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 |   Where all sorts of contest entries of 2020 come together, short story and poetry. |
Welcome to my entries of poetry, short stories, of all different ways of writing...  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** And, my poetry Lair, as of March 2017 + MARCH 2020 ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** For Cinn  "Pursue the Horizon - Open for Signups"  
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| She walked both and forth within the small confines of her apartment. It was as clean as a hospital, and it had the scent of disinfectant in the air. Her friend waved a melting popsicle at her friend. "Are you going to stay in here all day, Rachel?" "Their domain is out there, Sam. Or they could be here. I swear if you get a drop of that melted sugar on this floor." Rachel let the threat sit between them. Sam only laughed, and the sticky liquid dripped down to her fingers. She licked the juice off her fingers and kept slurping at the fluorescent orange colored dessert. "Oh, and the Boogey bugs might get you?" Sam wiggled her fingertips at Rachel. Rachel stepped back and placed a hand on her chest. "It's not funny," Rachel huffed. Rachel scratched at her head. She always felt like they were on her. It was like the feeling of ants crawling on her skin. Though, she could never remove the unseeable insects from her skin. They kept spreading, growing on every viable inch. Rachel tried to sit down next to her friend. The sensation became in that instant, and she leaped back on her feet. "It's a little funny, Rach." "I think they're on me. I think they're inside me," Rachel whispered. Sam cocked an eyebrow and licked the remnants of the sticky popsicle. She threw the stick in the garbage, and Rachel ran to close the bag immediately. Rachel released a sigh of relief as Sam washed her hands in the sink. Rachel pulled the tie close, and her long-sleeved shirt exposed self-inflicted scratch marks. Sam dried her hands and walked to her friend. The claw marks shown brightly against her pale white skin. The red welts cried blood, and some of the blood dripped on the floor. It contrasted against the pristine, hospital-grade white floors. Sam knelt to take the towel she used to dry her hands. She rubbed the blood off the floor. Rachel watched her and pulled down her sleeve. "You need help, Rach," Sam whispered. "I don't know how to make it stop. They're always on me," Rachel scratched again at her head. The scalp was raw from her blunt nails scratching at the surface. Sam went to grab Rachel's hand to hold it her own. She screamed as something climbed down from the inside of Rachel's shirt. It was a small, tiny beetle looking creature that had small jaws. Rachel screamed as the insect fell to the floor and landed on its back. More crawled out from underneath her shirt, and Rachel stomped at the insects. "Take your shirt off! Take it off!" Rachel pulled off the shirt and threw it to the side. At the edges of the home, terminates were entering through the corners of the apartment. Sam took off her hoodie and wrapped her friend inside of the cotton. "We leave now." "I'm not okay, I'm not okay," Rachel said barely above a whisper. "Yeah, well, I'm here, and I got you. Let's get out of here." Sam zipped her friend up in the hoodie. She stomped on the remaining bugs in their way. Rachel tried to leap over the pile that was accumulating. She shook, and her whole body drenched in sweat. Sam dragged her friend forward to leave her home behind. -- Word Count: 559 Words Prompt #4: Write a story that includes Entomophobia or Acarophobia For:
  Click image to go to 2020 Writing. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| "Take it off." I held the huff forming in my throat. We would play it Jack's way. I shrugged the skimpy, light spaghetti strap off my broad shoulder. Then, shimmied my hips to allow my light, barely-there dress to escape me. "Come to me," he said. I stalked toward him. I was trying to be a good girl, but that was a relative term. "Turn and bend over." I did as he asked. Jack's fingers found all my crevices and curves. A gasp formed in my throat. The empty couch steadied me as his hands took me for his own. -- Word Count: 97 Words Out Of 100 Words For:
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| Outline #2- Due April 12th 1. What is the main contract of the story? You must resolve the promises you made to your reader by the end of the novel. The contract of the story is good versus evil. But how much more conflict there is than the black and white terms of these two things. That two characters that are on either the good or bad side aren't as simple as those terms. To show why someone might be 'bad' but that they still have goodness in them. 2. What sort of time pressure is working on your characters? Not really time pressure per se. They live over multiple timelines being born into new bodies as reincarnated souls. So, less of a timeline than most. But, they do tend to die pretty quickly after they meet each other. 3. What is at stake for the protagonist of the novel? Does the pressure on the main characters grow more intense as the story progresses? Well, we have the female character that is generally evil, or on evil's side. The pressure does grow more intense since she tries to be bad against the side of evil itself. She tries to do what she wants even if her job is something else. The pressure becomes more intense on the two of them.  . Determine your setting- I was given the idea of starting when they're born. But I'm thinking maybe when the consciousness starts happening in someone. Maybe around five years old or so between her and them? Then, jump ahead to teenager and adult which is where they can influence and do more than their child selves.  ________________________ _______________________________ Outline 1 Who is the main protagonist? A woman in some lives, man in other lives, basically a reincarnated soul that was first a woman. Now, she's a demon, or someone playing for the bad side looking to collect souls. We have her fated soul, who is a male first, but can be reincarnated as a woman too. He is generally on the good side of things. What is the situation? Two reincarnated souls are separated and rejoin every lifetime they live. Evil knows good, but good does not know evil. Both have a certain sort of charisma that can't be replicated in the recreating of a soul. They are special, wanted by both good and evil for their side. They want to make their own world. Not quite bad, or evil, but rather just challenging enough to be a better person in the afterlife. But not tortured for the rest of your existence. Might be a grim reaper as a friend of both of them. How will the protagonist change from the beginning of the novel to the end? Our main character is selfish, easy to anger, untrusting, and a pain in the ass. She softens thanks to the male character. What is her/her objective? To take as many souls for the side they are on as possible. How do they do this? By basically influencing the world of the living while they are in it. Evil is a little more blatant. Good is a lot more subtle. What does he/she want? The other, they want to be with each other. But when they meet, someone tries to kill them in that lifetime. Then, they gotta replay serendipity to find each other. How does he/she get or not get what they want? Each other. Is there an opposing force that is stopping the protagonist from achieving this objective? The devil, the good side, the reaper who has to keep collecting souls and moving them to different sides. What is the central conflict of the novel? Good vs. evil. What about the central theme—what are you trying to say? That good isn't as easy as being good. And evil isn't as easy as being bad. That we are all a mixture of goodness, and wrongness, we gotta decide where to go with it. |
Of History and Hope BY MILLER WILLIAMS We have memorized America, how it was born and who we have been and where. In ceremonies and silence we say the words, telling the stories, singing the old songs. We like the places they take us. Mostly we do. The great and all the anonymous dead are there. We know the sound of all the sounds we brought. The rich taste of it is on our tongues. But where are we going to be, and why, and who? The disenfranchised dead want to know. We mean to be the people we meant to be, to keep on going where we meant to go. But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how except in the minds of those who will call it Now? The children. The children. And how does our garden grow? With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row— and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow. Who were many people coming together cannot become one people falling apart. Who dreamed for every child an even chance cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not. Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head cannot let chaos make its way to the heart. Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot. We know what we have done and what we have said, and how we have grown, degree by slow degree, believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become— just and compassionate, equal, able, and free. All this in the hands of children, eyes already set on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet— but looking through their eyes, we can see what our long gift to them may come to be. If we can truly remember, they will not forget. A Note from the Editor This is the first poem in our new series, “Together and by Ourselves,” which includes 12 poems that try to speak to our current moment. The series title comes from a poem by Alex Dimitrov, which will appear on Thursday. Today’s poem, by Miller Williams, was featured in the second inauguration ceremony of President Bill Clinton in 1997. This poem I chose from the poem of the day that got sent to my email. Love this bit right here cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot. This speaks to what's going on right now. Love this bit right here as well: We have memorized America, how it was born and who we have been and where. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Jet BY TONY HOAGLAND Sometimes I wish I were still out on the back porch, drinking jet fuel with the boys, getting louder and louder as the empty cans drop out of our paws like booster rockets falling back to Earth and we soar up into the summer stars. Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead, bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish and old space suits with skeletons inside. On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness, and it is good, a way of letting life out of the box, uncapping the bottle to let the effervescence gush through the narrow, usually constricted neck. And now the crickets plug in their appliances in unison, and then the fireflies flash dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex someone is telling in the dark, though no one really hears. We gaze into the night as if remembering the bright unbroken planet we once came from, to which we will never be permitted to return. We are amazed how hurt we are. We would give anything for what we have. Love this part: and it is good, a way of letting life out of the box, uncapping the bottle to let the effervescence gush through the narrow, usually constricted neck. You can feel it, can't you? That uncorking the bottle, the feel of it almost sighing in response to the release of pressure, going through that narrow, constricted neck. Bringing it to your lips, is it sweating? Is it slightly warmed? Is it incredibly chilled? Than the sounds all around you, the crickets, fireflies flashing their little lights and mating signs. It feels like a July day. |
| March: An Ode BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE I Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of winter had passed out of sight, The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that fulfil us in sleep with delight; The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and branches that glittered and swayed Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow or of frost that outlightens all flowers till it fade That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night, Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the madness and might in thee made, March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite. II And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel and ravin and spoil of the snow, And the branches it brightened are broken, and shattered the tree-tops that only thy wrath could lay low, How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of the year that exults to be born So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whose laughter puts winter and sorrow to scorn? Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thy forehead is molten: thy lips are aglow As a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her raiment and tresses yet wasted and torn, Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel through her spirit the sense of thee flow. III Fain, fain would we see but again for an hour what the wind and the sun have dispelled and consumed, Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with whose luminous burden the branches implumed Hung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and fledged not as birds are, but petalled as flowers, Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled and carved, or a fountain that shines as it showers, But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought not to last till by time or by tempest entombed, As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men: for the date of its doom is no more than an hour's, One hour of the sun's when the warm wind wakes him to wither the snow-flowers that froze as they bloomed. IV As the sunshine quenches the snowshine; as April subdues thee, and yields up his kingdom to May; So time overcomes the regret that is born of delight as it passes in passion away, And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in or mourn for with tears or thanksgivings; but thou, Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and gladdest of months, to what goal hast thou gone from us now? For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter that lightens, the beat of thy wings that play, Must flame as a fire through the world, and the heavens that we know not rejoice in thee: surely thy brow Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit the joy that impelled it on quest as for prey. V Are thy feet on the ways of the limitless waters, thy wings on the winds of the waste north sea? Are the fires of the false north dawn over heavens where summer is stormful and strong like thee Now bright in the sight of thine eyes? are the bastions of icebergs assailed by the blast of thy breath? Is it March with the wild north world when April is waning? the word that the changed year saith, Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion reiterate from spirits triumphant as we Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy clarions as men's rearisen from a sleep that was death And kindled to life that was one with the world's and with thine? hast thou set not the whole world free? VI For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and freedom's the sense of thy spirit, the sound of thy song, Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is as high as the hands of thy kingdom are strong, Thy kingdom whose empire is terror and joy, twin-featured and fruitful of births divine, Days lit with the flame of the lamps of the flowers, and nights that are drunken with dew for wine, And sleep not for joy of the stars that deepen and quicken, a denser and fierier throng, And the world that thy breath bade whiten and tremble rejoices at heart as they strengthen and shine, And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed her, and knows of