# Anonymous Literary Maneuvers February 2019 - "Footprints in the Snow"



## bdcharles (Feb 1, 2019)

*Anonymous comp: "Footprints in the Snow"

*

Feb 2019​ _Word count: 650 excl title; end date: 15 Feb 23:59 GMT_​*

Introduction - PLEASE READ*

This month's prompt, as voted for by  you, is  "Footprints in the Snow", for  which  you are to write a maximum of  650  words of fiction.  However I would like to try something a little different. I would like all entries to be submitted anonymously. On top of that judges' entries can be scored as normal but only by the other judges - no scoring of your own work. Pick your  own   title, write about whatever  you  want,  in whatever prose     style  and  interpreted as you see  fit, as  long as  it's related in  some way  to   the prompt, and then send it to me as a PM. Sound easy? Good. It is easy  Just let me know whether you want it in the secure area or not. If you happen to submit your story as yourself, not to worry, it's not the end of the world. You can edit your post and resend it to me as long as its within the 10 min grace period. If you do leave it up, don't worry. It's just an experiment to try and see if things seem different when some of the information is removed, like those restaurants where you dine in the dark. I will reveal the identities of all judges and participants with the scores _unless you tell me otherwise. _

The full pack of *4* judges this month are... for me to know and for you to find out! If you  wish to join this month's panel (max of 4),  please sign up    for  judging by PM only. If you want  to  judge   and I     left you out, send me  your scores before the end of the month.   If    you're    listed here and don't wish  to judge, please let me know at          once.

If you win, you'll get a badge  pinned to your profile plus a           month’s access   to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll  have      access to hidden forums. Pretty neat,  eh?

All entries that wish to retain their first rights must be marked as "SECURE" and I will post in the *LM Workshop Thread**.*

All Judges scores will be PMed to* bdcharles* _as soon as possible after the competition closes. _*Note:* I will give judges *till the last day of the month* to deliver their scores and then I will post with what I have, to ensure the continued slick running of WF to which we all contribute.

 All anonymous entries will be PMed to* bdcharles*. 

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*Rules*




*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum. 
*No Poetry!*              Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place     for      your     poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for   good        competition  over    there. Some of us fiction people   wouldn’t be   able      to understand  your    work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk. 
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there. 
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored. 
*Only one entry per member.* 
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.*              If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft     Word    is     the   standard for checking this. If you are unsure of     the  word    count    and   don't have Word, please send your story  to    me and  I'll    check it    for you. 


Everyone is welcome to participate, _including judges_. A judge's    entry will receive a           review by their fellow judges, but it    will not receive a score _from the submitter_.   If you do try and score your own entry, I shall have to remove said score  Please         refrain from 'like'-ing or    'lol'-ing an entry until the   scores  are        posted.

Judges, if you could send              the scores one week after the closing date it will ensure a     timely  release    of results, and by the last day of the current month, at the  latest. Any later than that and  I will have to post with any scores that I have.   Please     see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Friday  night 15th of February at 11:59:59 PM, GMT, on the  dot. Please note    any time differences where you are and be mindful of daylight savings    time.​

Click here for the current time. Good luck!


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## bdcharles (Feb 4, 2019)

FORGIVENESS

There is one kind of snow that I love; barely below freezing, no wind,  with big, soft flakes. Many of them. And the quiet; those type of snows  are always so very quiet, you can almost hear the voice of God. It seems  a sin to speak out loud in such a snow fall.

It had come during the night, and the morning found me standing at my  kitchen window, coffee cup in hand. I am old, but that morning it was  hard to resist getting into coat and mittens and going out and just  standing in the yard; in that lovely, God-gifted snow. I stayed in my  pajamas instead, watching at the window this time. That’s when I saw  them.

Little indents, barely visible at first. They began at the edge of the  patio and went off into the yard. So small, I thought, but when the  pallet is blank, discerning even the slightest irregularity is not that  difficult.  I took a sip of my brew and eventually followed the line of  footprints onto the blank page.

There is something sad about the first disturbance of newly-fallen snow,  almost unforgivable. So few things arrive in such pristine condition,  but it never remains. There are snow men and forts to build, shovels and  snow-blowers to utilize, and in no time, that rare moment of virgin  precipitation is gone.

I forgave the baby rabbit. A little soul, so young, had come out of the  hutch, away from siblings and its mom, and traveled across the white  expanse. A little boy, I thought. Tentative at first and staying close  to the familiar patio edge, he was now in the middle of the yard, alone.  My little adventurous baby bunny. I smiled at my imagination, still  capable of bringing a story to a small moment in the snow.

