Wednesday Night Writes

Time:

4:04 pm.

Because we've been so sluggish lately with prize poems and the like, why not a head start for this week?

This week's prompt: November Sweeps.

This week's poem, dedicated to last week's winner, Elina AKA prime_radiant:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
Elina don't have her own words to say
So she steals Shakespeare's in a brilliant way
Notice this rhyme scheme is A/A/A/A
Elina will soon be wed to her boyfriend Tom
Who knows maybe she will soon be a Mom
She'd do a good job; she would be the bomb
If a child were to come out of her womb

How do I love Elina? Let me count the ways
OK, that’s not Shakespeare, I’ve led you astray
Maybe next time I’ll quote Robert Goulet
How strange! Another instance of A/A/A/A!
This poem brightens my day, as does House
Why does he get stanza time? He sure can arouse
me to write slant rhymes; what a louse!
Elina, you’re way cuter than my pet mouse

Comments: Read 8 or Add Your Own.

Time:

12:30 am.

Alright kids, time for Thursday Evening Votes!

1) Rhythm: to be sung as a song

This is how I jelly roll
With a boogey woogey blue
And orange too
I got swagger An' snap
My legs behind
Cuz I got the rhythm
You can't knock it (up).

2) Arrested Development Episode 318 – Birth Control

Intro:
(Michael's in the kitchen eating a sandwich, reading the newspaper)
GOB: (from somewhere) Michael!
Michael: Hey Go... (looking around) Gob? Where are you?
GOB: Right in front of you, Michael. HERE I AM! (POOF...smoke grenade. Room quickly starts to fill with smoke. Michael is coughing) ROCK ME LIKE A..AGH, I’m stuck!
Michael: This smoke is really acrid.
(Smoke alarm goes off)
GOB: (from somewhere) Ow! my eyes are stinging!
(outside, 20 minutes later, Michael and George Michael stand together next to fire truck, GOB sits on the ground with a blanket wrapped around him and a oxygen mask. Smoke is still billowing from the front door.)

Synopsis:
Gob eventually explains to Michael that he wants to use his illusion skills to slip his illegitimate son, Steve Holt, special pills that increase his sex drive in an effort to take Steve’s attention away from him and onto a child of his own. Gob is also concerned about protecting the Bluth line, and says that Steve Holt is the only male heir to the Bluth name. George Michael takes issue with this.
Maeby gets prescribed birth control pills in an effort to worry her mother, which backfires. Buster, who is worried about his mother and fathers renewed sex life, steals some pills labeled 'birth control' which he thinks are Maeby's and slips them into Lucille's drink in an effort to stop any younger brothers or sister from being born. They are actually GOB's libido increasing pills. Tobias tries to take some of GOB's pills and accidentally takes Maeby's actual birth control pills, with hilarious results.

3) (sing to the tune of jingle bells)

on a ho-ot date,
wanna get it on
Bobby lost the condom and so
now he can't get some.

Running to the store
in a beat up cadillac
all the trojans sold out,
so we can't hit the sack!

OOHHHHHH

Birth Control! Birth Control!
Why can't she just pay?
Take the pill each morning
so that you can both get laid! hey!

Birth Control! Birth Control!
get a monthly shot,
or put a patch upon your ass
and there's monkey love thats hot! yeah!

4) BIRTH CONTROL

And I wish I could just insert a picture here of an aborted fetus, looking like a stuffed chicken: premature and simmering in the slow summer heat, the chef's original recipe, thrown out and abandoned by dumpster divers, fourth-trimester abortions, you.

Your fortune cookie reads, "Better next luck time," and you laugh at the typo while killing your first-born because it was a she. Roll them bones, them itty-bitty pre-formed bones, and think realpolitik in reverse: stuffed back into the womb, a country chokes on children.

Maybe not here, not now, not yet, but we’ve had it up to here before and there’s something in their beady (needy?) eyes we don’t particularly trust: naked need, and what will they ever do for us.

We start learning that euthanasia means ending the lives of others, as if to cure our own incurable condition. When did we start teaching it? And why all the philosophizing about it anyway? Just talking... why that's the ultimate birth control, and so it comes to this inescapable fact:

I should have placed a picture, though it's a thousand words and our limit's two hundred.

