PWC 11 August - 18 August

[Pirl]

For those who can do the math that's 8 days. Here is the picture.


If you can't see it: http://photo.goodreads.com/photos/134...

[Pirl]

Sadly I have a problem with my account - it doesn't post pictures correctly. Most likely you can only see an icon.
Enjoy the competition.

[S.J.]

Only A Postcard Away

“Just throw the damn things away.”
Easy for Ness to say. I bit back the urge to yell at her, but the restaurant patio was too crowded with sun seekers shaded by umbrellas, drinks in hand, emptying them quickly before the balmy summer heat melted away their ice cubes.
“They’re practically evidence. I can’t.”
Never would I have thought pieces of paper held so much control over my life. However, they did more damage in the shoebox in the back of my closet than if the bastard just showed up on my doorstep.
“Sophie,” Ness leaned over the table and placed a hand over mine, the contact making me tense. “You may not be able to stop Donovan from sending the postcards, but you can control how they affect you. Throwing them out is just another step from showing him you’re not his anymore and that you couldn’t give a holy hell about the creep.”
If it wasn’t for the fact that Ness was right, I would’ve slapped her, but everything she said was bang on and I was too much of a coward to do anything. “I tried to make him stop...
“I know,” Ness cajoled.
“...he won’t.”
“I know.”
We sat and stared through our sunglasses at each other at an impasse we had reached a handful of times over the last few years since “the creep” began sending the postcards. Since Ness was my best friend, she wouldn’t give up on me, but I just wanted Him to go away and pretend I’d never loved him.
“You need to date again,” Ness finally broke the tension and sipped her pina colada through a straw. The sunglasses didn’t hide the fact I knew Ness saw my eyes roll at the prospect. “Not all guys are stalker freaks. There are actually a few good ones left if you allowed them to get past “hello”.”
“I don’t need a man when I haven’t got rid of the last one yet. And I tried that, if you remember. All it did was get me another damn postcard and the date that sucked worse than a funeral.”
Without fail, on birthdays, holidays, first days, bought my new car and once when I had a paper published in the school newsletter, I would get a postcard. Donovan’s way of saying he’s still around, following the events of my life and never far from the neighbouring shadows watching my every move.
Never anything written on it, yet always the same postcard, the same picture of those old red phone booths from the UK as his way of refusing to allow me to forget the trip we had taken to London with Ness and some college friends in our second year. A perfect trip in a time when everything fit nicely in the ‘Couldn’t Be Better’ category.
Until Donovan’s true anger and possessiveness reared its ugly head in a blow-out that left me heartbroken and battered in every intrusive manner, answering police questions with mascara streaked, bloodshot eyes and Ness screaming bloody revenge. Donovan was kicked out of school and served his too short stint in jail, and on my first birthday after his release, the postcards started coming. There was no mistaking who they were from, but nothing could done as Donovan was too careful for fingerprints and nothing was written. The law needed something to prosecute and they weren’t enough.
“Maybe he won’t be able to find us here. We’re almost two hours away from home since we’ve moved. You didn’t leave a forwarding address. We won’t even have mail delivered to the apartment.”
Food brought in by our smiling waitress ended the conversation, it easily dropped as I didn’t have it in me to argue nor the optimism Ness forced. Ordering some refills on our drinks the waitress left as I dug into my BLT using my full mouth as reason for the silenced table. The toasted bread went down roughly and I was glad when the waitress returned with our drinks and greedily sucked down what I could without embarrassing myself.
“Oh,” the waitress turned back to the table as she had moved to leave. “A guy at the bar told me to give you this. He’s totally hot. Is he your boyfriend?”
Both myself and Ness froze as the waitress held out the postcard, its red phone booth mocking me as the waitress muttered something my defended ears couldn’t comprehend and Ness began yelling and ran toward the bar then back when she couldn’t find him, the waitress apologizing without understanding why as, no doubt, the whole patio had turned to the watch the spectacle.
Two hours of distance, a new job, an apartment under someone else’s name, years of non-contact...nothing stopped Him. And everytime, just like the one now in front of me discarded on the edge of table, the postcard evoked fear, dread, despair and an ultimate emptiness that this has become my life. No matter the happiness I find, the excitement of new adventures or the prospect of future successes, I’m only a postcard away from the decimation of it all.

