The title of this post is the name of Day 27’s submission, and I regret to inform you that it’s going to stay private. At least for the time being. It took a bit much to write and deals with some personal issues. I’m writing here to let you know that I’m staying up on the Challenge – with just four days left, it’d be a bummer to drop now. In this play I tried to use the prompt of “No stage direction,” and made it most of the way through until the end, because I don’t know that I could have conveyed the final image without directing the actors: fail on the prompt but win on another play down, right?
Also, letting you know that 31of31 is in the works and coming along nicely. I think I’m going to need to collaborate with someone about this one considering there’s an element to the work that is somewhat beyond me.
That’s all for now, gotta get ready for work,
Posted in #31plays31days, #31Plays31Days, Fiction, Plays, Prose
Tagged #31plays31days, comedy, death, healing, heart, heartache, humor, plays, pride, sex, theater, wisdom
For Taylor, with apologies for being a grouch.
Being in love is:
Nervousness creeping in your fingers, twirling around themselves, trying too hard to keep still and gesticulate at the same time; being afraid that you’ll somehow scare the other person off.
Secreting kisses, pilfered passion, like a tort out a pastry shop from right beneath the baker’s nose, who set them out purposefully, hoping you would come and gobble them up all the while.
Sometimes moving too quickly, despite yourself and your intentions and your mother’s voice warning you about how you wear your heart on your sleeve.
Getting your heart a bit bruised so that you can show your scars to your real love who will love you all the more for them.
Posted in Love, NaPoWriMo, Personal, Poetry, Slam
Tagged chemistry, happiness, heart, heartache, hope, in love, Love, memory, passion, poems, poetry, pride, scars, sex, wisdom, words
Once upon a time there lived Turkey; Turkey had the attribute of being a crotchety git. Most of the creatures in the forest thought this was because Turkey was getting on in age, but Fox knew better. Turkey had the kind of constipated look on his face, lips puckered like an asshole straining, that said he was a grumpy gus ever since he was a hatchling, surveying unimpressedly the world he had been born into, believing himself to be above all of Creation.
Seeing the other creatures: Bear, Deer, Beaver, Goose, thriving and frolicking in the forest pissed Turkey off. Turkey, being an ignorant son of a bitch, thought all the other creatures were turkeys too; saw the world in a bichromatic shade of black and white of “with or against me”; and would not be satisfied until he shat on the work of all the “other turkeys.”
Turkey judged the dam Beaver built, saying it was poorly made, constructed from shoddy materials, and that it was stupid for a turkey to build a dam anyway. Turkey woke up Bear from hibernation, calling him a lazy turkey, saying Bear should be more productive; when Bear roared his disapproval at being woken early, Turkey said, “You’re doing it wrong. It’s ‘Gobble, gobble,’ you sorry excuse for a turkey.” Turkey mocked Goose, saying that it was a jive turkey indeed that took to the air – better to stay close to the ground the way turkeys were meant to.
Posted in Fiction, Opinion, Personal
Tagged bear, beaver, chicken, deer, fable, Fox, goose, idiocy, jive, moral, morale, parable, plot, poetry, pride, Raven, turkey, vengeance, Woodsman
Art bleeding out the pores,
The pains and joys that it’s expressing, flowing from out the core,
The wholly stock and store of a soul shaking itself from slumber,
Seeking in it a lesson to offer umbrage instead of lumber.
A stage set in its components, wood and screws and paint to sway perceptions of what would otherwise be malaise and restraints,
Seeking to stake a claim in saints and statesmen, a sinner or a psychopath sincerely, to make a statement:
Posted in Poetry, Slam
Tagged art, dance, joy, lies, maestro, music, orchestra, pain, painting, pride, sculpture, stage, theater, truth, writing
Coffee stain halo hanging ’round his head,
The taste of ammonia down his throat as he inhales the smoke instead
Of the stale air around his lips, fresher than the internal pressure that has him tightening his grip.
Slip slide pride finds delight behind their eyes,
See him somehow as a prize, but he’s determined to set them right.
She practiced punctuation like a silk dancer dangling between two jets at top speed,
Top rung, top gun, top shelf for topics drawn like Avalon,
Soliliquouys in celluloid devoid of actions non persona,
accords for quotas, that’s all she rotas,
Motives for managers devoid of expectations
That saw the situation as a place for affectations,
Delayed at stations bordering inoperative,
That rectified the victory by merely being dominant.
Never heard the word,
though if there is anything here to learn
it’s that once the fire’s all but burned
the cold will yet again return.
Ache, more than one might take
once loving eyes now cast away in pain,
grains of sighs where once they shone with pride, lost finding love in their bright alight.
Woe, you really ought to go,
wrought this, so why still do you dote
heart, still torn apart with hope
you dashed on rocks and hung with rope?
Posted in Love, NaPoWriMo, Personal, Poetry, Traditional
Tagged cold, dote, eyes, fire, gladness, hope, madness, pains, pride, sighs, valor, words