I’ve written for a few challenges and it seems to me, the moment the post’s dropped out of the top few, it’s lost and forgotten.

People don’t seem to check the challenge section to vote, only the stream or “most recent” under the posts tab.

My most recent one for example. Posted over a day ago and only three reads? And two of them are mine, I think.

How about this for an idea...

Instead of votes beginning the moment the entry’s posted, you end the challenge and then open all entries up to voting at the same time for a fixed period?

At that point, all entries would be reposted to the top of the recent posts section and perhaps even pinned to the top so they remain visible. All likes clicked before this would be zeroed, wiping the slate clean for the actual vote.

This would also make it fairer for everyone no matter when it was posted, be it 3am in the morning of the final day or the first day of the challenge.

What do you think?

Ask any of my family, and they’ll tell you I’m a fighter. Ask my friends, and they’ll say I’m fiesty. Now if you ask my teachers, they’ll frown and say I’m disruptive. (I’ll not deny that charge.)

Everyone has defensive mechanisms, and I guess mine is trying to take my problems by the throat, give them a good shake, and hoping they learn their lesson, not to mess with me. All my life, facing them head-on worked for me. Where others spent hours carefully planning on how to avoid or skirt a particular issue, I was fighting my way through it.

Brave, rash, bold, nusance, headstrong, courageous. . . These were all words that were used to describe me.

But. There’s always a but somewhere, and mine was pretty big. I got sick, really sick. There were no more class debates, no arguing about which method of solving a math problem was better, no putting the bullies in their places. I bet the teachers were thrilled.

Day after day of hellish doctor’s visits, pill after pill of medication, constant agony. . . I could feel my life draining away, and there was nothing anyone could do. Not even me--fighting was pointless.

Days became weeks, weeks became months. . . My mom took me out of school and started homeschooling me because I was too weak. (Once again, I bet the teachers were thrilled.) I think she was also afraid that people would start bullying me or say stuff, but that didn't really bother me. Only a few kids had made some sideways comments about my slowly balding head, as I had them too scared to say anything to my face. I'd be lying if I said their words didn't hurt just a little. I'd been brave enough to audition for the school play--even though I didn't go there anymore--but I hadn't been brave enough to follow it through. Appearing on stage, with bald spots, no wig, no hat . . . Mr. Riverts was a firm believer in being yourself and not changing or hiding who you were because of somebody else.

School is bad, but school alone is even worse. I was so lonely, and that only added to my feeling of defeat. My friends visited, of course, but they had schoolwork and jobs and sports. Mr. Riverts called at least once a week, just to check up on me and try to coax me to be in the play. I said no. Many times.

March 27th. I remember that day vividly, every event, every detail. I was laying in my bed, as usual, staring at the ceiling. Asking the same questions again and again, Why me? What did I do?

What’s is wrong with me?! Why am I still in stupid bed? Why am I hiding?

You’re dying! You deserve some self-pity! the other part of me argued.

That’s a load of horse apples (because my mother raised me right and I don’t use profanity, so that was as bad as it got without getting in trouble.)

I was angry, like usual, but not at my sickness, my mother, my parents, or life in general. No, this time, I was mad at myself. This wasn’t me; I was a fighter.

I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom on legs that wouldn’t quite work properly and stared at myself in the mirror--I was skinny now, with pale skin and thinning hair. I tried to arrange it a little bit so some of the bald spots were covered, but a clump of golden red hair fell out in my hands.

I studied it for several moments before riffling through my mom’s drawers until I found what I was looking for.

With grim determination, I switched the razor on. Its humming was strangely soothing as it hovered just above my scalp. But only for a moment.

I would have closed my eyes, but I didn’t want to cut myself. And besides, I was going to be brave, even as the chunks of once thick, wavy hair fell into the sink.

“Take that, cancer,” I whispered. “If I go bald, it’ll be my choice.”