[Cheyenne, HoH & Proud]

Orange Embers and Black Ashes

With shaking fingers, I tied off the little bundle of postcards. My hands continued to quake until I gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. A bead of sweat ran down my nose, pausing at the curve of my upper lip. I flicked the traitorous droplet away and closed my eyes.

“Mommy?” Harper asked. “Are you okay?” He got up from his spot on the rug near the fire and startled the dog. She darted underneath my chair, bumping my legs and making me jump. I knocked over the ink well and stamp, cutting off the curse that tried to escape my lips.

A long breath of smoky, fur scented air cleared my head, and I ruffled Harper’s chestnut hair. “Mommy’s fine sweetheart.”

Harper’s eyebrow’s fell into a ragged crease of confusion. “Aren’t you sending those to Grandpa?”

I swallowed, hard, and looked over at the stack of postcards. Harper took in my expression, climbed into my lap, and let me rest my head on his chin for a few moments before he climbed away from my ‘smothering’ affection. “Mommy can’t, Baby.”

I squeezed my eyes shut against the flood of memories. There were bruises everywhere, and screaming. My body felt as if it’d been run over by a truck. I shivered and sucked in a gulp of air, jumping in my seat as if I had been thrown. Harper gave me the eyebrow look again and put his hand on my knee. “Why not?” he whispered with a fierce look in his eye. “Grandpa doesn’t see anything colorful besides that orange janitor suit.”

I felt a pang for not telling him it wasn’t a janitor’s suit, but what could I do? “Because, I’m stronger than who I used to be.” I snatched up the postcards, slung Harper onto my hip, and crossed the room to the fireplace. Looking back now, I can’t say whether or not I really meant to do it, all I can say is that in the next few moments Harper and I watched those postcards shrivel up into orange embers and black ashes.

“Does this mean I can’t call Grandpa through the glass wall anymore?”

A shaky breath racked my chest, and I closed my eyes again. “Yes.” I didn’t have the heart to squash the pedestal my son had put my father on. I didn’t have the heart to look him in the eye and say, Grandpa is not good. You can’t be around him anymore because I’m afraid he’ll hurt you like he hurt me.

No, I couldn’t say it then. Five was too young. That was a conversation we would have many years later, at the same table, in the same room, except then he would be sitting in a chair across from me with his hands folded on the table, straining with the effort to stay composed.

[Pirl]

Very good guys! Hopefully more will come!

[S.J.]

Maybe they can do a mass message type thing. It worked before :)

[Cheyenne, HoH & Proud]

If it's still looking quiet by tomorrow I'll send a message out.

[S.J.]

Thanks Cheyenne :)

[Pirl]

YOOHOO (hoo, hoo, echo, orange)
Hm, my echo must be broken.

[Cheyenne, HoH & Proud]

Mmmm. Sorry, forgot.

[Aria]

Embers and Flames
[image error]
She couldn't stand what she was reading. This letter means nothing to me! She told herself. The letter she held in her light skinned hand tells her of her death. It is a death threat. She couldn't understand who it was from. All she knew was she wished for them to stop sending her them. What do they want? She contemplated.

In cursive black inked writing, the letter said:

Dear Helen Bolragard,

You have brought me great pain again, for you have not followed the instruction I had given you. Follow the trail of the western village that leads up to the dark wood. I have no harm to you, unless you don't follow these instructions five more times. Great pain will fall upon you if you do not understand my wishes.

Fair well.

Sincerely The Stranger

I hate these notes and they do not intimidate me. As always for the last ten times, I throw the letter into the burning embers of my fireplace. I repulse every letter that enters my home and then I throw them into the flames. "Five more letters my behind!" I laugh. And as usual I ignore the next four letters until the fifth one comes.

"Have you seen Billy?" Helen ran through the streets crying. "Where is Billy!?!" Her voice rose higher. She charged to the police station that sits in between the old beauty parlor and tiny antique shop. "Officer Travis? Officer Travis!?!" Her voice echoed throughout the worn out building.

