I have been writing and rewriting this poem for ages now. I still don’t like it, with the exception of the last line. Does anyone have any suggestions for it? For those who aren’t sure, it’s a poem about realizing the futility of making the same mistakes over and over while praying for a different outcome. All suggestions welcome.

Hope can be a hindrance.
It’s agonizing to realize
my reality has atrophied;
my life is built on lies.

Truth offers no comfort
as it seeps into your brain
but clutching dead dreams
can only drive you insane.

Delusion, my sweet addiction,
makes me crawl back for more
and I relearn the bitter lesson:
hope is a foolish whore.

There was this campfire story competition that I entered back in January. For those who don’t know, a campfire story is one where you take turns telling a story. Each person starts where the previous person left off. They are a lot of fun and I suggest trying one if you enjoy writing. Anyway, I found out yesterday that my addition to the story won!

Of course, I ended up spending the entire amazon gift card on the kids but I bought a movie that was on sale that I think we will all enjoy. I still have to write my story for Claire’s Short Story Contest. Don’t worry Claire, it’s in my head. I just have to type it out.

Ever wonder why very few people read poetry these days who aren’t poets themselves? This is a poem about the horrible epidemic of bad poetry that’s invaded the small press. Literary Mags need to worry a bit less about being trendy and put a little more effort into publishing high quality writing because I’ve seen poetry published that was so bad that I wanted to gouge out my eyes with a spork.

You create a jumbled heap
of depthless jargon
that you pretend
holds some
obscure meaning
by spilling
fractured statements
of fluently regurgitated
random thoughts
onto paper.
Stylized incoherent rambling
is the latest trend
eaten up by mimics
of literary genius.
Poetry’s evolved into
a literary freak show
comprised of
soulless globs
of brain fodder.
You’re a fraud
peddling snake oil
under the guise of art,
making buyers skeptical
of all our wares.
Wrap it in ribbons
of pseudo intellectualism
but shit still stinks
no matter how
you present it.

This story was originally put up on the ever talented wordpress plugin master’s site: FiddyP. Andy, being gracious as always, allowed me to retain my rights to this story. Without further ado, here for your reading pleasure is a twisted little black comedy I like to call ‘Fresh Meat’.

Gretta stood next to a dumpster in the alleyway behind her family’s restaurant, puffing furiously on a cigarette. She fumbled with the broken zipper on her coat for a while until she finally gave up with a defeated sigh and a twinge of disgust.

That’s it. I am buying myself a new coat for Christmas. Why didn’t I throw this ratty old thing out last year like I planned? Why do I save useless crap like this? I need to just grab a few dozen trash bags and get rid of it, all of it. It’s not like I’m ever going to use old catalogs, broken cassette tapes, or a year’s supply of plastic bags. Why is it so hard to let things go?

Her feeble attempts to ward off the frigid air by clenching her coat closed with one hand were thwarted by mighty arctic blasts. No longer able to withstand the chill, Gretta dipped the half-finished cigarette into the newly fallen snow. Then she dropped the soggy butt into her coat pocket.

“Damn zipper,” she mumbled as she turned around to reach for the door.

Dieter noticed his daughter trying to shake off the bitter cold when she passed the stove to hang up her coat. “Come and have a nice bowl of soup. I made it fresh.”

Gretta sat down with her soup. Just as the spoon was about to touch the murky broth, her face soured and muscles tensed.

“Wait, how fresh?” She turned to her father.

“Oh!” Dieter grew pale for a moment while he wiped his hands on his apron. “Not that fresh…” He glanced over at a man in a tacky, red Santa sweater who’d been busy studying the menu longer than it would take Dieter to read a novel. “Just a little something I whipped up this morning.” He smiled nervously.

It was too late. She had already lost her appetite. She felt nauseated and her head was pounding. Even the soft melody of Christmas oldies playing on the jukebox were grating on her nerves. Aching to get this day over with and just jump straight into bed, Gretta glanced up at the clock. That’s when she noticed the dirty tables waiting for her.

I can’t believe that I didn’t even remember to clean up after the morning rush.

Gretta shook her head while glancing down at the barely touched mounds of food abandoned by two teenagers.

“Such a waste,” she sighed and cleared off the table.

Just like my life.

She tried to push the unsettling thought away without success.

You ruined everything! We were supposed to grow old together. You were going to toss aside fifteen years for some silly little teenage girl with bleached blond hair and bad skin. How could you do that to me? I loved you! You fu-

“Excuse me, Miss?” The raspy voice of a patron flagging her over pierced the foggy veil of her thoughts instantly, but the bitterness lingered.

Gretta forced a smile and grabbed a pen and pad from her apron. When the elderly gentleman gave her his order, she struggled to suppress the urge to giggle. The hint of a grin flashed across her face as she strolled into the kitchen.

Her panic-stricken husband made futile attempts to jerk free from his bindings when Gretta opened the freezer door. He gurgled in alarm as he eyed the knife in her hand.

“You’re an utter waste of human life, but I just can’t bring myself to throw things away, even worthless trash like you. You got off real easy last time, Franz. I mean, how many people order tongue these days?” She grabbed his crotch forcefully and met his bewildered gaze with a smirk.

“This time, it’s German sausage.”

