Trumpet Fanfare!!

Finally, the internet is back up, and I am able to post the winners for the first issue of Make It Up Monday!

There were a total of 56 entries, guys!!!! I was so excited to read through them all, but I must admit I found myself stressing a bit over who to pick, why to pick them, and whether or not I would step on any toes by not picking their entry.

And then I realized, I am not an expert. There was some really excellent writing that filled my comments section, but I can't pick all of it as I would so like to do. It's a contest, and every contest deserves a winner. So without further ado, I have narrowed down the 56 entries to 5 winners all of which I loved for different reasons varying from the cadence of the speech to something as simple as giving me a good chuckle.

Without further ado, here are the winner's for last week's Make It Up Monday contest!!!

Nicole said...

     John Burns had seen things during his life that he wouldn't have wished on any man, no matter how evil his deeds may have been. Yet the rejection he received of his request to serve in the Civil War broke his heart. Still on crutches, the shrapnel wounds were almost healed, and by the time he was assigned to a cavalry, he would have been fine and fit for duty.
     His superiors assured him it was not his injury, but his age; and had he a son to go in his place, he would be well taken care of.
     With no heir, Burns hung his noted 'peculiar' garb, removed his boots, and lay his Winchester by his side.
     Just in case.

Alissa said...

     Nothing says America like a gun, a rocking chair and a crotchety old man.

Summer Ross said...

     Bullet 1.00, Funeral arrangements 3000.00, convincing others not to trespass- priceless :) 

 Linda said...

     The shutter on my camera snaps with its familiar electronic sound. “Good one grandpa!” I yell. ”I’ll send that one to Mom.” At least there is one truth in what I’ve just said. It is a good photo. It captures him in his usual pose, slumped in the old rocker, his scrawny hands clasped round his thin frame as he squints, not at me, but at the view of the dry, dusty pasture that lies between the ramshackle old house and the road. This is where he seems to spend most of his days, just rocking and occasionally fiddling with his old rifle. Gout makes it too painful to walk about much. But he isn’t my grandpa and I’m certainly not going to send the photo to anyone’s mom, let alone mine. He is my perfect victim, picked out from the archives of the local newspaper, and yet another lonely old man whose daughter went missing some twenty five years ago. When I turned up six weeks ago and announced that I was MaryAnn’s son, he just said, “You’d better come in”. And that was that. He’s got money stashed somewhere, they all have. I wouldn’t even be surprised if there was some gold. A few more weeks of being the perfect grandson and I’ll be back to the city with a well-earned “inheritance”. He can’t take it with him anyway. “Yeah, Mom will like this one, Grandpa. You never know, she may see her way to coming out here to see you again.” I feel bad about giving him false hopes, but it keeps him sweet. He looks at me now and I detect a different look in his eyes. Amusement, perhaps? A sly, evil grin spreads over his weather-worn face. “I kinda doubt that, son”. I feel a stab of anxiety in my chest and my throat tightens. Has he cottoned on to my con-trick? “You see,” he went on, “MaryAnn ain’t never gonna come back because she’s buried out in that yon pasture”. I want to run. “And I know,” he chuckled. “’cos it were me that buried her…” Think, think! Did I see him load that damn rifle?

Rachael Melody said...

     "As the oldest remaining survivor of the War of 1812, how do you feel? Is it true that you were shot in the legs by a total of four lead musket balls? Did you knowingly kill anyone? What did it feel like to fight against your own country after fighting against England so long ago?"
     When the young reporter, suavely dressed in long-tailed coat, top hat, and all the finery and frippery of the Victorian age, finally stopped for a breath, John spit tobacco into the weeds and stroked his sharpshooter's rifle.
     "It's a good day for huntin' squirrels."
     "Sir?"
     The cravated man never received an answer. John had spoken his last words.

Now go look at their blogs, guys! They're all really great and worthy of a read if not a follow. :)

Once again, thank you all so much for your entries. Keep writing!!!

Tune back in tomorrow for the 2nd issue of Make It Up Monday!

Peace.
Stef.