thy reign that it wrought not wrong. VII Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in the crown of the steep sky's arch, And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness arise of the thorn and the larch: Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of the wildest of winds that blow, Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were laden with blossom are sprinkled with snow, And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the live woods feel not the frost's flame parch; For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is felt at the heart of the forest aglow, And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the hands of the gods of the winds of March. Poem of the day thanks to the Poetry Foundation and searching around. I thought this was a fitting poem because we are totally in March right now. This reads like the Shakespeare poem where we have some 'thy' and such going on here. The imagery and the metaphors I feel like are older, or at least read older to me. I dig the last line with the gods of the winds of March. How it goes through the imagery and description of things talking of kingdoms, glory, and things. How the breath of thy lips is freedom, that freedom's sense of thy spirit and then the sound of thy song. I can see in the first part that feel of the frost melting to the warmth and final coming of spring to get it. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| How to Triumph Like a Girl Launch Audio in a New Window BY ADA LIMÓN I like the lady horses best, how they make it all look easy, like running 40 miles per hour is as fun as taking a nap, or grass. I like their lady horse swagger, after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up! But mainly, let’s be honest, I like that they’re ladies. As if this big dangerous animal is also a part of me, that somewhere inside the delicate skin of my body, there pumps an 8-pound female horse heart, giant with power, heavy with blood. Don’t you want to believe it? Don’t you want to lift my shirt and see the huge beating genius machine that thinks, no, it knows, it’s going to come in first. This is a fun little ditty poem here. I do like the lady horses the best myself. But, this poem is totally woman power poem right here. I also love the little bit about ears up, girls, ears up! I love the bit about don't you want to lift my shirt and see the huge beating genius machine, and that it knows I'm coming first. Basically, a self-confidence, gonna kick ass, kind of poem. |
| They lie together in the aftermath of what he's done to her. Her body still shakes and convulses around his loving embrace. She doesn't try to escape the hold he has on her. Instead, she crumples her weakened form even more against the feel of his radioactive body heat. "How did you know about my peanut allergy?" she asks him. Her breathing comes in raspy, barely-there breaths. The words seem to tumble out of her mouth and fall between them. There isn't a sense of fear in her question. She wants to know when he was able to hone in on that one thing that she feared. How he knew about her most terrible allergy that had made it difficult for her to go to school when she was a kid. All the children had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that their mothers had lovingly made. While she had been left with nothing, her mother didn't care to feed her most days. He has her at his home and a tea kettle whistles in the background. She doesn't have fear in her eyes when she looks at him. There's something else in her blue depths, a warmth, a sort of longing. Like he's the answer to the question she's been asking for all of her life. He's the key to the thing that she's been meaning to unlock for so many years. "You mentioned it that first time I met you on the plane. Remember? You said how you were happy they served those sad, pathetic pretzels." He strokes her hair lovingly and she nestles into him deeper. The epi-pen sits next to them. It's what he does to prove his love to her. He poisons her with her most dangerous allergy and brings her back from the brink of death. It brings them closer each time she comes closer to death's door. Her eyes clear from the allergic reaction. This time he merely touched peanuts and then gently stroked her skin. She fell into the anaphylactic shock immediately. Her body convulsed as her windpipe tightened. He knows just when to administer the life-giving epi-pen to make her feel especially cared for. "I had to show I could take care of you. I had to prove to you that I can save you." She smiles at his words. Her lips are still tinged blue and her face still holds onto the redness of the reaction. He makes a blend of soothing herbs and her favorite tea to drink once she's able to swallow properly. He moves to stand up but she grips onto his arm weakly. He still feels the clamminess from her palms from her excessive sweating. "I've always wanted that, to be taken care of." "I'm here for you, always. I know how your family didn't take care of you. How you would get yourself sick to try to get your mother's attention. I'm here to show you that love you've always wanted." She loved him even more despite the fact he poisoned her. She had always wanted that unconditional, caring love all her life. And, she had found it in this man. He cradles her weakened