Literati!

Don’t you dare scroll through all this to find out who it is!  Claudia Barillas sent this to me in the wee small hours, and I am so grateful she is the one making enemies and not me!  Our contest Of Knights and Knaves  has been tough because of the stop-start nature and extended deadlines and blah blah blah that you all know about that started because our site was hacked.  We WILL make it good to all of you by announcing a new contest in a few days, and when that happens, I do hope you will help me build back the volume of visitors we were getting before we were assaulted from cyberspace.  The site needs to expand its core of regular contestants and commentators if it is to remain vibrant.

So here is what Claudia, aka Chuck has to say:

It was wonderful to see our writers spread out in the extra space granted by this contest.  It’s always amazing to see how outside of the box everyone can be even when confined by microscopic word counts, but sometimes claustrophobia sets in, and when that happens it’s nice to get a little breathing room, which is exactly what this contest provided. Even I couldn’t resist the lure of this prompt and word count, and you can find my non-entry under the pseudonym Eleanor Arby. (Get it? L.A. Noire RP?) Obviously, I never planned on picking myself, and I informed the judges who I was, but now let’s get on to those who did get picked, our Fantastic Four finalists.

Take Out by Michael Stang was very near to my heart, as I am a woman who is sometimes subject to unwanted advances. It was refreshing to read the straight-forward dialogue and watch Liu stick to her guns even in the face of (Bolo? Bozo?) Barth’s persistence.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 By Karla Onstott is an exciting romp through the most bizarre date to ever take place. (If anyone can top it with a date story of their own I’d love to hear it. Best David Hasslehoff came since the Spongebob Squarepants movie and worst date since my first one. I love that this story was not just about the date itself, but also the telling of it. Sometimes the only saving grace of a poor date is what a great story it makes.

What Is The Question? by Diane Cresswell is an endearing look at a pair of good friends with different ideas of what’s important in life. Mysterious messages, or looking good for a man who already likes you? Both characters present their cases through very entertaining dialogue with spot-on pop culture references. I wish I could meet the guy responsible for the very amusing physical reactions that open this fun piece.

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG by Sal Buttaci brings home the prize, setting up and executing a riveting tale of love, betrayal, and someone who needs to learn how to use chopsticks instead of her face for eating Chinese food.  Not a word is wasted, the climactic shoot-out over almost before you realize it’s happening, showing just how quick our guy is. And how quick he is to get over lost love with everyone’s favorite pick-me-up, chocolate.

Congratulations, Sal. Enjoy your prize and your judging duties. Thank you to all the participants, and I look forward to writing with you all again.

He'd be the God Father of the United States of America, if he was able instead of cain. The problem with a Mafia-type hit in a Chinese restaurant is that after an hour you feel like killing someone again.

Here is another look at Sal Buttaci’s winning entry:

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG

First I figured, Okay, wild goose chase, but that was my belly talking. I’d passed up the usual buttered bagels at the office, watched Hotcakes woof down hers, mine, and the third bagel always went to a finger shoot.

“So Crane finds love,” she said through luscious lips made sexier by the gloss of runaway butter. “Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is for suckers, Remember saying that?”

My belly growled again. I popped a stick of Juicy Fruit, pulled in a deep gray cloud of Chesterfield. Hotcakes drummed long typist’s fingers on her desk, waiting. Instead, hat and coat on, I headed for the House of Chang, an oriental diner off Brooklyn’s Boerum Street.

Johnny Chang, a pal from our old Woolworth’s Five & Dime days, had phoned me the day before. “Crane, she’s Jack Knife’s babe,” then in a true-blue Chinese accent, “Velly velly bad, Clane. Confucius say, ‘Flied lice good. Flied plivate eye not so good.’ ”

In one coat pocket I carried ivory chopsticks Chang had given me for luck. In the other pocket a special friend, loaded and ready, if what Johnny told me about Mandy was true.

Johnny led us to my regular table, safe in the back of the diner, where we ordered, sipped piping-hot tea and played a volley of very small talk across the table.

A few feet away, in an alcove near the men’s room, pretty much hidden, I caught sight of two of Jack Knife’s goons playing mask games with their menus.

A setup? I’d picked The House of Chang. Mandy had invited an extra couple with guns. If she was Jack’s babe, I was that goose my belly was chasing. I was also New York’s star witness against the Knife. It made good survival sense for Jack to set me down horizontal.

I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what??? “DUCK, CRANE!”

I ducked to the sound of gunfire flashing Chang’s House. When it was over, Jack was out two shooters and his babe sat face down in a half-finished dish of “Happy Family.”

Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Plenty time to buy myself a box of Whitman Chocolates.