http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless. The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds. Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer. “What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.” “Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?” He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said. At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist. He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com A Writing Contest for all You Clever Girls and Boys! Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:05:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:00:11 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-troy/ by Susan M. Toy The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts. This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays. Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends. The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party. A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays. The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer. Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement. Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe. The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach. Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry. The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot. The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party. Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely. As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip. Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/susan-toy/feed/ 1 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:53:36 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/

by Karrie Hawkins Erenoglu

If I would have embarked on my journey to the Jordanian desert at my current age of 32, my sense of security and safety would have been so shaken up that I could not have endured the experience. Thank God I was so fearless and untamed at the age of twenty five. Thanksgiving Day, 2000- Under a blazing Arabian sky we’re riding through the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan on camels. Our two Bedouin guides are as intensely serene as the desert itself. Calm and open, yet strong and severe. My pale blue American eyes are mesmerized by the spectacular desert landscape. I am traveling with my brother. We have left our home in California searching out the wildest and most adrenaline producing experiences possible. I’m getting a thrill out of the machetes and machine guns that our Jordanian guides are carrying, which are customary accessories for such men. Yet the feminine spirit inside of me feels totally overwhelmed, out of place, a young blonde interior designer traveling half way around the world from her home with just a skinny, unarmed Californian surfer dude to protect her . I try to relax and go with the experience but it takes all of my courage not to cry. My brother appears to be in a state of bliss from the raw experience and is absorbing it like a sponge which helps me to lighten up and absorb it too. In the evening our tired camels are halted at some sort of camp. There is a huge bonfire surrounded by dozens of armed Arabian men engaged in some sort of thunderous chanting while firing their automatic weapons into the luminous desert night sky. A huge black cauldron of boiling food steams over the roaring fire. The cook stirs the pot with a long wooden stick and to my horror, a sheep’s head pops up to the surface, eyeballs, brains and all. The cook offers me the first bite. I nearly gag but don’t want to disappoint the expectant eyes that are watching me. So I put the chewy, scorching hot sheep’s head stew into my mouth and manage to somehow swallow it politely, the whole crowd bursts into laughter and cheers at the sight of my half smiling, half horror-struck facial expression. After dinner we ride away from the bonfire camp into the desert darkness for a few miles. We get off the camels and unpack a random assortment of blankets to sleep on. I am expecting a nice snug tent and at first I feel disappointed and anxious about our outdoor sleeping arrangement. But then I settle down on my back under an unforgettable canopy of stars. Lying there serenely under the deep glowing expanse of the universe itself, I don’t know if I’m awake, deep in meditation, or simply lost in the kaleidoscope of the heavens. This magical state of consciousness lasts until the sand begins to appear pink with the rising sun.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/karrie-hawkins-erenoglu/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:47:02 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/daphne-rice/ by D. Richardson Not when the closet door slams into the wall. Not when the gun is pointing at my face. Not until my own scream shakes me from paralysis do I realize I will not awaken from this nightmare. Hours past midnight we drive. Black. Bleak. Traveling into Hell. Drowning in darkness. No city lights. No town lights. No ranch security lights protectively pooling barns and outbuildings. That far away from life and speeding farther still with each mile across the desert. I know there is a gun behind me. Aimed at my head? My back? My husband? Like a dream within a dream, could this be a nightmare within a nightmare? Any moment I should awaken. Squeezing my eyes tighter, like warding off the impending sting of a needle, I force myself to 1985. Warmth. Sun. A sweet breeze. I feel my body relax on Maui’s sands. And I open my eyes. Darkness. Sour breath reaches dirty fingers across the back of the car seat, crawling unbidden into my nostrils, my throat. Burning into my brain, this stench of the unknown sears fear across my heart. A scar to carry as long as I— live. Away from home for several weeks, we made no plans to extend our trip past journey’s end. Predictable lives run on routines and schedules: Arrive at 9 p.m. Unlock door. Turn on lights, turn up heat. Rush to bathroom. Unload car. Arrive. Unlock. Lights— “Geez, did we leave the heat turned up?” Like rapidly increasing gas pump prices and spinning casino slots, I imagine our dollars rolling giddily away, fattening the next electricity bill. Ready to assign blame for the oversight, I turn toward my husband. With quicker reflexes than the rest of my body, my head snaps back toward the kitchen. In the half light bathing the counter sits an out of place rectangular metal cake pan, a knife protruding from its contents. Real time ceases to