"Here ma'am!" He called out, slyly slipping out of his office chair. Behind him sat a prisoner in his cell, waiting for his court hearing and holding his head down facing the floor. Officer Travis was a thin and frail fellow. He had greasy slicked back blondish brown hair. He had stubble covering his chin and mouth and talked with a soft voice. "What can I do for you Ms. Bolragard?"

Helen Bolragard was indeed a Ms. She had lost her husband in the middle of World War II and was miserable ever since. She treasured their precious son Billy, for he was all she had left of Mr. Bolragard. Billy looked just like his father, black hair, blue eyes, and light skin.

"Billy has gone missing!" Ms. Bolragard cried. The officer patted her on the back and shoulder and told her it would be all right.

"I will do everything I can, Helen." The officer was allowed to confront Ms.Bolragard as Helen. The officer had been a close friend to her and her husband. When he had suddenly died, Officer Travis was the one to put Helen back on her feet and help with her child, Billy.

The fifth letter came that night, written in red. With shaking fingers, Helen Bolragard opened the letter. It read:

"Dear Helen,

I told you things would only get worse for you. You can probably guess what the red is, but can you guess who its from? Not me for certain, but of one you miss and love. Come to the woods now! The longer you make me wait the worse it gets for you. Have a great day, Helen.

P.S bring the letter with you to the woods.

Sincerely Your Nightmare,"

She had to do what was necessary. She packed water and small amount of food. She took her husband’s old glass gun from its compartment and packed it under her brown belt that was strapped around her dress. She put up her brown hair and looked up to the moon making her green eyes glint. Looking at the letter with hatred, she wandered off to the western part of the village. She followed the trail as instructed and found herself in a dark forest.

"Billy?" She whispered in hope of a reply, proving her son to still be alive. Unfortunately, she got no reply and continued to follow the path. Suddenly, a rustling sound came from the bush to her left. She squinted at it and saw eyes staring back at her. Eyes of anger and malevolence. These eyes were nto one of any beast, but the eyes of someone familiar. Officer Travis came out holding her son against his will. He held a blade to his throat. Her son looked tired and hungry. “Let him go!” She yelled and hissed at the officer.
“I can’t believe you would protect this.” He said shaking Billy. “Your husband didn’t die, he abandoned you! I only wish to love the both of you!”
“Like this!?! Are you insane!?!” She screeched. “If you really do you’d let Billy go.”
“Not until you admit you love me too!” Travis yelled, steeping closer. At that moment, a plot formed into Ms. Bolragard’s mind.
“What do you mean? And how do you know he abandoned us!?!”
“I was there with him in war and after it. We traveled separate ways after killing a man. He told me he couldn’t face you after that and that you wouldn’t love him the same…” This brought tears to Travis’s eyes. Her plan was working.
“He told me to forge the letter of his death and it gave me a new idea. I loved you always, Helen, but he was always in the way. You wouldn’t allow anyone love, but this boy!” He pushed Billy t the ground and he crawled to his mother. Loud sobs came from Travis. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone here, or in war! It’s your entire fault!” He lifted his blade and came for her. She knew he had officially lost his mind and she pulled the trigger ending his life.
She held her son close and covered his eyes, staring at the body of Officer Travis. Help soon arrived and she was sent home with Billy. She had no sleep that night, but her son fell asleep quickly hugging her and keeping her warm. “I love you.” She whispered and kissed the top of his head. She fell asleep still wondering if her husband was still alive somewhere, missing her like she missed him.

[[deleted user]]

Forever Postcards

I wrote the words
the sentiment
sent the picture postcard
stamped with ink, with scratchy
hand.

He replied
month after month from afar.
I wrapped his answers
tied with cord
neatly bound together

for the children
to one day know
our secret
our passion
the flow of love
indelible.

