Me Vs. Me

Walking i find this house...
a pretty little place I spied on, on my morning walk.
I strolled down the drive,
past soft green grass and fruit trees.
Coming up to the front porch, 
I was met by a lovely, yet angry dog.
I simple swatted him away with my words...
as he ran off, I checked the door.
And to my surprise, I found it was unlocked!!
How lucky am I?!?

Slowly,
I open the door and poke my head in.
"Hello? ...hm...
no answer, I guess it's empty?"
I walk in, and what did I find?
Why, paintings!!
Many, many, lovely wood paintings!
These were not the cheap repo's you buy in a store,
but they looked good enough to be.
I began to get curious.
So i walked deeper into this lovely house.
I moved through the rooms, searching for the source of the art...

~~To Be Continued...~~~

--Matt Tracy

Something I wrote today to commemorate November 22, 1963.

I was sitting on the rug in front of the black and white television set playing while my mom was ironing my daddy’s shirts. She was sprinkling water out of a large green wine bottle with a spritzer on top. Steam rose into the air as the iron met the water droplets sliding easily across the white cotton material. I was fascinated by the rising smoke and was disappointed when she stopped suddenly and picked me up in her arms squeezing me tightly. She sat down in the comfy chair next to the tv set turning me around in her lap and stared at the man speaking. The tears rolling down her cheeks mimicked the man’s as he stated, “From Dallas, Texas, the Flash apparently official, President Kennedy died at 1:00 p.m. Central Standard Time; 2:00 Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago.”

This is a contest that I found and thought you might be interested. Here are the instructions on entering with the email/snail mail info following:

The rules to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest are childishly simple:

Each entry must consist of a single sentence but you may submit as many entries as you wish. (One fellow once submitted over 3,000 entries.)

Sentences may be of any length but we strongly recommend that entries not go beyond 50 or 60 words. Entries must be “original” (as it were) and previously unpublished.

Snail mail entries should be submitted on index cards, the sentence on one side and the entrant's name, address, and phone number on the other.

E-mail entries should be in the body of the message, not in an attachment (and it would be really swell if you submitted your entries in Arial 12 font). One e-mail may contain multiple entries.

Entries will be judged by categories, from “general” to detective, western, science fiction, romance, and so on. There will be overall winners as well as category winners.

The official deadline is April 15 (a date that Americans associate with painful submissions and making up bad stories). The actual deadline is June 30.

The contest accepts submissions every day of the livelong year.

Wild Card Rule: Resist the temptation to work with puns like “It was a stark and dormy night.“

Finally, in keeping with the gravitas, high seriousness, and general bignitude of the contest, the grand prize winner will receive … a pittance.

You may inflict your entries either by electronic or surface mail.

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Where “WWW” means “Wretched Writers Welcome”

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Contact the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

If you would like to submit an entry to the contest, or you would like to contact the Grand Panjandrum himself, you have two main options.

You may email Scott Rice at srice@pacbell.net .

You may also send your contest entries, requests, and various and sundry truckling to:

Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest
Department of English
San Jose State University
San Jose, CA 95192-0090

Please include your name, phone number, and addresses — Gastropoda and e-mail. (Note: this data is for our contact information, not for public consumption.)

Matt Tracy, another charter member of the Young Author's Group, shares one of his poems with us today called 

Carpe Diem (Seize The Day)

Gather the rose buds while ye can,
because time, is inevitable.
And this same flower that is full today,
tomorrow shall surely be dying.

This sanctimonious sun.
The higher the fireball is,
The sooner it shall die out,
and near it's darkness.

The youth is best young,
when youth is as warm as the sacred flame;
Youth and blood are being spent, for death is inevitable,
and the time still succeeds.

Don't be shy but instead, use that time,
and marry ye shall be:
For losing your happiness,
you will never forget.

And you shall surely regret...

--Matt Tracy

Here is another piece by Victoria Featherston.  We hope you like it!

Oh no, It’s 1:00 on Tuesday

Victoria Featherston

“… the puffed up ego…” the man said.

Something to do with bread. How it’s related to bread, I couldn’t tell you. His words – carefully chosen and slow – evaporated like mist upon reaching my ears. Maybe it’s this room that suffocates my attention span. This room has a reputation – an awfully negative one – as it has held multiple sessions of painfully monotonous speakers. Hours of obscure topics and constant rambling cause my muscles to ache with impatience. White suit. Blue tie. He looks ninety years old.

Four stage lights illuminated his wrinkled, trembling body. Twelve vents lined the long stretch of the left wall. Twelve on the right. My knee drummed, nodded, bounced rhythmically.

 
“Who is rich? He who is content with his lot.” He sounds like a fortune cookie. He’s trying to sound wise, and maybe he does – to some. Of course he should be wise, he’s ancient!

 
I shifted in my chair, tuning him out once more. The dim lights grew dimmer as my mind hazed over. The darkness weighed down on my eyelids. The haze in my brain thickened, it became almost solid – tangible, even. The haze relaxed my muscles, muted my senses. The room rocked back and forth, and then turned upside down. I struggled to see clearly – I couldn’t focus! So I gently closed my eyes, softly, subtly, an unnoticeable gesture that felt so good.

 
Eyes. I felt eyes as pressure on my skin. I squeezed my eyelids together and shook the haze away. Upon opening them, an RA glared at me. I gulped. She glared as if it were my fault I was bored, and tired! They know we’ve all been in this situation several times! We don’t try to fall asleep – it just happens to a bunch of sleep deprived teenagers when you bore them to death.