He stood in profile at the end of the line of dots in the white; in the  open and probably wondering where to go next. He was a brown baby, sharp  contrast against the pale, with tiny floppy ears. I imagined he was  looking at me and I lowered my cup so he could see me better. Was he  wondering why I hadn’t come out to play?

He sat still for so long that he almost seemed artificial and then he  performed a small, endearing sideways hop toward the house again, toward  me. I wondered if he was going to go back the way he had come, if his  adventure was over and he couldn’t wait to tell those back in the hutch  what fun it had been, being alone in the open space.

Yes, I forgave the little fellow for his tracks on that white pallet,  but what happened next made me wish he had never been born with such an  adventurous spirit.

On days such as this, everything seems to be of one color, although in  varying shades. There was pure white, off white, shades of cream and  gray. Ultra-pale green as fir branches became laden with snow. And then  there was little boy bunny – brown as a walnut, visible, and sweet.

There was a noise, I remembered later, caustic and an affront to the  silent falling. I imagined in all the white, viewed from above, my  little bunny may have appeared to be a stone at first. Until he moved,  of course; until he had made that little half-hop in my direction,  toward safety. Were mom and the others watching him too?

It was that preciously endearing moment, I reflected, that told the  flying predator that food could be had in my yard, in my pristine  heaven. It came from on high, hawk talons extended and without so much  as a pretense at a landing, grabbed my sweet brown nugget from the yard,  and flew back into the sky.

Is it silly to cry over one less baby bunny in the world?


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## bdcharles (Feb 10, 2019)

*Be Careful What You Wish For (643 words)*

Peter was fed up of next door's Kelvin shooting at him. He wished a  grizzly or something would get Kelvin in the woods. Anyway,now Peter had  his own rifle to shoot back.

Laters.

Meanwhile, Peter’s footsteps crumped along the snowy field. The prints  of a young bobcat were clear in the snow. Crouching down, he fingered  them lightly for a moment then stood, raising his 12[SUP]th[/SUP]  birthday present (air rifle) in their direction. Gravity caused his cold  nose to run and he sniffed loudly. Lowering the rifle, he continued  walking and sometimes grimacing at the noise underfoot. He just wanted  to see that bobcat - and rudely sting its butt with a pellet! 

At the shallow stream Peter lost the prints, though found that his  waterproofed left boot wasn’t fit for purpose after crossing the water. 
Then more bobcat prints showed. He crouched and fingered them again.  They seemed bigger, deeper and wet from crossing the stream. The same  young cat or an adult? The rifle pointed again and then the crumping  feet and squelching foot followed the pugmarks.

Continuing on, Peter's feet were rhythmically crump-crump- squelching  along on the bobcat’s trail. He knelt down and fingered a print. Maybe  it wasn’t a young one after all. This print seemed bigger. Too big for a  bobcat. The loud sniff as he stood was accompanied by a noisy swallow  as cold mucous slithered pleasantly down his throat.

The trees were sparse at first but became more crowded the deeper Peter  went in. He lost the prints, then found them, then lost and found them  again. Kneeling down, a nose droplet landed in the print. Surely too big  for a bobcat, he thought, jerking his head back while sniffing loudly  and swallowing. Maybe the light wind had enlarged them. The snow wasn’t  as deep here in the wood. There were leaves and dirt mixed in, making  tracking difficult. A print here, a print there, a few yards of nothing,  then another print.

Then sadly, the prints were lost…

… and one found again but now it was huge! Peter didn’t even need to  squat down to look. It had to be made by a bear. Ignoring the danger, he  followed. He couldn’t help himself. Fully in hunter-mode, he continued  on for several minutes, exiting the wood and following the largish  prints across the field. The nature of the fluffy snow caused the prints  to lose the precise indentations of the toes.

Some bushes and then another wood getting close. There was something  about the prints that seemed odd; the indents were clear but no toes.  Peter’s puzzled expression cleared as he realised there were just two  prints repeated : footprints - _shoe_prints! 

Deliberately, Peter trod next to a footprint to gauge it with his own. His print was bigger.

Suddenly a sharp, stinging pain hit the side of his cheek. A burning  sensation at odds with his cold flesh. A loud cracking noise had  accompanied the sensation. He grimaced and espied Kelvin from next door,  smiling and reloading his own air rifle, half-hiding behind a bush.  Peter immediately raised his rifle - shot, missed, turned and ran. 