When I was done, I ran my hands over my prickly head. Tears, unwanted, trickled down my face, falling to the carpet of my hair. I leaned down, scooping up a lock of shimmering hair from the floor. Rubbing it against my cheek for a moment, I composed myself.

I’m not going down without a fight.

I ran out of the bathroom--the first time I’d run in a while--and down the stairs. My two siblings were at school, my father at work, and my mother in the other bathroom, taking a shower.

Good. There was something that I needed to do first before talking to them. My hand hovered over the phone, a thousand different scenarios running through my head. But they didn't control me--I controlled them.

I dialed Mr. Riverts.

“Hey, Mr. Riverts, it’s me, Sophia. I was wondering if you still would let me play the lead role in the play?"

"Sophie! You've finally come around!" He paused. "You do understand that if you don't have your lines down in time, it goes to your understudy? She's been working very hard and it wouldn't be fair if . . ."

"Yes, of course!"

"And you know that none of you will be wearing wigs? If you want a hat then I suppose you could do that, I just want for you to be confident with . . ."

"Who I am, I know. It's fine, really. Practice after school?" I asked.

"Yes. See you then, Sophia."

I said goodbye and hung up, grinning.

I bet the teachers will be thrilled.

SHADOW BIRD

Shadow Bird, a nickname she gave herself, partly from envy, partly from reality, but mostly from her love for her dearest friend, Flamingo.

They were friends, but as different as night to day, light to dark, pink to gray. Shadow Bird was short and walked with her head close to the ground. Flamingo was tall with long wiry legs, neon pink feathers, and a graceful neck upon which set a distinctly regal face. Shadow Bird’s feathers were a darker hue, dark almost black.

When they walked, Flamingo always led the way. They agreed that this made sense. Being taller, Flamingo could see further down the path. Shadow Bird felt safe knowing that her friend was constantly surveying the terrain. Shadow Bird could see the shadow of Flamingo’s head jutting to the left, then to the right, watchful, and forever vigilant.

Flamingo leading the way meant that Shadow Bird always walked in the shadow of her colorful friend. Although Shadow Bird loved her friend, there were times when she would look up from her view of the ground to watch her friend’s bouncy pink feathers and wish that she could be more like Flamingo. She wished that she could occasionally take the lead.

Being young and not yet flyers, they did not ascribe to the adage that only birds of a feather should flock together. Indeed, they loved their differences as much as their similarities. It was their uniqueness which made them fit so well together, like pork and beans, rice and gravy, and forbid the thought, bacon and eggs. Whatever it was, they felt their best when they were together, which was just about all the time, from the crack of dawn to the end of light. As Flamingo once quipped, you had to crack a few dawns to make a great life.

“The butt crack of dawn,” Shadow Bird quipped back, looking up. She loved seeing her friend’s feathers blush to a rosier shade of pink.

Each Monday they made the long trek up the Wahoo Trail to the flight center for training. “Try not to panic today,” Flamingo would cautioned her friend knowing that Shadow Bird was often in a state of panic when the instructor forced her up the ladder before pushing her off the platform.

“And you, try not to cry when he tells you to spread your wings and not kick your legs like a chicken.”

All the way up the Wahoo Trail they would chide and joke with each other. And all the way back after the exhausting training they would comfort and support each other. For instants: “Even if you did plow head first into that telephone pole, it really wasn’t your fault, you just need to keep your eyes open when you try to fly” and “If he hadn’t pushed you so hard, I’m sure you wouldn’t have crashed into that glass greenhouse,” and “I’m sorry that he kept screaming at you to pull your neck in when you swooped and looped.”

“Walk faster,” Flamingo always urged her short friend. “You know we’re only safe at night in our very own nest.

“I’m walking as fast as I can,” Shadow Bird would answer. She had to take three steps to her taller friend’s one. She had to speed walk just to stay in the shade of her friend’s shadow. Once she confided to her friend how she both envied her, but appreciated her being the leader. And that she sometimes wished that she could lead the way.

