“When we choose a goal and invest ourselves in it to the limits of our concentration, whatever we do will be enjoyable. And once we have tasted this joy, we will redouble our efforts to taste it again.
“This is the way the self grows.”
“When we choose a goal and invest ourselves in it to the limits of our concentration, whatever we do will be enjoyable. And once we have tasted this joy, we will redouble our efforts to taste it again.
“This is the way the self grows.”
“It happened again.”
“What?”
“The door.”
….?
“The door of the laundry room.”
….
*Sigh* “It hit me on the way out again.”
“Oh…” “Well…” “It’s just a door.”
“It doesn’t hit me every time.”
“Huh.”
“I’m serious!”
“I know! -Look, maybe you’re just jumping to conclusions.”
….
“Like, you know, that… say, air currents from a different door or whatever sometimes close that one.”
“On me.”
“…Yeah.”
“Never on you.”
“…Yeah.”
“Never on anyone else.”
“Yeah!”
“And only when I start a load at midnight.”
“Yeah! -wait; why are you starting laundry at -”
“And only when I can also hear whispering…”
Inspired by my own laundry room experiences for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: someone unremembered.
September 26, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about someone unremembered. Is it a momentary lapse or a loss in time? Play with the tone — make it funny, moving, or eerie. Go where the prompt leads you!
Respond by October 1, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
The Flash Fiction CONTESTS start after this, so check them out beginning October 3!!!
Photo Credit: Ryoji Hayasaka
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Greetings, mortals, and welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #45!
Sometimes as writers we take ourselves too seriously. We take writing too seriously. Poetry is the worst medium for that, attracting snooty nose-raises and accusations of not being in tune with raw Nature. So; take off the shackles of your beret, read my basic outline here, and live a little!
Here are the specifics for this week:
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 4) to submit a poem.
Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.
If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. I highly recommend commenting and not just depending on linkbacks if you write one.
Have fun!
Photo credit: Heidi Kaden
Here’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for: the winner of this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest.
And that is:
Kim’s ol’ butt:
As big as a barrel,
Round like a
Double-Stuffed Moon Pie
And wobbly as Jell-O.
Sort of like a
Humongous Air Bag.
If ever there were
An automobile accident she’d
Never feel a thing.
Congratulations, Susan! You are the most terrible poet of the week!
Honestly, almost all of the entrants this week were too GOOD. Many topics were terrible; but meter, word usage, and the way it all tied in worked in strangely cohesive ways. You all need to lower your standards, though (as always) that’s not necessarily a bad thing…
Madame Muse’s poem won for being the worst. Her winning points were her comparisons of Kim’s ample posterior to several unappealing and humorous objects, coupled with a poetic pattern abandoned at the end.
Here are the rest:
by Joem18b
Plug your nose
Hold your nostrils shut
Instead of breathing in
Loads of coke
Instead of air
Please
So you don’t
End up
Young but dead and
Mourned
Or also
Using that stuff
Right into your veins may give you a
High
Over the moon
For a while
Faster then the nose route but
Man while it’s
A wilder ride you will
Not be alive at its end
—–
Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu!
Ah!
Utterly long is the name of the hill not far from where I live.
Many shorten it to something
Actually a lot less difficult to pronounce:
Taumata.
And that’s where I’ll stop.
—–
Do not pass go
Or collect two hundred
Nailed to a cross
Another martyr mother Hubbard
Looking in the cupboard
Didn’t find what he’s looking for
The dirty bits on Biden
R they under there?
Under where?
Mister Trump just
Peed in his underwear
—–
Laughably Outrageous tRIckster
Lounges Outside in her Ugly Gangrenous
Haughty Linen Incremental Naughtiness
—–
by Deb Whittam
For those times when being politically incorrect wasn’t an issue, hey it was almost embraced
And he wrote real cool songs too
Though the suits became a bit blasé but what are you going to do
Send someone to the shops, it was the 1960’s for goodness sakes
—–
by Gary
Arrogant
liar
extremist
x-rated
a charlatan
New Yorker
deluded
egotistical
racist
Brexit will make him millions
ought to make his pals billions
remain was always his position
it changed to suit his self mission
self deluded craving celebrity privileged Eton boy
Destined to play as Nero with his new burning country toy
england should be for the English he proudly shouts
privately whispering he’s actually not from these whereabouts
Funding his lovers and friends with public money
easily avoiding the rules like some corrupt Easter Bunny
fibbing and lying is his way to con the masses
flippantly poking fun at those from the working classes
evading visits from the police to one of his shouting matches
lovers are kept quiet maybe with gifts paid for from our hard earned taxes
Jovial and bumbling are what the media laps up
only reporting the fake image and never about how he is so corrupt
he said he couldn’t live on his huge ministerial wage
no thought for us as he takes us back to the Victorian Age
so a man without principles or any human decency
only interested in one person and slayer of our democracy
not a man of the people just a wannabe celebrity member of the aristocracy
—–
by The Bag Lady
Gorgeous
Elegant
Older
Romantic
Gregarious
Exceptional
Charming
Likable
Oooh, just
Outstanding
Nice
Enjoyable
Yum
—–
Thank you all for entering! You are the highlight of my long, long week.
Come back tomorrow around 10 MST for the next theme.
Abject Muse: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:
Why are there so many
Socks in the dish pan?
I think that the boys have lied.
Socks aren’t a weapon;
Aren’t doilies or dishes.
