Contest winner!!
The judges' results are in and we have a winner in the paragraph contest. Congratulations to Steve Raker for his entry “Armagotcha or Introducing President-elect Hillary Dead.” There were three independent judges (I did not participate in choosing a winner). Seven people entered the contest. Two of the three judges picked Steve’s piece as their number one choice. The third judge had Steve in the top three.
Steve’s prize is the book “Zounds: A browser’s dictionary of Interjections” by Mark Dunn. Go here to hear a short piece about the book that aired on Morning Edition last week.
Contest background:
It’s January 19th, 2009. President Bush is packing up in the White House. The paragraph must begin here. The only other rule is the paragraph cannot be longer than 250 words. Remember that even though this is the end of W’s reign, it is the beginning of a novel. The end of the paragraph should only raise questions, not provide answers.
Steve’s winning entry (cartoon bomb his own):
"Those Democrats are so darn stupid. They really think we're gonna leave. Let's start callin' them Dummycrats, eh Karl." "Sure thing Boss, good one. Hand me that detonator, would ya?" "This one?" "No, that's the telephone. Nevermind, I'll get it." "You are so smart Karl. I sure do love you." "I know Mr. President, I love you too." "How much stuff are we gonna blow up tomorrow Karl?" "Remember sir, we discussed this, it's really better if you don't know. You just need to remember your lines for when you climb on top of the rubble." "I know, I know, I'm just so excited; this is so cool. Can I use the bullhorn again?" "Of course Mr. President, we've been over this. Shouldn't you be getting ready for bed, sir?" "Get ready for bed, not go to bed." "OK." "Those stupid Dummycrats." "Yes sir, good one."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I enjoyed all of the entries and include them here (in no particular order) for you to enjoy. Thanks to everyone who participated.
-- “A Political Thriller” by Al
“Whoda thunk it, huh?” the taxi driver said to Tom MacGilly, as he gazed past the heavily fortified security checkpoint that was the entrance to the District. “Bush is probably packing up his cowboy boots in the White House right now, and Santorum’s gonna be the new guy. Whoda thunk it?” Tom grunted and shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. He was running late. “These damn checkpoints,” the driver grumbled. “You know, sealing off the District to control all this traffic ain’t gonna stop the next anthrax cloud from killin’ more people, huh?” The car in front of them jumped forward – Tom could see the soldier lean into the car, scanning the offered license. “I’ll bet Santorum’s thanking whoever did that anthrax attack last fall. That asshole was scramblin’ to catch up to Edwards – man, talk about the perfect excuse to lock up the country.” Tom glanced sharply at the driver, who seemed happy to prattle on about politics. He was right to a degree. Former senator Rick Santorum’s pro-military, socially conservative agenda had not resonated with a public grown tired of alerts, curfews, and midnight raids gone wrong. On that night of September 11, 2008, the Baltimore Inner Harbor crowd had been exposed to inhalation anthrax. About 200 hadn’t gotten the antibiotics, or had just ignored instructions to pick them up. The public’s desire to strike at terrorist groups and lock down civil liberties was the perfect backdrop for Santorum to win the race. It was almost too convenient…
-- An untitled piece by Vanessa
"Thank you Mister President. It's been a pleasure to serve with you, sir." Gee Dubya's green carapace rippled in scaly pleasure as his chief of staff removed his ceremonial features, the rubbery humanoid disguise that had irritated, scratched and rankled him for so long now. Tongue flickering from side to side in contentment, he accepted the sacrificial votive, and smugly distended his jaw to engorge his throat with the severed hands of his servant, symbolizing the long service and loyalty his number two had just pledged to his leader. It would be an uncomfortable two weeks until Rice's forepaws grew back, and Gee Dubya's knowledge of the anticipated discomfort made the skin-crunch and bone-crackle of the honorific all the more precious, in these, his last hours in office.
-- “Bitter George” by Karen M
George finally had to admit he was feeling just a little bit bitter, and this was in spite of his many achievements over the past four (really, eight!) years. So what... if he had manipulated Congress, the Feds, the Courts, the effin’ Economy (Stupid!), and those suckers-- the American people, and had trashed the global environment, and had beaten them all up-- all those sacred cow institutions--enough to bring on the tipping point of the impending Rapture? So what.... if he was now packing up all of his mementos (like that gun presented to him by the Iraqis whose hands had been amputated) in preparation for his first space trip, where he would while away the final months before the End Times orbiting the moon in the space station? So what... if he’d finally had his ultimate revenge on all of those people who had thought they were so much smarter than he was, by ruining their world for them? He still couldn’t believe that it was real.... this last betrayal, by one of the wealthiest (and, okay, smartest) men in the world and the one other person he thought would always love him unconditionally. It was beyond the pale. They were both traitors to their class. Not to mention...Principle, Religion, Ethics... all that crap! How could Laura have left him--her devoted husband, for crying out loud!--for Warren Buffett? It was inconceivable. Sure, the guy may be smarter, and maybe even more principled, and, sure, he probably could have been president, too, if he’d wanted... but he’s old, dammit, old, and not nearly as fit as The One They Call 43. What, he wondered, is this world coming to, when the First Lady of the world’s foremost Superpower can just shrug off her responsibilities and go off gallivanting with one of the richest (and, okay, I said smartest) men in the world? Huh? Answer me that if you can! Hah! Bet you can’t, can you!?
-- An untitled piece by Matt
Jeb looked at W. "dude, we couldn't get the term-limitation taken away, but there's no rule against you being my vice-president." W said to Jeb, "rock on."
-- An untitled piece by Mark
Carrot Top could scarcely believe in his good fortune. Was it all that long ago that he was considered little more than an underachieving doofus, kept aloft by virtue of superior genetics? Shaking his orange locks, he smiled in sweet amazement at the new road that fortune had laid beneath his feet. There was, of course, the matter of poor tiny troubled Togo, but he pushed the thought away on this Inauguration night. The seltzer sizzled on his tongue.
-- “Waking Up, January 19th, 2009” by Jill
Some days, waking up to the news is a bad idea. My eyes weren’t open before I hear, “President-Elect Condi establishes a mandatory national dress code. ‘Not just for students,’ she explains, ‘but for everyone. Let’s have some pride, people. We’re Americans, gosh-darn it!” Charlie’s already at work. Most people aren’t working, which means Cops have plenty of overtime. I made the mistake of staying in bed without turning off the radio. “Foxnews, the United States’ only news network, announces a hostile takeover of NPR. ‘When we say hostile, we’re not messing around. We’re FOX, dammit. We came in there armed to the teeth. Not that we needed weapons; those bed-wetters ran and squealed like kittens when they saw Bill O’Reilly leading the charge.’” I quickly turned off the radio just in time to hear someone running up the stairs. Before I could stick my head under the covers, Charlie runs in and shuts the door behind him. “What are you doing home?” I asked. “I’m not going back out there,” he said, catching his breath. “You can’t believe the smell.”
10:41:29 PM  Novel beginnings
|
|