[Sophia]

Unmailed

I scribble each word onto the stiff paper. Each letter was the graceful loop of caligraphy. Every one conveys the emotion inside of me. My hope. My story. My longing to tell you the me from so far away.
The summer had been so passionate before we had to part out separate ways. Your lips grazed my neck, my forehead, my mouth. The warmth of you had spread across me. Heating my cheeks with blushes and the rest of me with pure happiness. We had both exchanged the words of out love. But when the sun started to fade sooner. When the leaves turned crisp and brown. When they turned to fire, orange, red and yellow, we had to part. I had to go back to my school, perfecting my writing. And you had to return to study business.
Now there is this unbearable distance. I try to close the growing gap between us. But realism devours the closeness we shared. I tried to send letters, postcards to tell you how I am. But, I never hear your words of response.
All along you knew you were embracing the soul of a poet. You knew that we really weren't meant to be. That you were down to earth weighed down by shackles of reality. That I fly freely above, head in the clouds, gazing down at the stars instead of up. I can't unchain your bindings nor can I pull strong enough to lift you up to me. And you can't grab my hands and pull me down to the ground. Even if you could I will still float away, like a child's balloon when he lets go. This one difference is all that keeps us away.
I write these words to you in the blackest ink I have:

The Winter air stings my face with cold
The picture is of the lake that I stare at
Longing to dive into its freezing abyss
To feel alive again
But you could wake me up if you came
Even if you answered me
The cold buries itself within me
You could warm me with you touch
Please talk to me again


The letter will always stay on the table. I will never send it. My heart shatters from the silence but I can't change for you. Do you have letters that you want to send to me that sit under your bed, unmailed? Does silence pain you too? But if you do have these letters, I know why you don't send them. It's the reason I don't send mine. Because you don't dare to dream.

[Pirl]

Five entries isn't enough! Anyone else? Please?

Nice work so far guys.

[[deleted user]]

The Hidden Treasure

"Hello?" I answered, half-asleep.

There was a pause and a beep. Great, just great, I yawned glancing at my watch. A robo call at seven freaking am in the morning.

An older, somewhat dignified voice came on the line. "Ms. Morrison?" Definitely a sales person. No one called me by my last name unless they had something sell or I was in trouble.

"Look," I said hurriedly, "whatever you have, I'm not interested. Also, please put me on your do not call list."

"I'm not selling anything, I assure you," the voice replied. I caught a slight accent. English or Australian, I wasn't sure. "My apologies for the early hour, but it’s almost 10am here in New York."

"What can I do for you, Mister?"

"Mr. Hawthorne," the voice replied. "I'm your Aunt Suzie's lawyer."

My childhood memories of Aunt Suzie were decent. Actually, she made growing up bearable. I didn't know my Dad all that well and my Mom was a single parent raising five kids. She kept us fed and clothed, but money was always tight and she had no time for the fun stuff like movies and ice cream. As the oldest, I had to grow up pretty quick and help with the care of my younger siblings. Two weeks in the summertime were always mine, though. That's when I got to go to Aunt Suzie's and just be a kid. I went horseback riding, finishing, stayed up as a late as I want, slept in even later, and could eat anything and everything that the rich kids got to, like hot fudge sundaes and corn dogs.

I went off to college to escape my childhood and never looked back. A career and two of my own kids. Aunt Suzie was a part of it all, but time spent with her became less and less as I grew older. About two Christmases ago, I sent her a card like I normally did and didn't receive a response back. I figured she was either dead or had forgotten about me.

"Ms. Morrison," Mr. Hawthorne prompted, "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, just thinking about my aunt. She's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes, she died last week at the nursing home."

"Was she alone?"

"As alone as one without family and friends is in a home, Ms. Morrison."

A twinge of guilt plucked my heart's string. "Thank you for telling, Mr. Hawthorne. Was that the reason for your call?"

"In a way, yes," Mr. Hawthorne replied. "But I also wanted to let you know that she left a small inheritance for you. You will receive it via FedEx. I just need to know your address."

I rattled of my home one. I worked out of my house as freelance designer and writer. Pay wasn't that consistent, but at least I got to spend more time with my kids. Besides, my income wasn't all that necessary. My husband was a vice president at a bank.

***

I could not stop thinking about my aunt for the twenty-five or so hours I waited for the package. I really didn't care about what it contained. Growing up without much of anything, stuff to me was just stuff I could take or leave all behind. People were the treasures. Of everyone I knew, and known, my Aunt Suzie was platinum. I really regretted that I had left her on the shelf to gather dust and die a lost, forgotten soul.