Ran towards the woods. Peter could hear running, crumping noises and  material- rubbing noises that were not his own. He felt a slight tap on  his back as he heard the gun behind him fire. Glancing backwards once,  he could see Kelvin running and smiling while awkwardly reloading. There  was another crack in the air but this time no impact. 

Entering the woods, Peter kept running. Glancing back, he heard a loud  roar as he saw Kelvin, smile gone, taking aim at an approaching grizzly,  and firing to no effect.

Peter stared in astonishment then turned and ran. He would never forget the alarmed look on Kelvin's face.

Peter ran and never looked back.

He never saw Kelvin again.


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## bdcharles (Feb 10, 2019)

A Matter Of Substance (secure entry)


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## bdcharles (Feb 13, 2019)

*Snow Angel
*630 words

In a bedlam of blinding snow I blundered towards the base. Or so I  hoped. Every step was a colossal effort against frozen limbs and with my  hooded head bent low against the flurry I couldn’t see a thing. Not  that it would matter in this frozen desert. I could only hope that I had  not deviated too far from my path during the storm. 

As quickly as it had descended, the wind died, the snow ceased and the  storm passed. To my right a few black rocks somehow defied the white  austerity of the world, protruding through their deathly veil.

And there I saw it before me. Hope! 

It took the shape of footprints. No doubt mine. They should lead back to  the base, and even if they had faded with the storm, it was enough for  me to know that at least I trod the right path. 

Now the wind had stopped stripping any warmth I had, I could feel just  how cold I was. Yes, there was still pain there; biting in places where  the cold penetrated, dull in others where my weary muscles protested. I  wiggled my toes – I couldn’t be sure if they responded. To stop now  would be to die. I gritted my teeth and decided this was not the day I  would die. Martha waited for me back home; across the oceans but always  in my heart. 

Fortunately the footprints continued. Even though they faded in some  places, and were utterly scattered in others, enough remained of the  trail that I might navigate this white and grey world.

The long day was nearing its end, and though the night was but a few  hours long I didn’t want to be caught in its chilling grip. I quickened  my pace, forcing protesting limbs. My breathing quickened and heart  raced with the effort. 

Odd that the footprints were getting stronger now that I was closer to  the base. I still couldn’t see it, but by the time that had passed, I  knew it should be close. To my right a few black rocks protruded from  the barren landscape, the contrast as clear as life to death. They  looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them. Martha would know, I’d ask  as soon as I got back. Ah, but Martha was safe back home, I was going  back to work. Or trying.

Curious. There were now two sets of footprints in the snow.

“Good evening Mr Berclow.” I looked up at the sudden voice to see a  hooded figure. It looked as though he wore a black cloak, but somehow it  let the snow behind it peer through, as if a veil.

“Um… good evening…” I didn’t want to be rude, even if I was surprised to meet this chap.

“Well now, we are in a spot of bother, aren’t we?” he said in voice as  distant as the first memories of man and yet it was as if he spoke  straight to my mind. 

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I needed to focus on the  task at hand. “Do you mind, I’m trying to do something here.”

“Oh, of course. I shall be here when you need me. Worry not, all will be well.”

The fellow left and I proceeded. I couldn’t quite remember why I was  walking. Was I supposed to be getting something? I was so tired from the  trek, and it was so warm and cosy here. Yes, a little nap would set me  right. I could lose myself in a thousand dreams and wake up fresh. Just  for a while. 

“Right this way Mr Berclow, you will be most welcome.” A voice somewhere said.

I lay my head down upon the silken white pillow and closed my eyes.


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## bdcharles (Feb 13, 2019)

Footprints in the Snow


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## bdcharles (Feb 15, 2019)

Left Behind


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## bdcharles (Feb 15, 2019)

Ascending


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## bdcharles (Feb 15, 2019)