I've got two left (actually four):

SNIP (comma) SNIP (period)

5) She should died hereafter.

tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
creeps in this petty pace from pill to pill
to the last adenine of an egg's life
and all our yesterdays
have guided sperm the way to dusty death
Out, out brief candle
Life is but a hormoe fueled illusion
who struts and frets her month upon the uterus
and then is heard no more
It is a tale told by a prescription
full of mostly fury
signifying NO BABIES

Comments: Read 8 or Add Your Own.

Time:

10:33 am.

Vivian we are
Extremely sorry that your
Poem really sucks.

In case you couldn't tell, Vivian won last week for her Hegel hegemony happy hour of a poem.

Sorry for the delay/lack of creativity this week. Distractions abound.

BUT fear not, here is this week's prompt: birth control.

Comments: Read 14 or Add Your Own.

Time:

10:26 am.

Let's get ready to vote!

1) I opened the box and breathed in its sweet smell: like roses or some other flower tucked inside for only me to smell. I lovingly broke the seal on the tissue paper, delicate hues of pink and rose, three layers hiding what was inside. Oh! But i knew what was inside! I had been waiting for this day for a long time. for six to eight weeks to be exact.

Ever since the moment i saw it on that website i knew i had to have it. It was perfect in every way, every fold, every detail; it was not just an object, it was so much more. I can't quite describe it, but it's just amazing. I ordered it and every day since have been waiting for its arrival. Pacing by the door the past few days, worried it was lost in the mail. What if someone else got it by mistake? What if they delivered it to my neighbors and they didn't give it to me? What would i do? I'd order another, sure, but wait longer? I could not bear it.

Finally i peeled away the last fold of tissue, and there it was. I gasped in delight. I picked it up, lovingly, and caressed its soft fibers. 100% cashmere. Baby blue, the most perfect article of clothes i had ever seen.

I couldnt wait any longer. "BABY!" i yelled, "Come here! Its come, its finally come!"

i wait for the pitter patter of tiny feet, and they arrive, skidding to a stop on the wood floor by my feet. I pick up Baby and nuzzle her nose. It is a bit dry, she might be getting a cold. "There you go Baby, a present for you!!" I slip the sweater on with ease, she looks like she should be for sale in a toy store she is so perfect.

Baby leaps out of my arms with a delighted bark. See?! She loves it too!! Baby runs around my feet, nipping with happiness at my toes. She tugs on her sweater, getting a better feel of its expensive richness. She loves expensive things, sweaters in particular.

Then, Baby pauses, squats, and looks at me with love in her eyes.

As she walks away, her little brown pellets of love are left behind. Her sweater is unravelling as she walks.

2) ‘Skitch, skitch, skitch...’

“What is that?”

‘Skatch, skatch, skatch...’

“Probably Muffin.”

“What the hell is she doing?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, how would you know it’s Muffin?”

‘Thu-dump. Thu-dump.’

“Maybe it’s a rabid opossum/wolf hybrid clawing it’s way into the house?”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s interrupting the movie...”

‘Fump!’

“Muffin?”

‘Awor?’

“Where did you get that gay sweater vest?”

‘A-ruf.’

“Where did you get her that gay sweater vest?”

“I thought it was precious.”

“She hates it.”

‘Arooo!’

He’s right, of course. I do hate it.

------

Whee!

3) There are two types of us.
The first is the gutter-rat mange drinking out of the toilet, raccoon blood on its snout, always smelling like whatever it was digging through. She eats grass and throws it up, humps things (animate or inanimate, whatever you want) and hunts rubber balls like they’re gold nuggets. When you take her out of the house, you have to keep a leash on her to keep her from disappearing.
The second is the welcome mat dog, eating pate with the rest of the family, smelling like new carpet, unwilling to set foot on the grass. She runs away from new people, runs away from cats, runs away from rubber balls, and wears sweaters all over the house like she wants to be people. You need to drag her on a leash to get her outside in the first place.
Fuck sweaters. Fuck people. I’ll take the taste of toilet water.
(Reply to this)

4)
zzzing
2005-10-27 02:14 am UTC (link)
Excerpt from an Interview with Fidel Castro for Dog Fancy Magazine November 1973 Issue
By Billie Williams

Billie Williams:
Hello Mr. El Presidente Castro, its an honor to meet with you today, sir.

