Well, well… A hearty six entries were built from scratch and laid down right here, just below. What quality was rendered! What pleasures were bestowed! From such a humble title came such lofty words. And this is the painful bit—the announcement—because, really, how could we choose? Really. Sincerely. We couldn’t. So, since it was impossible for us, we went with democratic flow, and followed the votes of the people. And so it was that we selected the beautiful, perfectly-crafted prose of Kathryn Aldridge-Morris. Congratulations Kathryn! You are officially the winner of the Contest on Bungalow. And here, for all the world to see, is your prize…
It’s been a while, for sure. Contests came, they flurried, and they left. And now they are back. We’ll roll each one out for a little longer this time. Keeping it steady. For this next one, let’s say four weeks. That means the winner will be announced on Sunday September 19, 2010.
If you’re new to our Online Contests, let us do a little explaining.
- We select a word or phrase or some theme. This time around it is Bungalow. Why? Mostly because it sounds so good. It makes us want to roll it around in our mouths like a humbug.
- You, the readers and authors, take that word and build a fifty-word story around it.
- You double check your story is precisely fifty-words long (the title, Bungalow, doesn’t count), and make sure it complies with our other rules too.
- You then upload it as a Comment below this post.
- You—and others—have a look through the stories and rate them as they appear. You tell your buddies to come and rate your story. This is optional. But it is a fun option. Like a sunroof?
- We decide on a winner, come up with some reasons why we think they should win, make a little certificate, and announce it right here on this same post.
- Everyone is happy.
- The sun shines.
- The birds sing.
- We start all over again.
Any questions, email us. If you want to look past on the glory days of old, then go right ahead. Otherwise, happy Bungalowing…
It’s low slung, like my brother’s pants. It has a slacker’s air, all nonchalant. But there are no slackers inside. There’s Grandma icing the fourth cake of the week. It’s Tuesday. There’s Jimmy and Carl building lego skyscrapers, six feet tall. Defiant, aged eight. The bungalow’s making them think high.
Arty farty sometimes tarty Gujarati glitterati like to party in my bungalow. Mildly bitchy very ditzy, sometimes tipsy Kalderashi gypsies likes to sip tea in my bungalow. If the party starts getting hearty as the gypsies still sip tea believe me things get pretty antsy in my busy little bungalow.
I saw the gaffer look at his watch.
Then he looked up and around, frowning.
Time was running out and I knew he had to get the work done.
I heard him shout to the crew … “forget the first floor lads and let’s just bung a low roof on.”
It’s boarded up. We kick idly at dandelion clocks, the seconds dissipate in the cold Welsh wind. I hold a buttercup under my sister’s chin. We spend the whole summer there in our scuffed, buckled- up sandles and cotton dresses, wishing nana would come out with angel cakes and Tizer.
Have you ever delighted in a soft rain on a tin roof while snuggled in bed in a bungalow…
pitter patter pitter patter
windows wide open
warm fragrant breeze
pitter patter
organic aroma drifting across your body
filling the room with scents only rain can bring
pitter patter pitter patter
Good intentions of her offspring; the younger generation which doesn’t yet understand aging. Trajectory: retirement, puckered shrivelling skin, a walking stick and people knowing your best interests. Boxes packed, lorries move, boxes unpacked. Done. Stairs behind her and death ahead of her. All she’d asked for was a Stannah stairlift.
[as submitted by Sarah Birke]