The good news is, I had more entries for The Jacket Writing Competition than the big fat zero I was expecting.  Instead of coming up with a handful of new WordPress IDs so I could stuff my own inbox with bogus submissions, I’m speeding up the delivery of entries to you, the eager reading public.

If you don’t know what the heck I’m babbling about, it has to do with that spiffy green jacket styling-up the right-hand column of this blog.  Go ahead and read all about it.

Presented for your reading pleasure are the next 5 entrants in the competition.  The first 5 entries were posted last Friday.  Click on the page above to see The Jacket: Entries, Post One.

Remember you have until this Friday to get your entry in.   I want YOU!  Yes, I mean you.  You, RIGHT THERE!  What, are you blind?  I’m pointing right at you!  (If you ARE blind, no offense.  Submit something anyway.)  Don’t let snow, sleet, rain, dead of night (or apathy) keep you from the swift completion of your appointed story.

Make sure you visit the entrants who have blogs, and leave some love for these talented (and brave) writers!

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Name: Sandy Sue
Website: http://aminddivideddotcom.wordpress.com
Comment: The Jacket

Nan shuffled her feet self-consciously as she stared at the huge photograph.  It covered most of the wall of the little gallery—eight feet tall and five feet wide.  Her.  Nude.

The spider veins in her legs looked like a highway roadmap.  And the roll at the giant waist resembled nothing less than an avalanche of fat.

Sweat broke out on Nan’s lip.  She tugged her new Aileen jacket tighter around her bosom—minuscule compared to the dangling moons in front of her.

“What was I thinking?” she moaned to herself.  Her fingers slipped into her jacket pocket, touching the talisman folded there.  “How could I be so gullible?”

She heard footfalls echoing in the lobby and a low murmur of voices.  Nan froze.

“Oh, Tom,” a woman’s low voice registered shock.  “This is the best work you’ve ever done.  She’s luminescent.”

“Magnificent.”  A man’s voice now.  “Who is the model?  She’s glorious.”

Nan closed her eyes.  Her breath stopped.

“A friend.”  She recognized the slight eastern European accent, the rich bass tones.  Heat flushed her whole body.  “A good friend.”

“I know other artists who would die to use her.  Does she have an agent?”

“She is not professional.”  Nan heard the smile in his voice.  “I do not think she would sit for another.”

“Too bad,” the woman said.  “She could name her price.  Do you  have her number?”

“No… no.  Come.  She is even more beautiful in the other studies.  Let me show you.”

The footsteps angled off into the side room, quiet voices critiquing,  Tom’s voice rumbling underneath.  Nan swallowed, checked over her shoulder, then marched out of the room.  Her sensible heels clicked too loudly on the wooden floor.  She searched in her pocket again, felt the ragged edge of the paper she’d torn from his notebook.

“I just want to know how to spell it,” she had said.  “W-o-j-c-i-e…”

She paused at the front door and chanced a look back.  Tom stood in the doorway of the smaller room, watching her.  The light in his eyes was the same.  He lifted his chin, smiling.  She smiled back, then went home to start supper.

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Name: georgettesullins
Website: http://georgettesullins.wordpress.com
Comment: Hockey Fan

“I met this hockey fan when I got caught speeding,” I explained to my bff.

“Say what?” bff asked.

“All of a sudden I saw these cherry lights in my rear view mirror.  I pulled my ear buds out and then I heard it.  His siren.  Uh-oh.”

“Miss” he said, “Do you have any idea how fast you’re going?”

“Oh dear, officer.  I’m sorry.  I’m on my way to a hockey game and I don’t want to miss the face off.  I’m new on the job and my boss bought us all tickets.”

“Hockey…huh?…you do need to be careful.  Can’t take the roads like those hockey players take the ice.”

“Yes, officer, I’m sorry.”

“Who’s playing?  …uh…Tom What-cha-ma-callit with the Dallas Stars.”

“Who?  Oh you mean Tom Wojciechowski?”

“Yes, that’s it. His name is Tom Wha-cha-cha-cha-ski.”

“Tom Wojciechowski,” he pronounced his name again slowly.  “Here…let me write it down for you.”

He wrote it down and handed me this little slip of paper.  I put that piece of paper in the pocket of my Aileen green blazer. I’d bought it because it had the colors of the Dallas Stars…green, gold and some red… and, because I knew that the guy with the dreamy blue eyes whose office was down the hall would be there.

“Dangerous game hockey.  Dangerous as a car speeding.  But Tom Wojciechowski plays fair.  No checking from behind or boarding.  That’d get a five-minute major in the penalty box.  Here’s your speeding ticket.”

“I was glad I had brought kleenex.  I wanted to cry.  This new job was costing me.”

“Dressed in my colors so ‘you know who’ would notice me I got to the game. The puck went flying. Ostoski took control and then Wojciechowski took possession. Then, he hurled the puck into the net right past the goalie.”

“Who was that?” a girl from the office asked.

“Tom Wojciechowski,” I answered.

My boss was impressed.  I hadn’t butchered his name.

Right in front of us as we sat behind the glass, Ostoski checked Wojciechowski from behind.

I jumped up yelling “Five minute penalty!”

Again my boss looked at me impressed.

