“Whatcha doin’, Homer?”

“Writin’.”

“Writing what?” Homer’s mother asked watching her seven-year-old break the lead of his pencil as he stabbed the dot of an exclamation point.

“It’s a contest.”

“Tell me about it, Homer. What’s the theme?”

“It has to be about writin’.”

“Hmmmm. Who are the judges?”

“FanStory.”

“Well, can I make a small suggestion?” She waited for Homer to allow input.

“You might consider the judges’ tastes and preferences, what they’ve voted winners in the past. For example, you might want to insert the participial g that you always drop.”

Homer paused, giving her a sideways glance before returning to the top of the page to begin editing, inserted the g’s. Half way down the sheet, he stopped and crumpled up his work. “Yer right, Mom. I hafta start with cat, or a puppy, maybe a cat and a puppy.”

Homer chewed on his pencil, hesitating and looking toward his mother before biting off the eraser. “And a pome.”

“Po-`em,” his mother corrected.

“Po-`em. One with motions.”

“Motions?” she asked as she returned to the kitchen, allowing Homer privacy for creativity.

“`E-motions,” Homer replied loud enough to disturb Homer’s dad who was in his recliner in the next room reading a novel.

“Like happy or sad,” Homer’s father boomed. “Not fright or terror, if you want to win, that is.” He’d been listening to the overloud exchange from the start.

“Is there another pencil?” Homer asked.

“Sharpen that one. The lead won’t break if you’re a little more careful,” Dad said. “And don’t eat the eraser!”

Homer’s mother smiled to herself as Homer pinched his lips, gnashing his teeth.

After several minutes of furious writing, scratching out since wet erasers don’t work very well, and more writing, Homer read his poem aloud –

“Heaven escaped the oven’s jail

Chocolate cookies a delight

Grandma’s babies blow in as a gale

Surround the platter’s wondrous sight

Screaming “Grandma’s the best in thunderous wail.”

Mother’s look suggested Homer explain himself.

“See, it’s an ode. It can be irregular and it doesn’t have to have a rhyming scheme.”

Homer’s father, still in the next room, grunted a harumph.

Homer went back to work.

“Mom, do I have to write all sappy?”

Homer’s mother looked at him, waiting for elaboration.

“Like if a cat gets run over by a cement truck, do I have to make the owner cry and all that?”

Mother sighed. “First, does it have to be a cement truck? Couldn’t the cat just go to sleep and die of old age?”

Homer furrowed his brow.

“But to answer your question, wouldn’t you feel sad enough to cry if your best friend died?”

“Not if it was a cat!”

“How about if you made it lost, and the owner was frightened out of their wits?”

Homer thought a minute. “Yeah! And the owner could be bawlin’ his eyes out thinkin’ that a big dog chewed it to pieces!”

“That’s my boy!” Dad said from the other room.

“Homer,” Mother said dismissively, “if you want people to vote for your entry, you have to first make them want to finish reading it.” Mother returned her attention to the kitchen.

Homer crumpled up another half-filled sheet of paper.

At the supper table, a few hours later, Dad inquired as to Homer’s progress, whether he decided to spare the cat.

“No. I made it a dragon, a good dragon. The dragon worked at night helping all the farmers and ranchers by getting rid of all the mean animals that would hurt them. The dragon even blasted dangerous cliffs, makin’ the road safer. Nobody but me, I mean Jeep, knew that he was a good dragon, though.

“Then one day it came for the princess. He wasn’t going to hurt her, just take her to the evil witch. But nobody knew that he was a good dragon and that he wouldn’t hurt the princess. He was even gonna help the princess after he took her to the witch.

“But the archers and spear mean killed the Ol’ Silver and Red. That’s what I named him, Ol’ Silver and Red. See the little boy made friends with him by giving him food and getting him loose from a steel trap.

“My, my,” Mother exclaimed. “What a brave boy. More beans, please, Homer. You have to take at least nine beans. Thank you.”

“Yeah. I named him Jeep.”

“Aren’t all your protagonists named Jeep?” Dad asked.

Homer thought a minute. “Oh, you mean the hero? No, I made a girl the hero once. She saved Jeep, remember?”

“Livvie,” Homer’s mother recalled. “Yeah. Anyway. I put a big lump in Jeep’s throat when Ol’ Silver and Red died. He couldn’t talk, and when he tried, his face got all scrunched up and his eyes wouldn’t stop the tears.”

“Well, if that isn’t crying, it’s pretty close, Father said.

Homer’s mother shot an admonishing look to him, warning him to tread lightly.

“Yeah, it ‘bout broke his heart.” Homer made a choking noise and swiped at both eyes with his shirt sleeves, first his left, then his right.

Mother noticed Homer’s face redden. “Were you able to let the reader know how you, how Jeep felt?”

“They were going to tear off his scales for souvenirs, but Jeep made them stop by pulling out his sword. He was furious and the people were all terrified of him for a few minutes. Then the king said Ol’ Silver and Red would get a warrior’s burial. That’s when I had Jeep walk away into the woods to be alone.”

Father nodded assent.

“But before he went very far, Livvie, the princess, ran after him, calling his name. She knew that Jeep and Ol’ Silver and Red were friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Father said, the twinkle in his eye earning Mother’s cautioning frown.

“I guess I got a little sappy then. I made Jeep, you know, choke up and stuff. He might’ve even sobbed once. You know, like a big hiccup. And then Livvie did the real cryin’.” Homer shoveled in a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes.

“I would vote for it,” Mother said, a quiver in her voice.