exist. During suspense films, the audience hears eerie music, sees movements in shadows, frantically whispers to oblivious victims, “Don’t go there! Look out! Don’t be STUPID!” In real life there is no foreshadowing music, no helpful viewers. Victims fall prey to a phenomenon where the mind attempts to explain away warnings. BOOM! Bursting from the closet so violently its doorknob bangs into the wall, rattling pictures and the bedroom mirror, a stranger waving a handgun rushes toward me. Like tumbling toy blocks, a juxtaposition of images and sound cascade slow motion-double time around me. Deep within my soul a hidden atom of terror mushrooms into an uncontrollable, unbidden scream. Action films elaborately choreograph fight scenes followed by tidy resolutions. Bad guy wins; escapes. Good guy wins; bad guy dies. “Cut!” All the stunt men, the actors, stand up, brush off, take five. No fight scene tonight. The gunman is the director. No arguing with a director holding a gun. After endless hours of indecision, he is ready to play out the next act. It is approaching midnight. Shaking violently, I am mute. Walking out of the house ahead of him— frighteningly wary of stepping on some unknown emotional land mine, his invisible trigger point— we get back into our car. Gun pointing back and forth, back and forth, its barrel miming a malevolent serpent’s head, eyeing first my husband, then me, the man warns us not to attract attention. No real plan, no journey map comfortably spread across my lap, my eyes are fixed, frozen forward, toward night’s pitch black maw. Is this the last time we will leave this driveway? How long can one night last? How can people sleeping soundly in their beds be so blissfully unaware of this highway horror? Hours drag across the barren desert. A distant fog of light grows, illuminating a sign welcoming us to the state line. My racing heart floods with relief. Here. Finally. Freedom. “Keep driving.” Take a shoe box stuffed with old photos, dump them onto the floor. Paper windows spread haphazardly, ignorant of chronological order. Like unorganized snapshots, this midnight journey is a jumble of side roads, railroad tracks, and cemeteries. “Stop the car.” Sitting. “Turn off the radio.” Waiting. My mind flicks through a filmstrip of family faces. My heart aches to tell my husband I— “Start the car.” Emerging from darkness, my heart fills with light: truck stop fluorescence, racing casino neon, state trooper flashers, and finally, the glorious scarlet sunrise. The journey we did not plan is the trip I’ll never forget.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/d-richardson/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:11:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/

by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again. In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being "home" resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed. I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends? I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….” The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes. My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be. I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away. I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/alexandra-novis/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:55:15 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/ by Marko These events took place on day three of my Egyptian adventure. We were a group of 12. And our guide had promised to show us something really special that day. We didn't know what to expect. Our bus dropped us at a suspiciously looking part of the city of Cairo. There was a strange smell in the air, but we got used to that by then. We just thought: "We're in Cairo after all, this is something normal. Right?" With every step, we went deeper into a strange suburb. Soon garbage of all sorts was literally piled all around us. People were going through those heaps of all sorts of stuff with a strange enthusiasm and an occasional pig was rummaging around for something eatable. Children were playing around and looking curiously at 12 strange Slovenians. They were quite cute and some of them just wanted to say hello or introduce themself to a strange foreigner. No one asked for "baksheesh". We got used by then to be approached by people asking for "baksheesh" in return for some strange favor they just came up with or even for no particular reason at all. After we got through this part of the city we went uphill. Steep rocky slopes were carved with various biblical motives. We made a stop at an interesting church which was carved into the rocky side of a hill. Our guide decided it was time for an explanation. He explained to us a few things about the place we had just seen. First of all, those people we saw were mostly Christians (Muslims have no need for pigs and they mostly refuse to do any unclean work - you would probably agree that things don't get much dirtier than garbage). People we saw live there by their own choice. Sorting rubbish is what Zabbaleen (people of the rubbish in Arabic) do for a living. And they earn enough to fall into Egyptian middle class. Ground floors of their houses are used for sorting rubbish. Upper floors however are mostly well furnished. The backyards also serve as parking places for fancy cars (Mercedes, Mitsubishi or BMW is not a strange sight in those streets). On our way back to the bus, we looked at the same things as before through a totally different pair of glasses. Living in a relatively clean country as Slovenia, this is a story hard to forget. From there we went to see how people live in a family tomb. But that's a whole new story...]