It’s contest time again!
I haven’t written much this year, but if there’s one contest that’s going to dig in its claws and drag me back from a writing slump kicking and screaming, it’s Fall Writing Frenzy. 😄 🍁 👻 🎃
This contest is special. Two years ago, in 2020, it was this contest that brought my critique group together and we’re still going strong today. One year ago, in 2021, I was selected as one of the winners in this contest.
I’ll be honest—I didn’t think I would enter this year. It took awhile for any inspiration to strike. But I had a tiny seed of an idea and I couldn’t completely abandon it. Of course, I had to make things difficult and write my entry in limerick (I wrote last year’s entry in haiku)…why do I do this to myself? 😅 It was a challenge, but I kept opening my laptop and tinkering little by little until, lo and behold, I had a finished story.
So, for this year’s contest, we had to choose one of 14 images provided and write a story about it in 200 words or less. Read more about Fall Writing Frenzy and see the complete rules here.
Here is the image I chose, and my story is below. I hope you enjoy it. 🦴 (One caveat—this story is a nod to the struggling writer, so if you’re not a writer, you may not appreciate it as much. 😉)
By Jessica Hinrichs
Here lies old Mister Jones,
a mysterious sight of unknowns.
But how did he get here?
A corpse on the frontier,
reduced to a bathtub of bones.
I asked all his friends ‘bout his story,
expecting to learn something gory.
Instead, what I found
knocked my boots off the ground.
He’d been destined for fortune and glory!
It turns out that Jones liked to write.
His future had looked rather bright.
But he didn’t know
getting published is slooow
or that waiting would be such a plight.
His debut had been long awaited.
At first, he was feeling elated.
But all of the waiting
was highly frustrating
and left him depressed and deflated.
So he set up his tub in a nook,
intending to read a good book.
He’d just settled in,
was about to begin,
and then death slithered in like a crook.
In his youth, he was dignified.
Now he’s haggard and hollow-eyed.
He’d been waiting so long,
(and this part feels wrong)
he just keeled over, dried up, and died.
The publishing rigamarole
had swooped in and stolen his soul.
And now he’s deceased.
Mister Jones, rest in peace.
Writing had been a worthy goal.