tears glossed her eyes and spilled over the cusp her lower lid. They trailed down the front of her face, trickling a path to her lips where the salty taste served only as a memory of her mother's death.
She'd served this country and died at sea. But the little back heels beside the vanity chair and the the small tin holding Bethany's first lost tooth revealed her mother was so much more than a sailor's lunch lady.
Bethany tucked the lipstick and hair net into her pocket, gave a small smile to a photo of her mother, and headed downtown to enlist.
Our chipped, coffee-browned porcelain mugs rattled like a cacophony of angry metal raindrops when the twin-engine Curtiss F9C Sparrowhawks flew over the netting of cheesecloth that settled atop our coastal village like a shroud.
My daddy flew a Curtiss F9C Sparrowhawk. He flew them for the United States government. My daddy flew to kill the bad guys in a pepper spray of rat-tat-tat that matched the beats of my heart whenever I heard the angry buzzing of warplanes overhead.
One day, I know my daddy won't come back from flying his Curtiss F9C Sparrowhawk. I know there is a little girl across the river who thinks her daddy is the best pilot in the world. That girl is just like me.
What if she's right? What if I'm wrong about my daddy being a flying ace?
I hate her.
@pfallerj
He drew the net in over the bow. The struggling and straining catch tore at the water; their last fight for freedom. Hussa grunted with the effort, her muscles standing out on her usually feminine arms.
"Give me a hand, Riosa!" she cried.
Riosa flew to her side, but hesitated. The thrashing net, the bubbling water filled him with revulsion. He steeled his nerves before grabbing the slack behind Hussa's horny hands and tugging with all his might. With a final cry, the two of them managed to bring the catch aboard.
The catch shivered and danced in the moonlight, like quicksilver. Droplets of water splashed Riosa's face and hands as he stared in awe at the creatures.
"These aren't fish, Hussa," he said quietly.
"Of course not," said Hussa with a husky laugh. "When I said we were going on a dream-fish, what did you think I meant?"
"I thought you meant on the fishing trip of my dreams."
"Just so, young 'un. Like I said."
Joseph couldn’t believe he’d done it. He’d traveled across country, faced down escaped gorillas at the zoo, and even flew a prop plane. All just to make sure that his sister had the red net their mother had given them when she died.
“Okay, sis,” he said, panting as he handed it over to her. “What was so important that you needed this net now.”
“Simple, brother mine,” his sister said. “This net is part of an important magical ritual, one that mom preformed every year. The net is used to capture the evil’s that come to us from the red dimension. Without this net and said magical ritual, the evil get’s loose and the whole world is in peril. I had the book with the ritual in it, and you had the net.”
“And I needed to get it here before the blue moon because the ritual required it?” Joseph asked.
“Yup,” his sister smiled. “It’s as simple as that.”
Joseph wiped sweat and dirt from his brow and realized that the gorellas had managed to cut up his arm pretty badly.
“I hope that getting a plane ride here wasn’t too much difficulty,” his sister said, looking him up and down. “You look like crap.”
Joseph groaned.
“Sis,” he said. “If the fate of the world didn’t hang in the balance, I’d strangle you with that net right now.”
Sorry, my twitter handle is @lil_monmon
The humidity was so thick you could taste it. It tasted rotten with a little sweet at the end. I awoke in a sweaty daze and felt her arms draped over my chest, stuck to me, and I peeled it off and sat up. The mosquito net covering our bunk draped the room in a gray haze. I pulled it close to my face and peered through it, looking out through the dormitory, watching everyone sleep. All the other couples. I could hear someone breathing hard, a man, and a woman talking in her sleep, saying the name “Christine” over and over again in tiny spasms. A dream, I guess. I lied back down and as if it was its destiny, her arm found its spot again along my chest. I looked over at her sleeping, her nose wrinkling, a facial tick here and there. I ran my hand down her side and onto her hips, warm to the touch, and I could feel her legs kick together a bit, running like a cricket’s might, the way they always do when she’s excited.
“Hey,” I whispered at her, waited a moment, but got no response. “Are you awake?”
A minute went by and still nothing so I lied there, anxious, sticky and hot, wondering what in the world we were doing tomorrow, and why I ever agreed to go to a couples retreat in the middle of the rain forest. I yawned, the heat of the room finally dulling my senses again, and as my eyes closed, I looked at the top of the mosquito net and saw a great big gaping tear, then noticed a tiny beady mosquito perched at the hole, looking in, right down at me, wondering which one he’d have first.