Mr. El Presidente Fidel Castro:
Very good, yes, I am always welcome to the dog lovers, I am a dog lover for many years of my life and will love to sit and talk with you today in this beautiful Cuban weather. Is the weather not very nice today? It is always very fair here in Cuba, you know, very mild. Would you like a cigar?

BW:
No thank you, I only smoke Pall Malls. I notice that all of your Havanese are wearing sweaters, which seems a bit odd, given the mild temperatures here, could you tell me a little about that.

FC:
Yes, yes, of course. It was December of 1957, Che and I were in the jungles of the Sierra Maestra Mountains, preparing for the battle with Batista; training men, gathering support and such. Well, you see, Che, who was cleaning his rifle at that moment, and I remember it very clearly, abruptly stopped what he was doing and turned to me, with a very grave look in his eye. He said to me, “Fidel, you must promise this one thing to me, brother…” and I replied, “Yes, Che, anything, what is it?”
(long pause)
He was a beautiful man… and he continued, quite solemnly, he said “Fidel, you must always make sure that the dogs have sweaters”…
And so, you see, from that day on, I have complied with my sworn brothers request. It was a very strange request, yes, but he was often a very strange man, enigmatic, as many geniuses are. I loved him very much, you know.

BW:
What an extraordinary story. Now lets discuss the two fine Dobermans I noticed earlier…

5) The Birth of Consciousness

Arf, I am dog! I am Hegel!
Bonds-friend to a tortoise-eyed
master, I too lord over a flock
of hands. Two sets of five
fingers knitting my jacket.

In the hills of Afghanistan,
you will watch boy and animal
knit together. My tartan, woven
without a flock in sight. He sees

never a single lamb. Boy,
you sleep in the cage built
for me. Sweat for my sweater.

Comments: Read 15 or Add Your Own.

Time:

11:30 am.

Time for round two, writers!

This week's prompt is: dogs in sweaters.

Happy scrivening!

Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.

Time:

12:11 pm.

Alanna here. This week's winner is

zzzing, with "The Life and Times of Alabaster Fiddle." Congratulations, and here is your original poem, penned by Jeanette and myself.

Ode to Zzzing

There was a boy called Zzzing, real name Vito
He did lots of drugs, but his writing was still neat-o

His play about Alabaster left us wanting more
Hey, I heard John Williams wants to do the score!

Our days will be empty, until next Wed.
If it weren’t for Zzzing, we’d never leave our beds

Oh wait, yes we would, we’d leave them for one bloke
He’s a doctor, he’s hot, with his cane he’ll give us a poke

But we digress on House comma Greg
Even though we're the only ones turned on by his gimp leg

Although he is more topical than we thought
Much like Vito, with pain killers he can be bought

Vito, prove yourself to be British and walk with a limp
And you could easily become Jeanette and Alanna's pimp.

Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.

Time:

11:59 am.

Here are your entries to vote on! Please vote via ommment, vote by number, and vote only once. Also, if you don't vote, there is the possibility that Diddy will kill you, cuz you know, Vote or Die!

1) The Life and Times of Alabaster Fiddle

Alabaster:
Fit as a fiddle dear Gregory, fit as a fiddle! I say, I may yet contend in the World’s Slipperiest Champion this very fall. I might yet contend!

Gregory:
(quietly)…not if I have anything to do with it…hee hee hee

Alabaster:
Whats that gregory? Scheming again? Well, I’ll have none of that, go and fetch my pumpkin guts, I must slather myself some more.

Gregory:
Yes, dear brother, I shall.

And slather he did, all day and all night, until he was the slipperiest man in Calaveras county.

Alabaster:
I proclaim I am the slipperiest man in Calaveras county, all that there is left to do is PROVE IT. HA HA, I feel so full with vigor that I might wrestle a bull to the ground and prance about the prairie in his place, just as a Stud Bull would. I think I shall do that very thing. Yes.

Gregory:
(quietly)…methinks this is my very chance to slay my brother…methinks…

Alabaster:
What did you just say Gregory?