 
Fear seeped into my skin with her pointed glare. Cafeteria duty cafeteria duty cafeteria duty cafeteria duty was the only thing on my mind.

I am so happy to share with you a poem by one of the Young Author Group's founding members, Trevor Ford, who is also a student at Lake Hamilton High School.

I see thee there

Thou doth weep like thou art the one in pain

Thou doth sob like I am the one to blame

But ‘tis be thee the one who hast wrecked this love

I had tried to sanctify it by declaring it true

I had trusted thee once and thought thee as mine

But thou hast deceived me

I who trusted thee who made thee full of cheer

I who loved thee and let thee near my heart

I gave thee a second chance

And thou hast turned me away again

Each time I trust thee thou hast deceived me

So if each time thou only mean to hurt me

​Why doth thou seek my heart

Just to bring about it darkness and hurt

Thine beauty a temptation to my mortal heart

After I fell for thee I saw a change

A change that therefore would be the end of us

But thou didst love me and I loved thee

Thy heart tells me truth but thine lips tell me lies

But the truth in your heart shall be sought by my eyes

A plague of evil that thou hast placed upon my heart​

Why so didst thou curse me with the loss of love

I loved thy heart as much as I loved my own

Thou hast loved me then left here me to die

But as I lie on the ground one question is on my lips

A question that everyone asks when unpleasant things happen

And that question is “Why?”

Metaphorical Sleep by Victoria Featherston

Below is a short story by Victoria Featherston, a student at Lake Hamilton High School and member of the Young Author's Group .  We invite you to comment, encourage, even give friendly critique.  What do you think?  We'd love to know.  Thanks for visiting our blog!  Mrs. D

Metaphorical Sleep

Victoria Featherston

Since the moment I saw them this morning – I couldn’t stop thinking about it. His wrinkled, trembling hands spotted with age supporting her. One locked with hers, the other on the small of her back. He led her – helped her down the stairs despite his own struggle. She took little steps. Small, careful, wobbling steps. And his patience! So natural, so practiced.

            I’ve only seen them once, and only for this moment. But this fleeting image nestled into my heart, it found a home there. That moment, so tender and loving as love is. So warm, selfless, and full of adoration. Love in its purest form presented itself in that elderly couple. The kind of love that is only rewarded to the most exceptional couples – the couples that pass the test of forgetting themselves entirely, and go against the current of the natural man.

            I studied a photo, framed golden, and perched on my desk – my wife. Her perfect, picturesque smile, adorable button nose – her gorgeous supermodel eyes, painted alive with a vibrant green. I remember dating this beauty years ago, the years when we were careless and invincible – crazy, even. The years when a single kiss threw me skyward. It was a first time, every time.

            All this in contrast with last night. Why were we fighting? I can’t remember. Why was she crying? I couldn’t tell you. I only recall a blur of mixed tears, anger, and her endless talking… As I stared at a wall and tuned her out. Our quarrels were normal. Almost daily. Over random, frivolous things, too. She says I’m unsupportive. I say she’s inattentive and ungrateful. It’s all just words, really.

            What did the elderly couple have that my wife and I didn’t? What made them so perfect?

            I turned off the lights in my office and locked the door behind me. I hailed my taxi and sat silent as he drove. Our lives had become a system. We did the same thing every day. No variation. Almost like we were both in a trance, a sleep that had become our reality.

            “Stop here.” I told the driver.

            He obeyed.

            What will it take to break the monotony? To wake up from this metaphorical sleep? A burst of sweet, flowery aroma encased me as I entered The Blossom Shop. A flower shop located a block from my house – the last time I was here was for our anniversary seven months ago.

            “Thank you!” I nodded, rushing out the door with her favorite color forget-me-nots in hand. I jogged the rest of the way home.

            I don’t know what came over me. Maybe desperation? Desperation to save our relationship and renew what I felt we had lost?

            I grabbed our doorknob with a sweaty hand, almost exploding through the door.

            She gasped.

            There she was – the perfect woman.

            “You startled me.” She placed a hand over her heart. My heart.

            “I’m sorry – ” my voice trailed off.

            “What are the flowers for?” She laughed. That lovely laugh.

            “You.” I shuffled toward her, setting the flowers down on the table in front of her. Before she could touch them, smell them, or say anything – I enveloped her in my arms and held her tight, pressing her soft, curvy frame against my tall sharper one. I pressed my cheek against the top of her head, breathing in her shampoo.

            “Thank you.” I could hear the smile in her voice, even muffled against my suit jacket.

            “Mhm,” I murmured.

            “What’s the special occasion?”

            “The fact that I love you so much.” I kissed the top of her head.

            “I love you too.” She squeezed my torso, “Baby, did something happen at work today?”

            “Yeah,” I opened my eyes, “I woke up.” 

I'm so excited about this new writer's blog.  It has come about through a workshop that was held by Author/Publisher Tommy Hancock from Pro Se Productions.  From this workshop, we organized a young author's group (which hasn't yet officially been named) that has approximately 20 young people and me (the oldie, but goodie).  We are meeting weekly to share our writing with one another for support and to give each other friendly critique in how we can make our writing better.  So much good has come already from bringing this creative eclectic consort together including many beautifully written poems and clever short stories. 

In this blog, we will be sharing our writing and helping each other to hone skills that we are developing and what we are doing in the group meetings.  

We would like to invite others to join our ranks by sending in works that we can share with on this blog.   If you would like me to post your work here or if you would like to be a part of our meeting through Google Hangouts/youtube, email me at peabody723@gmail.com.  

Have a great day!