The Bebo Author Blog is running a huge short story competition extravaganza! The great thing about this contest is that it’s promptless and all genres are welcome. That means that you can work within your element and submit a priceless gem. Might I add that you better submit a gem too because the prizes are fabulous and the judging panel is impressive. Besides, you are going up against the AntiBarbie herself, so you better be on top of your game!

What might you win, you ask? How about a free self-hosted wordpress blog for a year, Amazon vouchers, Entrecard credits and books for starters! Sound good? Then head over to Bebo Author and read more on how to enter!

For those of you that haven’t fallen for the charm of a manipulative little player, consider yourselves lucky. People that harm others in order to gain an ego boost are little better than cockroaches in my opinion. The only thing I dislike about this poem is that I couldn’t seem to get the rhythm down just right. It drove me crazy but in the end I decided that I played around with it for long enough and to just leave it alone. I hope you guys like it!

You gloat because you’ve won.
You pulled the wool over my eyes.
You made me believe in nonsense;
I fell for your honeyed lies.

Go ahead and praise yourself,
on the good job that you’ve done.
What does it matter who you hurt,
when you can claim you’ve won!

Run and tell the sordid tales
of your pathetic victory.
I’m rid of a heartless vulture,
so the real winner is me.

This is a freestyle poem that I wrote a while back. (Joe asked to see some of my non-traditional poetry. So, here you go!) It’s your typical angst ridden lost love poem. Hope you guys like it!

I’ve been wallowing
in this sinkhole
awaiting
some hint,
some signal
from you.
I ache to know
that the person
who vowed
to love me
eternally
remembers
that I still exist.

(more…)

Sometimes a writer can get a bit too ambitious. That was the case with this story. I wanted to write a story about a man who was in love with love itself. I wanted it to appear that he was just going through the motions and that all his words were hollow, as if a he were a bad actor rehearsing lines for a play. This story was also in first person perspective. The combination was a real disaster. Ah well, you live and learn.

I love you. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but I do. I know what you must think of me but I am not a monster. I am not heartless, my love, but this is for the best, don’t you see?

Your tears do pain me so, my darling. Please don’t cry. I only do what I must to preserve our love. We’ve both luxuriated in its glorious fervor for over a year now but you know as well as I that things are no longer as they once were. Just small things really, like the pauses in our conversations that seem to be growing every day or that we barely hold hands now. It’s only a matter of time before these little pebbles of a rift between us turn into an avalanche.

Fight it as we may, the fire between us is burning itself out. Intense passion doesn’t last for an eternity, my sweet. Once our passion is in its death throes, our love will be devoured slowly by routine and boredom until one day we awaken and realize that we can’t remember what had once consumed us so readily. I cannot bear to be forced to see you with different, less adoring eyes as the years roll by.

Please, don’t cower from my touch. I know I deserve your contempt but it tortures me just the same. I am not enjoying this, my love. I gain no pleasure from seeing the raw anguish etched into your face. I only wish to comfort you, even though I realize I am the source of your pain.

I am sorry; so very sorry for robbing you of the future you’ve always wanted. It’s a sin that you’ll never get to know the thrill of having your first book in print, the big family we’ve talked about, the horses you wanted to raise, or the cozy home up in the mountains. I wanted those things for you too darling, for us both. Sadly, dreams perish with us but much like Romeo and Juliet, our unmarred romance will be preserved throughout the ages. In this way, we will be granted immortality.

Don’t struggle so much darling, you’ll just hurt yourself. You could scream until your voice caves in but the only savior to be found this night, is the one that I hold firmly in my hand. Shhhhhhhhh… Please don’t be afraid. Wherever this road may lead us, at least we will be traveling it together. They say love is sacrifice. Few people understand to what extent. Now be a good girl and close your eyes. This won’t hurt a bit.

I wrote this trying to create a horror poem for a poetry contest that left the reader feeling disturbed without using any gore or supernatural elements. This is what I came up with. Let me know if I succeeded!  

I love Cee Cee very much.
We share secrets.
Sometimes when I get mad,
I tickle her everywhere,
even her bad place,
just like Daddy.

I tore off one of her eyes.
I keep it in my jewelry box;
The button is smooth and black,
the way Cee Cee’s hair used to be,
before I used Daddy’s lighter.

Now Cee Cee won’t talk to me.
She doesn’t like me anymore.
I hear her crying every night,
but I won’t ever dig her up.
That little bitch might tell.

I just wanted to have a quick little rant on something that’s bothering me. I know there are a lot of new and inexperienced writers out there (not that I am an expert) that may not know all the protocol and etiquette among writers but here is a little word of advice about campfires: Don’t ever start off your turn in a campfire as, ‘Then he woke up’ or ‘it was all just a bad dream’ and start the entire storyline over from scratch to suit your personality.

People will want to shoot you.

For those who don’t know what a campfire is, it’s a story in which different people take turns contributing to the storyline, starting at where the last person left off in the story. Doing the dream sequence thing not only negates the work everyone else put into the story but it’s just lazy. It screams, “I’m not creative or clever enough to come up with something to add so I am just going to pretend that the rest of the storyline never existed and start the story from my personal comfort zone.”

It’s looked down upon in every online writing community I’ve been apart of and is just considered to be very bad manners. People will, often times, not want to work with you anymore and it makes you look like you just fell off the turnip truck. So, avoid the temptation of rewriting the story, even if you are stuck. These types of writing exercises are supposed to be challenging and taking the easy way out isn’t going to help you grow as a writer so you are doing yourself a disservice.