They shouldn’t be balled up or tied.
So boys’ve been scolded; I doubt they
Were list’ning.
Their feet will be cold, wait and see.
One day I’ll miss it:
The clothes never flying;
And dishes, instead of hos’ery.
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Adulting is hard. Not only do we get kicked out of the nest and sent hurtling toward the ground in nothing but an entry-level job, we’re also expected to do our own laundry and dishes. In fact; we need to responsibly handle many adult tasks like money management, simple repairs, basic plumbing, grocery shopping, meal preparation, and a ton of car-related stuff.
We are even expected to change our own light bulbs!
In light of that, I’ve devised a list of car tips to pass on:
That’s about it for me. What other car advice would you add? Do you have any interesting experiences?
—————-
Check out your car, and what I wrote this past week:
Wednesday, September 18: Observed that people crop up again in life in “Don’t Burn Bridges in Life (Seriously).”
Thursday, September 19: “The Little Things,” a poem about bereavement.
Friday, September 20: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Trent!
Saturday, September 21: Announced the 44th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is an acrostic to a celebrity. PLEASE ENTER!
Sunday, September 22: “The Sweetest Interlude,” in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt.
Monday, September 23: An inspirational quote by Len.
Tuesday, September 24: “Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Five.”
Wednesday, September 25: Today.
I also posted all this week at my motherhood site. I wrote “I Have No Advice,” “I Didn’t Want to Be a Mother,” and “You Just Can’t Win” (a poem).
Photo Credits:
Hosea Georgeson
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
NeONBRAND
Chad Kirchoff
Jairph
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Forever passed in the few minutes they all sat, all in stasis within their memories of loss. Had the shiny, hard, hospital floor been of a more comfortable material and temperature, Wil never would have moved.
Dr. White shifted to a new position. “This floor is harder than I thought,” he apologized; using his practiced, sympathetic smile. The Winters family turned to him, more alert than they’d been upon his entrance.
Rob sighed. “You probably want us to leave.”
The grief counselor’s expression became softer. “No, of course not.” He shifted again, smiled again. “I merely came in to see what I could do for you. To help. I also,” he repositioned a third time, “suggest, perhaps, we move to the chairs.”
Rob nodded; Wil saw the movement in her peripheral vision as her attention was focused somewhere on the base of the bed. She heard her father rise, followed by the rustling coat chorus of Jakob. “C’mon, Wil,” her stepbrother encouraged. She turned her head toward the sound and saw a hand extended; took it with her own. Somehow, not under her own power, she rose. She found herself walking, turning her body, sitting. She felt Jakob sit beside her.
A scraping noise to her left drew her attention. Dr. White dragged his own chair over and set it to the front and side of her father. 10 o’clock, Wil thought, As Mr. G. would say.
The counselor set his clipboard on his lap and folded his hands atop it. “When Beatrice passed last year, she did so here -very near to here.” He paused. “I knew who would come in to talk to me and what they would say, since I worked as the grief counselor then, too.”
He waited. Wil glanced his way, still adrift and apart. She saw her father raise his head to meet Dr. White’s eyes.
“This won’t be easy,” Dr. White said, “So we’ll take it one step at a time.”
Rob stiffened. He looked toward the bed, then back to the counselor.
“If you all would like to stay here, I will walk you through things.” He looked at Wil; she seemed to see through him, through his white-blue gaze to the wall behind.
“I’m staying,” Jakob gruffed.
Wil, again of some force she did not control, nodded.
“Very well,” Dr. White continued. “We’ll start with what is written here.” He lifted a page of notes from the clipboard, glanced over them, and flipped to another behind those. “Cynthia.” Pause. “Your mother.” Another pause. “She wished to have her body donated to the research hospital.” He paused again. “In her words, ‘To help others with cystic fibrosis to find a cure.'”
The counselor looked up at each of them, ending with Rob. “Is this still your wish?”
Rob turned his head to the bed again. As he stared at his wife, unmoving, Wil saw a single tear slide down his unshaven cheek. “Yes,” he answered.
Continued from One Hundred Four.
Keep reading to One Hundred Six.
©2019 Chelsea Owens
“Happiness cannot be captured and put in a cage but has to fly free so that we can observe it in sudden tranquil moments amidst the noise of life.”
Len, “The Bluebird of Happiness“
She felt him: fluttering rolls across her belly, monitor heartbeats strong and loud. What will you be like? she wondered, pausing life to grow another.
She chased him: rolling, crawling, walking, running; breaking, laughing, climbing high. When will you slow down? she wondered, curtailing career to care for child.
She watched him: growing taller, speaking deeper; leaving parents for teenage crowds. When will you grow up? she wondered, forgoing sleep for curfew calls.
She hugged him: leaving nest to start his own; walking tall beside his wife. When will you come back? she wondered, looking round at what remained.
Raised and cared for Carrot Ranch‘s writing prompt: an interlude.
September 19, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about an interlude. It can be a pause between two key moments, the pause between acts in a play, an intermission, or a temporary amusement Go where the prompt leads you!
Respond by September 24, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
Photo Credit: Katrina Knapp
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #44!
Not sure about churning out something poetic and terrible? Read my basic outline here. Enter at your own risk.
Here are the specifics for this week:
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 27) to submit a poem.
Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.
If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.
Have fun!
Photo credit: Ahmet Yalçınkaya
Also, if anyone wishes to select a topic or be a judge for a week, I’m open to consider either.