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/marko/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/#comments Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:44:57 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-understatement-of-the-year/ by Terri Rimmer It was June 1995 and my husband Michael and I had to go to - of all places - Guymon, OK for his commercial roofing job for several months. I had never been to Oklahoma much less to such a small town that only had five restaurants and dust balls the size of my stomach that made their pollution known in my lungs resulting in me winding up in the hospital there for my asthma - again. We had only been married less than two years and I hadn't bargained for this journey. So with me driving our Dodge and him in his 1970s model Ford pick-up with no air and AM-only radio we set out on the highway for money and adventure. Along with us was one of his employees who spoke no English but taught my husband all the Spanish dirty words he knew. Michael and I left my mom's house in Georgia where we'd been staying also for Michael's job on an assignment there amidst the silent treatment from my step dad after a long argument and my mom's home cooking we carried in the cars. Our goal was to put as many miles between us as we could because Michael had a deadline that had to be met and as a supervisor many people were counting on him. We stopped more than we should probably from exhaustion and boredom. There were long stretches of asphalt that were just plain boring, places where you could get no radio reception and you were lost with your own thoughts, not always good. Someone once said "My mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. I should never go there alone." We were broke to say the least though on paper Michael made good money. The problem was our bills exceeded both of our incomes. We finally made it to a little place called the Roberts Motel, a small lodge where a manager who looked like "Rosanna Rosanna Danna" with maybe a little tamer hair greeted us cheerfully. We worked out a discount on the room rate by me offering to clean the room instead of the maid which would insure that our Tonkenese cat we had with us wouldn't escape. He had serenaded us across five states since the Dramamine the vet promised us would work did not do its job. We couldn't afford to eat out every day so with our Wok we got as a wedding present I proceeded to make all kinds of variations of Ramen noodles and "name that meat" until we cooked so much we burned the skillet out. We were so exhausted and delirious when we got to the motel we passed out without hardly unloading the car after getting into a heated argument. We were starving yet could not move due to fatigue though we managed to order a pizza then passed out overwhelmed with tiredness. The next day Michael was scheduled to be on the job ten minutes away, a commercial contract for a storage facility out in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that two of his men who had been with the company for years were both cokeheads, later fired for jeopardizing the job involving a skyscraper under a drug-induced haze that could have cost the company millions if it wasn't caught in time. People were so trusting in this town that they would leave their cars running to go into the convenience store across the street from the motel which blew my mind to say the least. I got a telemarketing job, something I despised but a field I had worked in many times and the people there were odd for the most part with weird names like Reid A. Story and Wanda Boner. This couple was engaged and every time they introduced themselves on the phone sitting side by side it was all some of us could do to stifle a laugh. We wound up leaving there in November headed for another job in Texas only to have to return back to Guymon in December till New Year's Eve. Our Christmas was spent in that town stuck in a snowstorm in a trailer rented by the hotel with Michael working ten-hour days six days a week and me unable to breathe for the most part due to my asthma. To say we almost killed each other on a weekly basis is the understatement of the year.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/terri-rimmer-2/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/#comments Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:48:10 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/

By Mary J. Breen

Assignment: teaching high school English and Science as a CUSO* volunteer Destination: Binatang, Sarawak, Malaysia Dates: September 1966 – July 1968 Qualifications: university degree, good intentions, and a desire to see the world. At least that’s all I thought was needed. And since I had a recently-acquired B.Sc., starry-eyed good intentions, and no interest in a nine-to-five job if the alternative was travelling, I thought I was good to go. Never mind that I had no teaching experience. Never mind that I had no knowledge of Malay or Iban or any Chinese dialect or Islam or global politics or cultural imperialism or a million other things. At least I knew one thing: in Southeast Asia, you must never cause anyone to lose face. Our journey began in Vancouver on board the Prime Minister’s luxurious private plane which stopped for overnights in Honolulu and Guam before reaching Singapore. From there we flew to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, in order to board an old steamer. I imagined The African Queen, but our ship was larger with panelled staterooms and stewards who served us a dinner of rice, vegetables, dried fish, and cups of very sweet tea. Finally we were on our way to the mouth of the mighty—and muddy—Rejang River; a huge red and orange tropical sunset on one side and coastal kampongs just like in National Geographic on the other. Finally I was entering real Borneo, land of headhunters, orangutans, crocodile-infested rivers, and the oldest rain forest in the world. I awoke to find we had docked. From my berth, I watched packs of sinewy men run up and down the gangplank doubled-over under the weight of boxes and bags. Then one of my CUSO friends came to my room to tell me he’d heard that my village was the next stop, just an hour away. Soon there was another knock, and a man in a white shirt and dark pants came in. He said something I didn’t understand, and without my glasses, I assumed he was a steward. I just lay there chatting with my friend, waiting for the man to do whatever and leave. He just stood there, silent and waiting, until finally he came over to my berth—right at head level—and spoke again. This time I understood him: “I am your principal.” I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to my chin. Here was my new principal for my new job, for my new life, and not only had I completely ignored him; I had met him while lying around barely dressed chatting with a man in his pajamas! I had managed to make all three of us lose face on my very first day. I found my bags, said a quick goodbye to the others, and drove off with him in his little car. Neither of us then or ever mentioned my colossal blunder. The narrow roads were the colour of a broken red brick. We passed a few little farms with rubber gardens beyond, but most of the road was enclosed with olive-green trees that he called “jungle.” This was the jungle I’d come so