Unimpressed my bff asked me, “Did ‘what’s his name with the blue eyes’ ever talk to you?”

“No, he brought a date and was totally into her green eyes.  Ya know what?  I think I’m going to take that jacket back.”

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Name: notquiteold
Website: http://notquiteold.wordpress.com
Comment: A CELEBRITY ENDORSEMENT

I recognized him. He was wearing on dark sunglasses and a hat pulled way down, but it was him. Picking up his dry cleaning just like he was a real person.
Not that he’s imaginary. But he’s almost imaginary. Movie stars are fantasies. Fantasies aren’t real. Ergo, he’s not a real person. I rest my case.
I glanced at the dry cleaning slip pinned to his plastic bag. Tom Wojciechowski.
“Wouldn’t John Smith be easier?” I asked.
“Mr. Wojciechowski was my fourth grade teacher. It took me ‘til April to be able to spell it. I’m using my skill set.”
“Was he a good teacher?” I asked in order to hang around and see if he pulled out a huge wad of money to pay the bill. He didn’t. He had a ten and two fives.
“He was my favorite. He looked just like Fred Flintstone.”
“In saber tooth fur and a necktie?”
He held the door for me. “He updated his wardrobe to a leisure suit. Same necktie.”
“Excuse me, but don’t artsy-fartsy people have servants pick up their laundry?”  This in order to walk to the parking lot with him.
“Sometimes artsy-fartsy people just want to be fartsy like everyone else.”
We arrived at our cars. He had exactly the same car as me, except for about $100,000.00.
“Nice cleaning with you,” he said politely.
I touched the name affixed to his clothes bag.
“Could I have this?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said.
I unpinned the scrap of paper, and lifting the plastic film on my own bag, I put Tom Wojciechowski in the pocket of the hideous green plaid jacket.
“It’s my mother’s,” I quickly pointed out.
“Does she still wear it?” he asked.
“Oh yeah. Once a week for twenty-seven years.”
He laughed.  “My wife has one just like it.”
“Do you pretend you don’t know her?”
“Often.”
I explained, “My mother is a big fan. She’ll get a hoot out of the name, and she’ll leave it there forever.”
“Tell her I said hello.”
“Oh no. I mean she’s big fan of Mr. Wojciechowski. She taught seventh grade. They had a ‘thing’.”
“Wow,” he said.
“Yeah—some people suspect that I am Mr. Wojciechowski’s love child.”
“I can see the resemblance,” he said.
“It’s the Fred Flintstone five-o’clock shadow. I’m saving up for electrolysis.”
“Angelina swears by it,” he said.

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Name: Harper Faulkner
Website: http://rtewrite.wordpress.com

“Are you Tom Wojciechowski?”  The bleached blonde wearing blood-red lipstick asked stumbling over the last name as she read it off the back of a dry-cleaning slip.

“You can call me Tommy Wo.” The man who slid into her booth across from her said.  It was common for idiots to screw up his name.  What was so hard with Wojciechowski, he thought? His neighborhood in Cleveland was full of ‘em.  He missed Cleveland, but LA after the War was the place to be. The action was here.

“Benny gave me your name,” she said.

“I know. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t told me you were a straight up broad.”

“I need someone killed,” she whispered across the table.

“Who doesn’t?” He flipped back.  “It will cost you. I don’t work for free.”

“I’ll give you a $1000.”

Tommy Wo could barely contain his smile.  He had killed for a lot less.

“A thousand sounds about right,” he said faking a Bogart cool.

He eyed her. She wasn’t bad to look at. Maybe he could get a bonus on top of the thousand. Her figure was hidden by the hideous green coat, but he suspected by the way the top button strained that he would like what was underneath.  As if on cue, the top button popped off and rolled across the table to Tommy.  “The coat looks better with two buttons,” he said while rolling the one he caught from finger to finger like a gambler with a hot chip and leering at her ample assets.  “How about a drink to seal the deal?”

“I’ll take a Blood and Sand,” she said.

“Hey!” Tommy yelled to the bartender.  “One B and S and two-fingers of Cutty, neat.”

The bartender brought their drinks.

“For a thousand,” the bleached blonde whispered after she took a sip from her drink, “I want some special things done. I want her to suffer.”

“I don’t usually do women,” he lied.  If the price was right, he’d hang puppies by their feet from trees.

“This woman tore my marriage apart and left it in pieces.  I want you to do the same to her.”

“Tear her marriage apart?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

He knew.

“I’ll give you $500 now and $500 when it’s done.”

“Deal.  Name and address?”

“Elizabeth Short.  She lives near Leimert Park.”

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Name: gojulesgo
Website: http://goguiltypleasures.wordpress.com

Tom Wojciechowski was on his way home from the Topeka courthouse, after an unsuccessful venture into changing his name to Tom Smith, when he ran into an emerald-clad beauty named Debbie Swrteoijfsdkljwdngdustein.

She introduced herself and he was forced to say, “Come again?”

They both had a good laugh upon realizing their similar, and similarly unsuccessful, name-changing endeavors.

“Well, you could always marry me,” Tom suggested. He scrawled down his name so she could see how it would look, and the rest, as they say, was plaid-patterned history.