In Which I Fail at Flash Fiction but Sort of Succeed at a Shakespearean Sonnet

Kurt Brindley is currently running a flash fiction contest in the comments section based on a picture of an abandoned car near where he lives. My entry was disqualified for being too long (because I didn't read the instructions carefully smh!). My second attempt also failed but I got a rough little sonnet out of … Continue reading In Which I Fail at Flash Fiction but Sort of Succeed at a Shakespearean Sonnet

Weird Wednesday Presents: Peter Pied Piper

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter pads the sound of teeny tiny tripping trapping Tumbling, twirling, twisting, curling, little-little feet a-dancing It’s not the children, oh my, oh no, not the children never they They’re gone forever, flapped their feet and flew away No, no, no, ‘tis just the scritch-scritch-scratch and rat-ta-tat-tat of rats’ attack The squeak-squeak crack and … Continue reading Weird Wednesday Presents: Peter Pied Piper

Brief Bedtime Musings on Paradise Lost and an Extremely Wordy Original Poem

You know, the tragedy of Milton’s Satan is that he ends up becoming a worse version of the very thing he is rebelling against. In truth, I wonder Milton’s universe would be better served if both God and the Devil were to follow the path of the Buddha and relinquish the chains of desire to … Continue reading Brief Bedtime Musings on Paradise Lost and an Extremely Wordy Original Poem

Wednesdays Writing Prompt

A Thursday Response to Wednesdays Writing Prompt:

One.

Shaking hands—a trembling finger

Resting lightly on the trigger

A second passes in a hundred years

Blood-drums pounding in your ears

Two.

Bead of sweat trickling down your brow

Sneering lips—you’ve got her now

Heat in your chest a rising fire

Vicious sensation of vengeful desire

Three.

Eyes open wide and cold with fear

The face of someone you held dear

A chance was given—she did not move

And now you’re left with something to prove.

Shaking hands—a trembling finger

Presses lightly on the trigger

Noise and smoke and shock pulls back

Eyes clenched shut turns vision black.

And silence comes, and hovers there

In tiny whispers a three-word prayer—

Three.

Two.

One.

But a deed like that can’t be undone.

It’s over now, you’ve made your bed.

The song has ended—the singer’s dead.

A Writer's Existence

My Post (1)

“Walk, run, skip for all I care. But, if you don’t leave right now, you have exactly three seconds to live.”

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