far to see? Ancient and impenetrable, maybe, but where were the tangled vines, the swinging monkeys, the hornbills, the orchids, the pitcher plants? To my inexperienced eye, these dusty, monotonous trees seemed no more exotic than northern Ontario bush. Only later, on journeys with my students, did I learn how wrong I was and what a spectacular thing a jungle is. Suddenly, we turned off past a small stone gate. “Here we are,” he said. “Here” was a large clearing with several low wooden buildings scattered about—classrooms, a lab, an office, a dining hall, a mosque, teachers’ houses, and student hostels. Only one thing seemed definitely amiss: the classrooms had no sidewalls, and the jungle was right across the road. I asked, as casually as I could, which creatures I was likely to encounter in these wide-open rooms, and I was very relieved to hear that I could only expect mosquitoes, snakes, cicadas, bats, and, rarely, scorpions. The monkeys, orangutans, wild boar, and crocodiles would apparently be staying deep in the jungle. And that’s exactly what they did. And so, after a rather shaky start, I began two years of heat and monsoons, loneliness, lasting friendships, frustrations, challenges, rewards, and hard work. I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. * CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) is similar to the US Peace Corps.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/mary-breen/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:17:42 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/ by Paige Walton The date: December 15, 2006. The occasion: a girls’ weekend to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The destination: New York City. It was six in the morning and none of us are normally kind until noon, but on this day we were animated and happy and we hadn’t even consumed our caffeine yet. After an hour-long inspection at the San Antonio airport, we were finally on our way. Upon arrival, we jumped into the shuttle with other tourists and began our journey. It took two split-seconds for our fight-or-flight reflexes to kick in as our driver zoomed through the tunnels at an alarming rate. This guy swerved and honked and laughed at the terror he saw plastered on our frightened faces. Our version of traffic is a sporadic trip through Dallas, not a free-for-all on an underground Autobahn for heaven’s sake! Checking into the hotel was a much calmer experience and then we headed to our second destination, of which we were most apprehensive: the dreaded New York subway. Everyone always says that Manhattan subways are frightening, so that is exactly what we expected. Well, everyone is wrong. People were extremely nice; even when I gave the wrong address to a local, she kindly put us on the correct path – after laughing at our “ya’ll’s” and “ma’am’s”, of course. Like many tourists, one of my favorite places to visit was the Statue of Liberty. We arrived early, stood in serpent-shaped lines, and were some of the lucky few who procured tickets to enter the statue for the day. We spent hours going through the screening process: taking off our boots and belts; emptying handbags; having our hair blown to bits with bomb-detecting machinery; mingling with people from all over the globe. As we entered the sacred structure, our guide gave us an invaluable education on the precious gift from the French and sent us off to roam the museum-like halls. We watched history come alive as we read about those who created and assembled Lady Liberty. We saw children compare their bodies to the size of her toe. We read stories and noted brilliant architecture. Then, we made our one dismal decision of the trip: do we take the elevator up or climb the stairs? “We can climb those stairs,” my friend Meagan said. “It can’t be that bad,” Michelle agreed. “We’re still young,” Kellye added. “We can do it!” “Let’s go!” I decided. The rest is a New York nightmare. We began the climb at a fast pace. We started at the bottom and headed quickly up the structure, noting the spiral staircase and the sections of the statue that are no longer permissible. We climbed and climbed and climbed. We huffed and we puffed. And then we got the giggles. “We are idiots!” Kellye cackled. “Why didn’t we take the elevator?” Michelle guffawed. Meagan and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t continue climbing and inhale vital oxygen at the same time. We had to sit down. We had to catch our breath. We had to stop the fits of hysterics. We had to wipe the tears from our faces. We had to move over and make room for the smarter people who were walking down the stairs after their elevator ride up. Note to future vacationers: when asked by Statue of Liberty officials if you would rather take the elevator than the stairs – do the intelligent thing: TAKE THE ELEVATOR! Although I’d do it again tomorrow, laughing our heads off in the Stature of Liberty simply because of a dumb staircase was something that made our trip all the more memorable. The three-day adventure was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced to date. I’ve always done something fun for my birthday but this trip took the cake! We ate pizza and splurged on scrumptious cheesecake. We visited the obvious tourist sights: Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Tiffany’s, and many other fabulous places. What we saw in three days should be more like a two-week vacation. Our feet were tired, our minds were overwhelmed, and our bank accounts screamed, but we reveled in the entertainment of it all. Christmas in New York is something that everyone should experience. I regret that we didn’t go ice skating, nor did we take in the views from atop the Empire State Building. But I’m definitely headed back. It’s not a question; it’s just another trip that I’ll soon never forget. Next time though…I’ll take the elevator.]]> http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/paige-walton/feed/ 0 http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:07:54 +0000 webmaster http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/elynne-chaplik-aleskow2/ by Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan. This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times. Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force. I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway. Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension. My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me. Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. T