The doorbell rang. I threw open the door. Standing there in a neatly pressed uniform was the FedEx gal, "Good morning, Sally," she said. "You have only one thing today." She handed me a heavy envelope.

"Thanks, Jane. See you tomorrow."

I closed the door and walked over to the couch. The package's label showed that it was from Mr. Hawthorne. I ripped off the top and spilled the contents out on the coffee table. There was a stamp and bottle of ink that my aunt always used for her letters, my favorite ice cream scoop, and a stack of letters and cards tied up with twine. There was no letter of explanation or any sort of check, but then I hadn't expected any. While Aunt Suzie had appeared rich to me as a kid, she wasn't much better off than my mom. She just didn't have a bunch of mouths to feed.

I carefully undid the twine and picked up the first card. The words were written in my aunt's neat penmanship.

"My Dearest John . . ." It began.

I stopped reading, my hand shaking. John was my father and Aunt Suzie's brother. I picked up another card with different, blocker printing and quickly glanced through it. This writer talked about mundane things like weather and the stock market. There was a brief comment about how proud he was of Sally (me?) and how she seemed to be growing up into a "fine and decent girl."

What did I have here? Sorting the cards in chronological order, I quickly realized that my aunt and father had been talking to one another since before I was born and for a while after I graduated from college. The notes became a book with my aunt and father the narrators and treasure hunters. I spent the rest of the day reliving my life from that whole new perspective. And, in the end, I was the one who found the gold.

[Pirl]

You've only got one more day people! If you're late I won't count it! I will judge only what will be up until noon in Israel on the 19th, because some of you are up to ten hours before me and that's when I get up.
Anyway, like I was saying: ONE MORE DAY PEOPLE!

[[deleted user]]

Untitled

I looked at the bundle of postcards that people had sent me. They were so concerned, and I had no clue why. I moved them aside, looking at my unfinished story. Who would believe that a small society girl would end up working in a big city?

I carefully sat at my desk staring into space. I toyed with my other writing utensils, deciding whether I should toss it or continue. My publisher said there was a market for it, no matter how small. I was sure small meant two people in his office who thought I was "cute". I didn't want to be cute.

I undid the twine on the postcards and picked up the first one. It was from my mom.

"Dear Sweetie:

I hope you're having a great time abroad. I do miss you, but I'm sure you're making a great living for yourself. You're writing was always so beautiful. Believe in yourself, sweet pea. Don't let yourself tell you that you aren't good enough. You have my blessing in whatever you do.

Love you always,

Mom"

I stared at the postcard for a long time. Leave it to Mom to get right to the point. I put the postcard and looked at my story. I reread it. I set it down. I got up and paced. I read it while pacing.

Finally I sat down. I took up my pen, opened my ink, and started scribbling. At first I didn't know what I was doing, but eventually I picked up the thread of the plot. When in ended, I smiled at it, all of ten pages.

The next morning, I let my publisher read it. He smiled at me and sent it to the printer's. I left that day, continuing my travels. I got a letter in the mail a month later.

"Dear Friend:

I wanted to let you know that I was wrong. The market for your story was more than I expected. It made the Bestseller's List and has sold 100,000 copies. I hope you're still writing.

Your publisher"

[Pirl]

Sorry for being late. I'll publish the results soon.

[Pirl]

First Place: Ani The Hidden Treasure
Second Place: Alice Forever Postcards
Third Place: Sami-Jo Only A Postcard Away

This was a really hard decision guys! Thank you!

[[deleted user]]

Wow, thanks Pirl!!! Congratulations to Ani and Sami-Jo too.

[S.J.]

Thanks Pirl :)

[Pirl]

Welcome:D

[Cheyenne, HoH & Proud]

Congrats guys!! Good job everyone.

[[deleted user]]

Thanks, Cheyenne!

[[deleted user]]

Wow! Thank you! I, um, am speechless. That was my first ever post on this site and I knew I was up against some really good stuff. Good job, every one.

[Cheyenne, HoH & Proud]

No problem, Alice.

Ani, then double congratulations and welcome to the group! Glad to have you here, and so happy that you decided to jump right on in with the competitions :)

[[deleted user]]

Thank you! :)