form to his body like he can provide the lifeline for her to be alive. They sit in the aftermath of their willing crime that he made. Her lips brush against the inside of his arm in a brief attempt to kiss the warm skin. She still feels the coldness, the clamminess of her body going into near shock. There's the sense of being so close to death, yet never feeling more alive than this moment. "How did I ever become so lucky to have found someone like you?" "I feel the same in you, my love," he whispers next to her temple. They don't know how much longer they can tempt fate by inducing her allergies. Will this be the last time that they can show their love to each other this way? Will she be too far gone to be rescued. All she knew was that this overwhelming sense of love was enough for her to risk it every time. -- Word count: 692 words Prompt #4: She loved him, even after he poisoned her. Maybe even more. |
| Cinémathèque BY CHARLES NORTH I mean, who isn’t heating up for the next life on the order of Antoine Doinel, or a pot of unsweetened chocolate. Beginning with a single window and the sense that what we know outgrows everything except a headache or the desk dreaming on its own. It doesn’t matter if being upright brings living beings closer to the lives they lead (one’s 26-year-old self smokes a cigar but isn’t a desperado) nor is beginning a poem with someone’s wrath a means of stepping outside the Self as though volume equalled flesh tones — any more than the Epic of the Roast Chicken with Lyonnaise Potatoes and Greens takes over the above-ground, colors and smells aside. Throwing in a number #31 poem here though with my auditory, slam poetry I added with some written stuff I probably did maybe a little more. But, there are some poems I can dissect, and others where my brain is like NEED SLEEP and I'm like wait! Wait, wait. We gotta finish up my projects like 30 day blogging challenge and my Pursue the Horizon goal! I mean, who isn’t heating up for the next life on the order of Antoine Doinel, or a pot of unsweetened chocolate.  Love this shit, also the duality of heating up for the next life and then the pot of unsweetened chocolate I think of it being heated with the cocoa nibs. I also found my eyes falling back onto these lines as well: someone’s wrath a means of stepping outside the Self as though volume equalled flesh tones — any more than the Epic This wasn't from one of my many literary journals because I'm sleep deprived and lazy. I was go getting with my last 3 entries or so. Not so much go getting now, more like limping to the finish line. But, I dig this poem that I searched for best poems and stumbled across the last two. |
 Describe in detail how your protagonist has changed from the beginning of the story to the end. If you created a protagonist profile, devise before-and-after versions.Protagonist: Shani- So at the start of the story she is, understandably, very angry. She has been tricked into giving herself over to this military base and General Smith is the one who imprisoned her. He's that one man she goes up against and, for one of the first times, she loses against him. In the process of losing against him, she injures him with a dagger into his side which makes him take away all of her weapons. She is strong, extremely isolated, and untrusting. Through her imprisonment over in the Eastern military, she is tortured and kept there for a month. General Smith comes personally to save her from that base and return her to the Northern base. Through that experience she begins to trust General Smith a little more. It's clear that he is quite invested in her and will defend her rights as well as he can. She sees that there must be some kind of reasoning why he tries so hard to give her a chance within their military. Women aren't allowed to be in it but he does everything in his power to continue training with her. Her feelings toward him soften slightly because of this loyalty he has to her. She begins to feel invested in becoming a soldier, though she still desperately wants to have her freedom. *Bullet* Bonus: Protagonist Interview ▼ You are a journalist. The story of your novel is complete. Interview your protagonist and ask the following questions: 1. How did the events of your story change you?  I was tortured, beaten, stabbed, and stripped of my weapons. I've gone from living in a world that I can adpat to it as quickly as I need to, to something that is structured and rigid. No matter how much I bang and beat on the walls of my confinement it doesn't change. I then begin to mold into this structure as they soften the edges of myself to fit into their perfect box. 2. How is life for you now? I miss my old life but I'm forgetting what it feels like. How it feels to be able to move, travel, and have a choice over how I live. I am frustrated but finding a kind of kinship within this structure environment. I know at least three who I have some kind of investment in. One isn't even human, but rather a Donestre. I'm starting to realize I'll never escape from this, and I'm not sure if I want to. |
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That's my happy face at having a second pair of eyes besides my own, well, besides my glasses which makes it six then. I am always a fan of your reviews and improvements you give me. *nudge, nudge, starts hacking* 
