Sometimes I enter writing contests just for fun. I’m fascinated by where editorial staffs come up with these things. I’ve won a few, and seen others win most, but I enjoy entering them when I have the time and inclination. That’s part of the perks of retirement–the time to jump in with both feet and splash about.
The Florida Humanities Council posted one this week. It brought back memories of reading Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, of eating Patrick Smith’s old Florida stories with insatiable gluttony, and of the Gator Boys television series I enjoy watching. Love to watch those guys rescue alligators!
Anyway, the contest perameters were: write a 250 short story using this first line, “They named the gator…”
Before I show you my entry, I must tell you about a student named Robert. He was a gifted writer at Dix Hills High School, where I spent my third through seventh years of teaching. We were taking the NYS Regents exams. He wrote his essay in dialect…not one word spelled correctly, intentionally and on purpose, and just to see if he could get away with it. His essay had to be reviewed at four levels before he was finally given credit for it. He received his Regents diploma two months late.
This is my story:
They named the gator Ole Po’ Boy. Passa he mus’be purty. Good nine feet he iz, if ya could see ‘im all at oncet. But most I see ‘im, his head stick outta da wata and he rear end made ripply waves fur down from heez head. I knows he missin’ a foot on ‘is right front, same side where he blin’. Nuttin’ dar but a closed up socket where ‘is eye usta be. Now he probly couldn’t hurt no flea., so da speak. Spen’ ‘is days wallerin’ by da mangrove stumps out ‘hind the shack. We be feedin’ ‘im scraps slong ez I kin ‘memba, cuz thur ain’t so many fish ‘n’ critters back dar no more.
Sgittin’ all citified ‘roun here. I’z ‘spectin’ one day some ol’ jack ‘ll tell us ta git outta here. We’s bin shackin’ here since pa died back in ’02. Havin’ ta roam fudder and fudder ta trap da food fer oselves, jes ta git by. Reckin when dey finds us, dey make Jackson ‘n’ lil Ruby git ta school.
But dey knows da ways o’ da swamp, dey doos, ‘n’ dey knows da ways o’ Old Po’ Boy and da raccoons ‘n’ da bobcat ‘n’ da buful swamp birds dancin’ ‘n’ soarin’ thru da trees. ‘N when da sun riz and when da sun set, and when da critter babies comz, ‘n’ how ta trap turtles ‘n’ possum fer real good meals on Sundays. ‘Til den, we luv on Ole Po’ Boy.
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