I'm safe for another round. Safe enough to bare my writing soul to the world. The next challenge is to write a personal essay about why I write in 300 words. This will be challenging for four reasons.

1. There are a lot of reasons why I write. So I will have to be concise.

2. I have no tragic story about being abused or neglected or even parents who divorced. They are still happily married.

2. Although I haven't had a tragic life, this will be deeply personal.
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3. Since this is deeply personal, being eliminated would be sad, like a personal rejection.
I will still use a pen name, but since this is a personal essay, I'm hoping my mom at least recognizes my entry and votes for me.
Here's last week's entry. This incident is based on what happened to my 13 year-old son last Monday when we went ice skating. His remark when I wrote the scene: "Well at least something good came out of it." Yes, the scene and the fact that he'll have a cool scar where as his sisters pointed out, when he does grow facial hair it won't grow in that spot.
Big Foot
I whiz around the ice rink, stuffing the gloves that Mom made me bring into my pocket. “Move those big feet,” Caleb, my younger brother, shouts as he races past.
My feet have grown two sizes in two months. I had to get the biggest skates you can rent.
“High five,” Caleb calls. We bump knuckles and then …
Wham.
My chin meets the ice.
I nod at Caleb to keep going and get up to find a bench. Ice isn’t exactly cushiony.
Mom skates up to me. “Andrew, what happened?”
“Fell on the ice.”
“Your feet get in the way?”
“Not even. It was Caleb.” I lift my chin. Mom’s face turns white.
“Where’s your glove?”
I pull it out. She makes me hold it on my chin. I don’t tell her I’d been wiping my nose with it.
“We gotta go,” she says.
“I just need a band aid.”
“We’re going.”
“That needs stitches,” Mom says as we leave.
I shiver. By the time we get to the hospital, my hand shakes so bad I can’t keep the glove in place.
Caleb stays out front staring at a Disney show.
The nurse makes me get on a scale and takes my temperature, although that’s clearly not why we’re here.
She leads us to the trauma room.
I’ve never had stitches before. Never been hospitalized. Never broken a bone. Now I’m in the trauma room.
“Growing boy.” The nurse taps my shoe as I lie on the table.
Mom squeezes my arm. “Want me to hold your hand?”
I shake my head.
The doctor pulls open a drawer, rattles around, says something about a 30 gauge needle. Like a shotgun?
I stare at the ceiling.
I won’t cry.
“You’ll be fine,” the doctor speaks in that high voice used for littler kids than me. “A shot, a few tugs, and all better.”
A tear leaks out. Warm blood runs down my neck.
The doctor pokes a needle near the cut. Now I wish Mom would hold my hand. She doesn’t.
After the burn of the 30 gauge and more than a few tugs, I’ve got four stitches poking out of my chin like an off-center goatee.
“See, that didn’t hurt,” the nurse says as she cleans me off.
“Except for you poking me,” I say.
When I come out, Caleb raises his knuckles. “High five.”
“Not even,” I say.

​The scene I used for the historical scene in the Project Writeway challenge was taken from a book I've worked on in the past called, Robbers' Rhyme. I revised it to fit the challenge. I enjoyed reading comments on the entries and was surprised that Joan Astley's didn't make it when there were good comments on that entry. Again, a matter of taste. This week's challenge is to write a 400 word scene with middle grade voice. Voting is Thursday and Friday. My entry this week is a completely new piece.

Here's last week's challenge:
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             When we heard talk of Butch Cassidy’s funeral, we rode two days to Price. Momma was determined to track down my missing brother John even if it meant a show down with Butch Cassidy himself, dead or alive. At twelve I was the man of the house with Pa working the mines at Telluride and John following after Butch Cassidy and his Wild Gang. I was not gonna be left behind.
            “Least I can keep an eye on you, Brigham,” Momma’d said when I was waiting ‘bout a mile out of town in the blossoming sagebrush, begging to come along.
            Soon as we got to Price, Momma hitched up the horse and we walked right up to those coffins sitting out for everyone to see. Momma stood there for a good five minutes looking over the body with its bush of light hair until a woman in a frilly dress was weeping so loud, Momma couldn’t stand it any longer.
            Soon as I was satisfied that the other dead outlaw wasn’t John, I watched the people shuffling past. Lots of women were sniffling and weeping. A man with a wagon full of straw drove by and then drove by again. On the third pass, when the straw twitched like a kid was hiding about to pop out, I told Momma.
            We rode out of town to a stand of stubby pine trees with a boulder big enough to hide us and the horse. Momma kept one hand on my shoulder, gripping it like I’d a mind to run away. The other hand she kept on the gun in her apron.
            “What we waitin’ for?” I asked.
            “Hush up or you’ll be cleanin’ out the barn with a fork.”
            Then I saw the wagon, the one with the straw. The man driving the wagon was talking to himself. Whistling came from the wagon, but the driver’s mouth wasn’t puckered in a whistle.
            “Hush there, Butch,” the driver said in a harsh whisper.
            “I’m dead, remember” said a muffled voice.
            “Good riddance,” said the man. “Though I’ve never known a better man or a better thief.”
            “Mighty nice of you,” the voice said. “Shame I had to die. I had so much more livin’ to do.”
            That’s when Momma jumped out from behind the boulder and pointed her gun.

You can vote for your three favorite historical scenes in this week's challenge from Project Writeway. Project Writeway is like Project Runway or American Idol for writers run by the 4 bloggers on Throwing Up Words. This week's challenge was to write a 400 word scene from an historical time. I chose something I've worked on in the past because I'd already done a lot of research. My friend, Monelle, and I are both still in the challenge but I can't tell you our pen names or what we wrote. Vote for your favorite three before midnight on Friday, February 17.