Sometimes love hits so hard, it imprints on the flest. Like a fine mesh net pulled so tight it disappears under the skin.
You'd think a love like that would change everything. It doesn't.
We found each other among the ruins of the street of yellow stars. Empty buildings and broken glass, mute witnesses.
The world had already bled out leaving only gray and drizzle. Just a touch of hands, a soft brush of lips. Enough to banish the pain, loss and dispair. But only for a moment. The love would last forever, but the world gives no free passes — not even for love.
But there was a moment. A moment between the ash and the dust, where everything was perfect.
Don't ask me if that moment was worth everything that followed. Because I have no answer.
Oops. Forgot my twitter: @robhollywood.
Sarah lay in the hammock watching the half moon rising. The netting hanging above was meant to block the hot sun, but only kept out the cool breeze this evening. Was it really the 12th of June. It was hot as August and the sweat lay pouring off her. She was sure the ground beneath her must be drenched.
She placed her hand on her large stomach. The baby was quite tonight. She was surprised how grateful she was for the moment of peace within. With only 7 days to go in this pregnancy, she was tired and ready to be done. Hopefully, she thought, daddy will be here for your first birthday at the latest. being a military family was not easy.
Tom lay half a world away on the sandy ground by the roadside. Fire was somewhere nearby and his chest was screaming in pain though no words could escape his mouth. I'm sorry, he thought as he realized his fate. He looked at his buddy crouching above him. He hoped his eyes said to tell his girl he'd be there for her birthday, just not the way she hoped.
"What is that?" he asked as he ran his hand over the slightly scratchy surface.
"You need to guess, silly. That's the whole point."
Mitch concentrated and rubbed his hand over the hidden surface again. It was scratchy, yes, but there were silky patches as well. He concentrated on the pattern, randomly following the dips and swirls as his mind tried to interpret the feeling into an image.
His tongue swiped over dry lips and he bit his lower lip in concentration as he brushed over the hidden surface one last time.
"I'm waiting," his lover sing-songed. "Time for you to prove your skills."
"Fishnet stockings."
"You peeked, not fair, that's cheating."
"Admit it, I win," Mitch chuckled. "And since you promised to give me whatever it was if I won . . ."
"Fine." He watched with bated breath as the fragile net was unclipped and slipped down shapely legs. "You're no fun."
"I think you're wrong," Mitch replied with a wink as he started to pull the first stocking over his own manly limb. "I think you'll find this lots of fun."
I also forgot to include my twitter handle, it's @blanchardauthor.
Seriously? I thought. A net? Why on God's green earth would anyone come home from an estate sale with a net? Especially an estate sale from the late-great Betty Perkins.
Who is Betty Perkins? Only the greatest actress of Hollywood's golden age. Sure she had won countless awards for her work with other silver darlings, but she was best known for her love of fashion. More specifically…shoes. Oh, the shoes she must've had. Rows and rows of glorious shoes.
But did my roomate, Hermelda, come home with any of those coveted shoes? Like I specifically told her to? No, she came home with a damn fishing net? What was she planning on doing with it? She's not bringing it into the apartment, that's for sure. I mean, how old was that thing, anyway? God only knows what's been stuck in there. And…eww…it looked like whatever was stuck in it last part of it was still there.
I love Hermelda. Really. But sometimes I just didn't know what she was thinking. I always knew she was a little on the strange side, but I liked her anyway. Kind of took her under my wing, you know? I saw potential in her.
I brought her out to sunny California, took her to all the best shops on Rodeo, basically gave her a complete makeover. My best one to date, if I may be so bold. Then send her out on her own and THIS is what happens. I can see there is much work left to be done.
A net, for God's sake. A damn fishing net.
"Hermelda," I said. "We need to talk."
Ugh! Forgot my Twitter ID trying to get it to post (dang html tags!).
follow me @JulesCarey.
Time!
Thanks everyone!
I'll see how many we ended up with and probably grab a few writers to nominate ones for the poll. If you have a writerly friend or want to tweet for one, have them email me through the link in my profile at the top of the page.
I'll post again here and tweet about it when the polls are open.
In any case, I'll close the voting at 9:30 tonight, and the winner will be announced.
Thanks again!
I forgot my twitter name, too.
Follow me @cathleenholst
Poll is up. Thanks to our guest judge, Sian O'Leary for helping nominate our five finalists.