Gregory:
Oh…what?

Alabaster:
What? You said something just now, I heard you.

Gregory:
What? No, I wasn’t… it’s nothing.

Alabaster:
I know you said something, quite devilishly. I demand to know it.

Gregory:
I was talking to myself about how the grass here is very thin and it needs to be watered or perhaps less tread upon.

Alabaster:
Yes, well, get to it. I propose a sign. “TREAD LIGHTLY” or perhaps “Please Use The PATH”.

Gregory:
Yes.

Alabaster:
Yes, well I’m off to wrestle Herod, the bull.

Gregory:
I hope you die.

2) i slice and sliver
dig deep, withdraw pumpkin guts
toast with salt and eat

3) This is fucking cosmetic surgery, baby. The same time every year, we indulge our national urge to nip and tuck our vegetables into haunting idealizations, Greek masques of joy and terror, expressive abstractions of sentiment. Nature’s asymmetrical protuberance becomes the raw material of our humanity, at our mercy under the knife.
So are we little Gods puttering on our workbenches? Are we incurably obsessed with remaking these things in our own image? The crowds of silent admirers are certainly endearing at Halloween, eviscerated into grotesque reflections, into the shadows on the cave walls. They’re not perfect... their uneven eyes and wobbly bases testify to the fallibility of the creator.
But they’re beautiful, now that they’re more like us.
It’s too bad we have to empty their heads first.

4) Problem Identification:

Research libraries are facing budget cuts while having to cope with rising print journal subscription costs. It is becoming monetarily impossible for these institutions to both carry print journals and their electronic counterparts. Which medium is being used by patrons more? Should an academic library have to make the decision to cut "Homeopathic Remedies Monthly" and inconvenience pumpkin guts enthusiasts everywhere?

5) I.22.b.13-911-05: In re: usage of new pumpkin shaped Halloween Candy Carriers, we, the people, find it only appropriate to refill these delectable dispensers with their proper contents. (N.B. While this is meant literally, only the exterior is meant to be plastic: please refrain this year from giving out plastic candies, fruits, or razor blades. Please, these children are learning the valuable skills they'll need to beg on the streets, part of our long-term HALLOWEEN [Hispanic And Latino Lads Overtly Wheedling Everyone's Edible Nougat] plan. So continue to give them the genuine article.) This refers, of course, to the healthy alternative to chocolate: pumpkin seeds. Get 'em while they're hot. (We, the people, take no responsibility for cold seeds. Remember. George W. Bush hates broccoli; or at least his father does, and these things run in the family.)

6) my name is pumpkin face
I come from pumpkin place
I have bright orange grace
your heart begins to race

Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Week One and Official Rules
Time:	9:17 am.

Welcome, everyone to Wednesday Night Writes. Here are the official rules!

The prompt will be placed here each Wednesday morning. You have until 11:59 Wednesday Night to give us your entry via e-mail (dymphna18@yahoo.com) or comment on this entry. Remember that all responses must not exceed 200 words and can be in any creative form (poetry, dialogue, microfiction, etc.) as long as it is word based. Check back here Thursday for a post containing all of the entries. You can then vote via comment for your favorite. The votes will be tallied by 10 Thursday night.

Please feel free to post anonymously, but remember that you will not get the prize that way (a poem written by Alanna and myself for you) and that Alanna and I will use our discretion to take down things that are just plain wrong!

And they're off! This week's prompt is: pumpkin guts. Happy scrivening!

Comments: Read 6 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Let the Writes Begin!
Time:	2:45 am.

Greetings writers! Lend us your scrivenings. This marks the first in what will hopefully become a series of weekly exciting competitions. Here's how it will work. Each week, the webmistresses with the mostest (Alanna and Jeanette) will choose a topical prompt (either a word or phrase). Based on that prompt, you, the writers, will create a piece consisting of 200 words or less. It can be in any form: poetry, dialogue, microfiction, etc. You will either e-mail us the entry or leave it as a comment on the journal post where we give you a prompt. We will then create a journal post of all the entries and encourage everyone (writers and fans alike) to vote via comment on which scrivening they like best. Each week, the winner will get a prize*.

Happy scrivening, and spread the word!

*There will be no prize.

Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.