As I have continued my struggle to write on any kind of regular basis I had a thought… Start a contest! I will post a couple of my abstract paintings and see what kind of response I get with micro-fiction or poetry using one of the paintings below as the subject.
As an added bonus I will give away each painting to the winner that I and my small team choose. (Any ideas or volunteers to help judge would be great. You would obviously not be in the contest.)
Choose one painting to write about.
Microfiction – 300 or less
Poetry – Comparative to length of microfiction (Nothing real long, please!)
Submit back as a response to this post.
Post copy of painting with your submission.
Winners will be determined after the contest is closed on Dec. 31st. The winners and their submissions will be presented in a new post.
I will acquire the address for the winner and send the paintings out in January.
His chest felt like it was sinking, untethered to anything, so too did his broken heart. Tears flowed in unfettered streams down his cheeks wetting his shirt. Sunlight glistened like tendrils of silver flecks within each drop. As for his heart… It was bereft of the only love it ever knew.
And then I hit rock bottom… I thought to myself, if not aloud, “This is it! I’m all washed up and literally on rock bottom. Things in life cannot get any worse! All the work… all my life… and now, rock bottom. I guess that’s it! Nothing to do but… Ooo, that’s cool! It kind of looks like a fossil or something! I wonder if there are anymore around here. There’s another one! Wow! Who knew rock bottom could hold so much promise? Huh!”
I should have listened but, I was tired and didn’t want to get up again. The cries in the night are not unusual for an active-minded child. Well, that’s what the psychologist told us. “Go back to sleep, honey!” my wife said to me at 2:02 a.m. Yeah, 2:02 will forever haunt me.
You see our six-year old daughter was a sleepwalker, night talker and screamer. Often, I would wake up to a small figure cuddling close to me in the wee hours of the morning. I’d typically throw an arm around the child and go back to sleep. On this night, however, she only screamed, and my wife and I decided to give it a few minutes before I got up to go comfort her. She always slept through her nightmares, and she never remembered them the next morning.
This one time… Oh God! This one time I let here scream more than usual, and even the abruptness of her stopping should have warned me something was different. It wasn’t until the next morning when I went to her room to wake her that reality hit me. My sweet daughter was gone, and I knew in an instant I would never see her again.
I was still crumpled on the floor crying when my wife came to check on us and see what the hold up was. Upon seeing what I saw – she too crumpled. After a time, we managed to get up and discuss where we had gone wrong.
The old stone-carved idol we had found on our vacation to the Grand Canyon lay where our daughter should have been lying in sweet slumber. The old figurine that once occupied its countenance had changed to that of a young girl. I guess the old Native American man wasn’t joking with us after all.
Drip, drip, drip… “Honey, I think it’s still raining outside. It seems like a good morning to stay snuggled up under the sheets and blanket. It’s getting colder!” Drip, drip, drip… “I expect our sweet children will be bounding in here at any time taking flight to jump onto the bed and on top of us…” Drip, drip, drip…
“Is that thunder I keep hearing? It seems like it’s been going on forever!” Drip, drip, drip… “I’m sorry! What did you say? Everything seems muffled. I must be coming down with something.” Drip, drip, drip…
“Whew! Why is it getting so cold?” Drip, drip, drip… “Whoa! What the heck is that? Holy smokes that’s got to be the brightest light I’ve ever seen! Honey! Honey, do you see this? Honey?” Drip, drip, drip…
“Sargent! We can’t stop the bleeding. He’s been hit too many times.” Drip, drip, drip… “He’s been mumbling the whole time since I got here. I think he’s dreaming. I can’t make out what he’s saying, and I swear it looks like he’s smiling. Oh no! I can’t find his pulse.” Drip…
“Okay! Mark the time of death and hand me his dog tags. I think he had a family back home. He was one of the brave ones. God’s speed, soldier! Now, we need to get out of here.”