Winner of the Body Language Contest!
The first place
winner of the Body Language Contest is
C. Hope Clark
With the following entry:
The arthritic bones in her fingers fought her
effort to grasp the hairbrush with a ratchet effect that made her expect
to see white hair in the mirror instead of her 40-year-old brunette
Her stuffy nose felt like modeling clay in the
middle of her face.
Her neck rose long and white above the neck of
the olive mohair sweater as if the expensive garment had to compete for
the compliment of "lovely."
Why is it that her tanned, smooth, delicate
feet, flaunted in bejeweled sandals and smelling of gardenia lotion,
make mine ashamed to be attached to my legs?
Lipstick now invades the wrinkles of age around
lips that once made the boys practice kisses against their bathroom
When notified about her win, Hope
"What wonderful news! I'm excited!
I have such a desire to write fiction and spend every day dealing in
nonfiction, and when I saw your contest, I thought - why not? This would
measure whether I could create strings of fabricated visions rather than
report on the facts. This is a go ahead for me to start a fiction
project I've postponed for several years."
An honorable mention goes to the
Ramona Siddoway for this entry:
Her fingernails were perfectly shaped - a natural length stopping just at
the edge of her fingertips, slightly raised in the middle and gently
cascading on either side to meet the frame of each and every digit. The
crowning beauty of this masterpiece, the pièce de resistance was the
milky-white, crescent-shaped moons that adorned the bottom of her nail. It
was the evening setting of a creamy sun amongst the backdrop of a pearl pink
sky, lowering into a sea of silky peach delight.
The Adam’s Apple danced, loosely covered with folds of weathered, leathered,
sweaty skin. The knob protruded from the neck, almost as an afterthought by
the creator, adorned as a hasty embellishment. Too big to stay in, too late
to pull out.
Csizmazia for this entry:
As she drove, her fingers danced a chorus line to U2 rocking through the
car. Slender digits high kicked at red lights. Thick, metallic-blue
fingernails jitterbugged through the fake leopard skin covering the steering
wheel. Bejeweled knuckles glided in a Tango. Her fingers danced the can-can
across the steering wheel as she drove.
Her nose was a predator, a fire throwing dragon. It lay flat on her face
stalking his faults, ferreting them out with huge upturned nostrils. Like a
double barreled shotgun they shot snot at his every misstep. Her nose lay
flat on her face stalking his faults, ferreting them out with huge upturned
Lewis for this entry:
It frightened him so much, his lips cinched tight in a sphincter reaction,
and the only sound he could make when air finally escaped was an eerie