Week #21 Fox Tales : Announcing last week’s winners and a new story image!
If you love writing stories then this contest is for you! Write a one paragraph story about the image pictured above. Be creative, think outside of the box, and follow the contest rules!
A huge turn out for Fox Tales week #20, lots of fresh new faces! Above is last week’s story image and be sure to read the winning stories below! Congratulations to all the winner’s, it’s such a pleasure to be able to read such imaginative stories!
I was only twelve when I learned what really happened, or rather, when they finally told me. They said my parents died in a car crash. They told it to me like a tale. And that was what it became; another story, like countless others, till the day I saw for myself. The first time I visited the scene, I was seventeen and I had one more year standing in the way of my freedom. That day, I sneaked out, walked down the busy street and turned right, into the narrow path where it happened. They had described the accident so vividly I could feel it. I imagined my father loosing control of the car, just before it shot off the road and crashed into a tree, with my mother seated beside him. I was two years old and in the back seat, unharmed. I stood and studied the tree. The dents were still there, like it happened yesterday. Then, I noticed the strange stares. At first, I thought it was because I’d been standing on the same spot for so long, but then I remembered they were staring because of the way I stood; my right hand in the pocket of my jacket and my left hand placed at the back of my head. It was a pose I learned when I turned five, after I fought the biggest boy in our room. I had done it to hide my bruised and shaky fingers from them. That was twenty years ago. Now, I try to not remember the dirty floors and stinky bathrooms, or the high bunks and cracked ceiling, or the way other children looked at us and said “you’re dirty because you live in a group home” to our faces. I still walk to the scene every week and I still stand with one hand in my pocket and the other at the back of my head, not to hide bruised and shaky fingers this time, but to remember everything I’ve been through.
So cozy silence, thought Carlos in the chasm of a hill near the town where he lived, I used to go two or three times a week since the tranquility of being alone was a sensation that felt an inner peace. From there you could see all the place, the Church in the middle of the village, the College where he studied throughout his childhood and adolescence, the football field where he spent so many afternoons playing with his friends from childhood, the lake where I used to bathe on weekends , the few streets that are intertwined each other, the square where older people used to sit every evening to chat and feed the pigeons. The only fact that had that leave all that place where he spent all his childhood and adolescence to go to the big city and be able to tuck a college career gave him a great nostalgia. Chest is squeezed him and his throat is aglomeraba a large knot of melancholy, leave all that where once was so happy caused him great sadness that his eyes cristalizaban only think that already not could run around the streets to see his grandparents in the square, cool off in the crystal clear waters of the Lake which you Serbian mirror to the immense blue sky, although it was not very of going to church, would miss the sound of their bells, playing in that field with his friends all IDA. It was time to mature and come out to the world, it was then that I understood how difficult is to face life and the feel of what it is to become someone independent, how difficult that is to grow.
I rarely get up to say hello to the sun, but I'd had a restful sleep after breaking up with yet another douche bag. So, I decided to go running and since I felt so optimistic, went to the beach. Surprisingly, it was deserted. I'd thought all those early morning quinoa-eating, morning jogging enthusiasts would have held the beach hostage. But it seems like that those are urban legends. I chuckled to myself and stopped. I stared at the sun as it rose majestically. The sun must have a really good alarm clock. As these random thoughts were pestering my mind, I saw a man, leaning back and also looking at the sun. He had one arm behind his head. He seemed lost in the hues of the sunrise . As I went closer, he looked familiar. Then it dawned on me (excuse the pun). My ex - Marco. The one I got away from. A vain, self absorbed narcissist who didn't have two thoughts to rub together. He seemed so different though, contemplating nature and its beauty. Maybe he'd changed? It had been five years. People do mature. I was in a dilemma. On the one hand, I had no idea how to initiate conversation with a clingy ex, on the other hand, I wanted to share nature's blushing start to the day with someone. I went up to him and said "Hi Marco!". He smiled and said "Hi Susan." I gave him a shiner and walked away. My name is Catherine.
I could’ve completed one of my drawings from earlier this week for a Fox Tales story image but those were more like practice sketches. Plus, I wanted this week’s image to be a little different from my previous drawings. I did notice that my drawing speed has slowed down some. It took me almost a full extra hour to complete tonight’s drawing and I was pretty bummed.
Was I tried? Maybe I was distracted? Do I have too much on my plate? I can’t exactly pinpoint the cause. I did have an extremely productive day so I shouldn’t complain too much. Anywho, I hope everyone has a blast writing a new story to go alone with this image!
1st // 5SBD
2nd // 3SBD
3rd // 1SBD
Upvote & Resteem this post.
Create a separate post with your ONE PARAGRAPH stories and use the #foxtales tag.
Feel free to use the current story image for your post.
Submit your post in the comment section below.
Maximum of 3 entries - only one story per person will qualify for a portion of the prize pool so everyone has a fair chance.
The length is to your interpretation. There is no real ‘rule’ of how long a paragraph is but I’d say to use your best judgement. If it doesn’t flow right and you know that it is indeed going over then edit your writing.
Deadline // Friday May 4th // 5:00 UTC