Mini-Writing Contest # 6 — August 6 to August 11
Hey everyone! Welcome back for Mini-Writing Contest Number 6. đ
This week, itâs all about using similes and metaphors. So, whatâs the difference between a simile and a metaphor, you might ask? A simile can be defined as a sentence in which two completely different things are compared together using the words like or as. Some similes you might be familiar with are âeasy as pieâ or âhappy as a clam.â
A metaphor, on the other hand, is another figure of speech when two unlike things are compared but without using like or as. Instead, it says that an object is the thing itâs being compared to. A very famous example of a metaphor is from a monologue in William Shakespeareâs play As You Like It (2/7):
âAll the worldâs a stage
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;âŚâ
Try making up some of your own similes and metaphors, and see what kinds of stories you can'tell.
Please keep in mind the following contest rules:
1. You have to live in Toronto to win this contest.
2. You have to provide a valid e-mail address so we can contact you if you win a prize (see privacy statement for more info)
3. Your entry must be submitted by Monday at 11:59pm to be considered to win.
4. Winners will be announced the following Tuesday.
Have fun!
Your name, your e-mail address, the books you read and your thoughts about them are your personal information. Why do we need your personal information here? Well, we want to publish your reviews, and we need your name and e-mail address to help administer the contest. The Public Libraries Act is the law that lets us do this. We'll be protecting your privacy every step of the way, but if you have any questions about how we're going to do that, you can contact TPL's Privacy & Records Management Officer, 789 Yonge Street, Toronto, ON, M4W 2G8, 416-395-5658 or by e-mail at gnettlefold@torontopubliclibrary.ca
18 thoughts on “Mini-Writing Contest # 6 — August 6 to August 11”
“I don’t know if I’ll win this debate,” said Marie worriedly. “I mean my opponent is sneaky as a fox.” She looked at her friend Nicky. “What should I do?” Marie cried. Nicky laughed. “Well, you’re cool as a cucumber Marie. I think you’ll do fine.” she said sarcastically. “And how could we forget the time you forgot all your lines for the School play? Great improvisation.” “Shut up,” Marie scowled. “What I think,” Nicky continued “is that you should act like you have the grace of a swan, the sting of a bee, and the wisdom of a turtle. Even though you have none of these qualities, you can still pretend!” “I don’t think I can do that…” said Marie doubtfully. “Of course you can Marie! Be as fierce as a lioness, but at the same time as gentle as a delicate butterfly. Adorable and innocent as a fluffy white bunny, but poisonous as a Inland Taipan.” Marie smiled. “Thanks Nicky! On second thought, I think I will win the debate. And it’s going to be good,” she said with a gleam in her eye. Nicky winked at her. “You’re a smart cookie Marie. Go get ’em.”
Monsters have monsters and she had hers. If you undressed her now, you’d see them. The ones who live in her skin (but not the ones who live in her head and bite at 3 a.m.). They form a constellation, bridging neck to shoulderbone. With a stray one on her shoulder.
They’re beautiful, colorful. They live in your skin, a warm blanket. But they die. They always do. Changing colors as they do. They’re always in pain. Touch them, press them, pinch them and you’ll feel their pain.
They are little monsters who live in your skin.
They’re bruises.
Death is the shadowy imprint of my last moments with you.
Itâs the silver church bells which toll as you glide toward me.
Itâs the silver of your fatherâs hair as he hands you away.
Itâs the silver of our rings, holding the promise of eternity.
Itâs the red of your lips, and the red, fiery warmth as we kiss.
Itâs the black of the moonless sky as we hurry to our carriage.
Itâs the silver of the keys as I turn the ignition.
Itâs the black of your hair as it blows in the breeze.
Itâs the red of the truck thatâs travelling too fast.
The blue of your eyes as they fall on mine.
The black in my eyes as we spin forever.
The white of your face.
The white of the headlights.
The white of the sheet covering you.
The white of the walls, the coats, the masks.
The white lights popping in my brain.
The black void which eats my soul
as I ponder whether to stay or go.
–Inspired by If I Stay by Gayle Forman
Beautiful!
Aw thank you so much đ
That’s amazing đ I love the rhythm too.
Past the thicket and broken branches stands a crumbling memory of human indulgence. Bricks and steel once manufactured and put to perfection now lay waste as a broken relic of dirt and rust, while its organs of furniture and facilities now obtrude out, burnt and solemnly rotting. And all around this dead edifice is an overgrowth of greenery – a true urban jungle. Trees crowd around as pedestrians once did, while weed penetrate through fractured concrete and vines creep up the dilapidated walls. This beast wilts in the midst of nature, and soon, like a distant memory, it will die away and cease to exist.
The Catastrophe had wiped out most of humanity – a fatal epidemic caused by an unforeseen aftereffect of untested bioweapons. The war had certainly ended, but also had most everything else in the human world. The few survivors were immune to the strain and now inhabit small communities outside the desolate landscapes of glass and steel, which at one time or another, had been called cities.