One afternoon they left the flight training center later than usual, as always they enjoyed their walk; that is until the sky darkened, lightening flashed, thunder roared, and the sky swallowed the sun

“Fried eggs!” Flamingo exclaimed as the sky burst open and the rains poured down with a roar, with thunder crashing like cymbals, the wind swirling and whistling, tossing her feather into a crazy pink salad of anxiety. “Oh my!” Flamingo moaned and groaned, as Shadow Bird paced in little circles of fear and dread seeing her friend so dismayed and worried.

“We’ll be chased by cats!” – “Barked at by dogs!” - “Nibbled by squirrels!” They chirped these phrases back and forth to one another, creating catastrophic verbalizations, little tornadoes of apocalyptic whirlwinds of words.

Flamingo gave in to her fears and sat on the curbed with her long wiry legs arched, her beak on her knees, and her wings wrapped around her head. Shadow Bird continued pacing furtively in circles until she fell backward in exhaustion.

“I can’t see an inch in front of me. All is lost, we’re doomed for sure, we better make peace with the great eagle in the sky,” Flamingo said. “Without my vision and foresight, we will never find our way back to our nests.”

Shadow Bird struggled for breath as she listened to her friend’s frantic chirping. Then she shot straight up, her wings flapping rapidly as never before. “Be quiet!” she exclaimed. “I can lead us home.”

“You can barely see above a blade of grass, not that anyone can see in this storm!”

“Precisely,” Shadow Bird replied. “You have vision, but I know the lay of the land. Your head is above it all, but my eyes are always on the ground. You see the terrain, but I know the terrain.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see? I’ve walked the Wahoo Trail a thousand times in your shadow, I have no fear of not being able to see ahead.” She stood and puffed her chest out and said proudly: “I’m one with the earth. I know the shape and feel of every pebble, every blade of grass, every twist and turn.”

“Really?” Flamingo asked.

“I do pay attention, you know. Here,” Shadow Bird said and turned. “All you have to do is hold on to my tail feathers and I’ll lead the way.”

And so she did. Down the path, up the hill, and around every bend they went. And once again, the two friends’ differences complimented each other. When they were safely near their nests, Flamingo surmised: “On a clear day, vision is dandy, but during a storm, having a grip on reality is pretty damn handy.”

I am on a cruise ship

Its metal sparkles in the moonlight

I hear the waves of the ocean

Gently crash unto the ship

There is a formal dance going on

And I find myself

suddenly dressed for the occasion

The enchanting sounds of the violin

The smooth sounds of the trumpet

The romantic musings of the saxophone

And the soft sounds of drum beats

All play in the background

I push my way through the crowd

hoping to see a familiar face,

but all I see,

is a sea of strangers

Whose faces hide behind masks

The music suddenly gets softer

And people leave the dance floor

Their backs facing the wall

Confused, I stayed where I was

Then their eyes turn towards me

Plastic masks hiding behind plastic faces

Intense, immediate judgement

radiated from the crowd

Where was my mask?

their eyes seem to wonder

Where was my mask?

I started to ponder

I bring my hand up to my face

It feels like glass mixed with mace

Where was my mask?

My mind shrieks

Everyone thinks that I’m a freak

I need my mask

So that at last

This plastic face can hide behind a mask

Where is my mask?

sometimes I think I’ve lived too long

when I see my life on paper

a list of accomplishments

not made, risks

not taken.

if life is linear, mine is a downward curve

over almost before it’s begun,

weighed down

by fervent hope

and frustrated expectation

(optimism, my deepest curse).

my dreams are not a thing with feathers

they curdle within me,

unspoken, and

if I opened my window to breathe them free

they would evaporate

like tissue paper

in the humid city air

crumble into dust and

decay.

my future is the mousetrap to my life

do I take the jaws

or the poison?