'Something's Ishy,'_ (Language and content warning)_
650 Words

I’m pretty  much the hottest shit I know. I have two friends: Ishmael and Paul.  Paul’s a good guy. Ishmael’s secretive, prone to random outbursts and  gazing longingly at the sea, and has more than once intimated without  anybody asking that ‘Ishmael’ might not even be his real name. We also  suspect, Paul and I, that he consorts with demons. How else would he  know all the shit he knows? I’d always suspected Ishmael was a bit of a  peeping tom. “How was breakfast?” he might ask. “Good,” I might respond.  Then he’d say, “I would have chosen the strawberry pancakes, myself,”  and I’d whip around, wigged out, ready to sock him one, only to find  Ishmael disappeared, poofed off to somewhere else he probably didn’t  belong. 
[FONT=&Verdana]    
[/FONT]Anyways―I’m  still the hottest shit I know. For one thing, I have lots of sex. I’ve  boned fat chicks; small chicks; minority chicks; LGBQT LMNOP chicks;  10/10 chicks; chicks who possibly weren’t chicks... Whatever. Recently,  however, I’ve been banging the same chick for three years straight. Paul  asks, “When we going to meet her?” and I’ll look at Ishmael, daring him  to say something. “Who cares?” I say. “Keep out of if.” She even makes  me breakfast. 
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Damn, dude. Breakfast?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Yeah.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Blowjobs?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Every day.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“[/FONT]_Breakfast?_[FONT=&Verdana]”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“I would have gone for the bacon, personally.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Ishmael?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Yeah?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Fuck yourself.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]Finally  one day I’d had enough. I phoned Paul. “Paul,” I said. “Help me catch  Ishmael.” “What?” “How does he know all the shit he knows?” “Iunno.”  “Exactly!” “He reads a lot,” Paul said. “You know that.” “So what if he  reads a lot? I read a lot.” “You do?” “Who cares? Say I do―it doesn’t  give me superpowers.” Paul squealed. “You think he has superpowers,  too?” “It was a figure of speech, Paul.” “I think he does, though!”  “What?” “I think Ish has superpowers!” “Ishmael does not have fucking  superpowers.” “Well then how does he know all the shit he knows?” “Oh my  god.” “(BABY).” There was a pause. “Who’s that?” I ran into the other  room. “No one,” I said. “It sounded like an old lady, dude.” “(WHERE ARE  YOU, BABY).” “Is that an old chick?” “Paul, focus.” “Are you dating an  old chick?” “Paul!” “(I NEED SOME SUGAR, BABY!).” “You’re dating an old  chick!” “You know what, Paul?” “Yeah, bud?” “Fuck yourself. “But―!”   
[FONT=&Verdana]
Anyways, fuck Paul. I went to the lady’s room. So she looked like a  deflated bedbound walrus. So what? She had money. I got on my knees and  started crawling when I caught sight of it outside the window:  footprints, no body, appearing magically in the snow. [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Motherfucker…”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Baby?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“I gotta go.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“BABY?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]My  penis flopped in the wind, but at least I’d remembered my hat.  “ISHMAEL!” I screamed. “YOU SONOFABITCH!” The footprints picked up their  pace. “I CAN SEE YOU, YOU FUCK!” They went full sprint. “MOTHERFUCKER!”
[FONT=&Verdana]
I leapt, tackling air. Ishmael’s invisible body collapsed under mine,  and I wrestled him, penis v. penis, in the snow. “Get off!” “YOU PRICK!”  “Get off!” “SAY IT?” “What?” “SAY IT!” “Say WHAT?” “SAY YOU CONSORT  WITH DEMONS!” Ishmael’s bulge brushed my cheek; I had no idea what I was  punching. “WHAT?” “SAY YOU CONSORT WITH DEMONS!” “OKAY!” “SAY IT!”  “AAAGHHH.” “SAY ‘I CONSORT WITH DEMONS.” “I CONSORT WITH DEMONS.” I  rolled off. Ishmael materialized before me, naked as I. [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“I knew it,” I said. “Well,” said Ishamel; “Cat’s out of the bag.” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“How’d ya do it?” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Oh,” he said. “You know… Spells; sacrifices; potato chips…” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
I thought about my life; about the lady. “Ish,” I said; “Ya gotta teach me.” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
Ishmael thought about it. “Sure,” he said. “Okay.” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“That’s it?” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“That’s it.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
 “Okay,” I said. “Then… let’s go?” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Sure,” Ishmael said, “But…” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Yeah?” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Can I borrow your hat?” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
I smiled. “Sure thing, bud.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
I gave Ishmael my hat; and together naked, penises side by side, we walked through the snow.[/FONT]


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## bdcharles (Feb 15, 2019)

Tick-tick-boom. Time's up.


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## velo (Feb 15, 2019)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1M02bAWDFkI


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## bdcharles (Feb 15, 2019)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfHtiCVA5d8


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