Now decades following the Catastrophe, the few remaining people, as they rebuild the world from scratch, have found a thin ray of hope. Spotting throughout the planet are populations who have relearnt the basics of agriculture, acquired the necessary survival skills, and begun reinventing technology. With every new sunrise, the wheels of civilization inch forward. Though it may never be the spectacle of colourful kingdoms smeared across the Earth, society may one day again prosper and humanity take root.
Can I verify something quickly? In order for the moderators to see our emails, do we need to comment using disqus?
Hi HM — Thanks for your message. To answer your question, no, you don’t need to comment using Disqus for this to happen. Everything can be submitted through Typepad without any problems.
Our eyes â on that night â were incomparably bright. At least thatâs what theyâd say. They continued on with the compliments like thatâs all weâd ever have to say, like compliments were Monopoly dollars that weâd never have pay so we gave them freely.
That night â when the graduation gowns were gone, diplomas tucked away â oblivion came in the form of an amber liquid encased in broken-to-be bottles. Graduating class of two thousand and whatever were strung together like notes that never fit, pleading for a melody. We were nothing but little kids playing dress-up, stealing morals and booze from our paren’tsâ closets. When one of us wanted out weâd smirk like we knew how and whisper, âGet over it.â Because we were one-time masters of the nonchalance, like we were above caring.
But our eyes were never bright. They were nothing but sputtering streetlights â flickering, blinking, trying to see through all that dark. They only thing that was bright were our futures â at least thatâs what weâd hope, thinking it couldnât get any worse than this, a nightmare we were perpetually wandering in.
But even today (youâll hear Echo echoing it now), everyone would say how bright our eyes were that night. Like we werenât squinting among all the streetlights, like we danced to the music and didnât cry, like dark smudges under eyes were for bruises and not sleepless nights.
That’s amazing
It snowed so much in the city; like someone took a snow globe and shook it constantly. I’m not complaining though (unlike my little sister who always does); I love the snow. I love how a white sheet covers the city, leaving little lumps and bumps in the blanket, which are from the buildings. I love how sometimes the snow is so bright that it hurts your eyes. It’s a beautiful scene to look at.
But my favourite thing of all is having a White Christmas. Whether it’s waking up to little white speckles falling from the sky, or looking down and finding the ground covered in snow. I love it all. It gives me a feeling of happiness and comfort. You get to wear layers and layers, making you look like a ball, but that’s okay! Because when you fall on the ground, you’re basically falling into toilet paper. Sounds a little odd but think about it. Snow is soft, like toilet paper, and is white, like toilet paper.
Some people hate snow though. They hate to wake up and shovel the snow, then realize more snow has to come in the afternoon. Sometimes they hold their back like an elderly person on a cane. But some people just hate how we have a white blanket over our city for 4 months. They feel like they’re hidden under this blanket and can’t get out.
I’m not like them. I love Winter and I love snow. I love waking up to little clouds on my window and snow on the ground. I’d make snowflakes like a little kid and throw snowballs like it was a competition.
And I love it.
And I love this
She wanted to be a work of art so badly. To be something so beautiful. Or at the very least, meaningful.
So, whenever she got scars and she didn’t know where they came from, I whispered a secret in her ear. That they were lines erased from drawings and other art. That they were lines who found her a better canvas.
That her very smile was a work of art.
And she always smiled.
God, how I loved that smile.
This little butterfly was too scared to open her wings up and fly. Too scared like a crab not yet ready to come out of its shell. Too scared like a puppy in a new home. She wanted to soar through the sky like an airplane but how can she without spreading her shears of beauty for everyone to see?
This little butterfly was scared because she didn’t want her wings to get hurt like before. She was a little caterpillar, finally growing out of cocoon into a beautiful butterfly, but as she ready to take off, she felt a pinch on her wing; it was a little boy grabbing on her wing.
Little did the boy know that these wings were made out of glass and could break any second. So it did. A part of the wing was teared off like someone ripped the corner of a piece of paper and left it there. The little butterfly couldn’t fly now. She knew it would take too long for her wings to heal and for her to start flying again.
So the boy ran off to his friends, leaving the little butterfly hopelessly trying to flutter with its wing(s). What could the butterfly do? She knew she couldn’t do anything. So she did nothing. For a long time, waiting for whatever has to come.
She waited
and waited
and waited
Then one day, she stopped waiting.
She woke up one morning finding out that her wing was fully healed. She didn’t feel that pain in her wing anymore; it was gone.
This little butterfly was smart though; she knew she shouldn’t do anything to harm her wing again – even though it wasn’t her fault – so she decided to wait for a while so she wouldn’t break it.
But she waited for so long that she didn’t remember how it felt to lift her own wing up.
For once she remembered, she practiced every day to remember how it would feel to have a wing ready to fly.
She was too afraid to lift her glass arm and make someone break it again.
And so, this little butterfly feared going into a new world.
But she figured; to get out her own world, she must go into another.
Congratulations to this week’s winners:
NC for the entry that starts with “It snowed so much in the city;…”
and
MN for the entry that starts with “She wanted to be a work of art so badly.”
Thanks for your great entries. đ
Thank you! I emailed you back!
Thank you too đ I feel really honored, thank you so much