Due to lack of responses to the writing contest, we are cancelling it.
The cancelled contest link is below:
Due to lack of responses to the writing contest, we are cancelling it.
The cancelled contest link is below:
I have a box.
This box has a fox.
I put a box in a box with a fox.
I have a lock.
This lock is for the box that holds a box with a fox.
I have a key.
This key fits the lock that opens the box in a box that holds one fox.
The key that fits the lock for the box that holds the box with the one true fox.
I eye the key with the lock for the box in a box with a fox for the fox
that wishes to leave.
I’ve lost the key for the lock for the box in a box with a fox,
so she’ll never be free.
Ignoring the lost or the lock or the key or the box in the box with the fox,
the cubes or the rubes, that fox.
Poor as she be.
Trapped in a box in a box with a lock with a key that is lost, she chews and she brews.
She swiped to the left and scratched to the right of the box when that fox in the box in a box with a key that is lost was
sadly held by me.
Written by Andrew Satterwhite ©2015
THIS EVENT HAS BEEN CANCELLED!!!
The writing prompt is as follows:
You live in a third-world country (you can name one that exists or you can make one up).
The story takes place in a prison. A prison where only the worlds most dangerous prisoners go. When a prisoner (innocent or not) is admitted to this prison, his/her family is also put into the prison along with him/her until the sentence is finished or the prisoner dies. Some examples to get the imagination going: Will families kill the prisoner so that they can be free again or will they wait it out with their loved ones until the sentence is over? Will families hire other families to do their dirty work? What hardships are in the prison? Be creative. Dig deep and pull out the ugly and blunt truth that is hiding in that imagination of yours.
You choose POV, characters, etc. I only ask that you follow the plot set above:
4,000 – 8,000 words
Genre: Horror / Drama / Sci-fi (You get to choose which one)
The finalists will be determined by David Kent and me, and then the public will vote on which of those finalists win the prize.
STORY DEADLINE: NOVEMBER 28TH, 2015
ENTRY FEE DEADLINE: NOVEMBER 20TH, 2015
PLEASE SHARE WITH YOUR WRITER FRIENDS!!!
Hello everyone! This is Adrianna Joleigh. Boy it’s been a while since we’ve had anything going on in the Writer’s Gallery. We sure have missed you all. Those of you who know David and I, know that we have been SUPER DUPER busy with work. I’ve also started my own artistry business and have been quite busy with that as well. Me a painter, WHO KNEW! David and I have been tossing around an idea to do another writing contest, this time the due date would be in December (for some of you, that’s around Christmas time). There will be prizes and we will be charging a small fee for entries so that it helps with the prizes in the end. I’m not sure of the fee quite yet but nothing absurd. Before we can even think of doing this, we wanted to ask you all what you thought about it, and if we have more than 10 people that would like to join in the contest, then we will do the contest. The only way we will know if you would like to do this is if you write a comment below letting us know that you’re in. If you do not write the comment below, then we won’t know. 🙂 Do not reply on G+, do not reply on Facebook. 🙂 It’s not guaranteed that we will see the reply. 🙂 Feel free to share with your writing groups!! There’s also talk between David and I about publishing in 2017 a book of the writings you turn in to the Gallery (with your permission of course). This won’t begin until 2016, because David and I have a lot going on this year, but hopefully the collection will begin next year. I’m crossing eyes and fingers! Anyways, let us know what you think! 🙂 Please, please, please remember to reply below. Thank you!
“This long distance is killing me”
Here I am again
Glued to my phone again
Whatsapping,Facebooking and Skyping again
Wait a minute
I joined them all without any notice
I doubt it,I am trying to cut off the rhythm of the thousand million kilometres Continue reading
As I walked up the steps to my apartment I found a bright orange eviction notice stapled into the cracked paint of the brown door. It came as little surprise as I’d been avoiding the landlord for two months. I only left in the middle of the night for minimal groceries and to find the remnants of half smoked cigarettes outside the bus station entrance. Anything as not to be caught in her gaze and questioned yet again why the rent remained unpaid. With as little noise as possible I opened the lock to the apartment, leaving the orange notice stapled to the door, and closed it behind me. Continue reading
To learn more about the offer, visit Unknown Poetry.
Limited time only: Book edit price — $0.015/ per word for books over 10,000 words. Offer ends 8/31/14.
All contracts must be signed before the end of August, but books can be sent to me anytime after. Any contracts signed after 8/31 will go back to regular price of $0.25/word, unless otherwise agreed upon by the editor.
Click here to read them.
Email inquiries @ firstname.lastname@example.org
Drink from the fountain of wine that pours from my body. Swim in a sea of memories from the souls of your ancestors. Your appetite for lust spurs my ingenuity. I hunger for more; to feast in the intelligence of old. Bend me to your will and mold me into something of use, according to the Ancients. Do not intoxicate my brilliance, but inhale the mastermind masked by voluptuous breasts and skin of every color. Taste me. Eat my essence. Devour my carnal eccentricities. Dip into the powers I possess. Make love using your words of wisdom. Never stopping. Never concluding; yet hold still, and absorb every bit of me. Roll around in my scent, and drive your imagination to frantic. Wrestle me; paint me; spread open the doors that await you; bow to me; worship me; torture me, consume me. I am your Aphrodite. I am your Pandora, Hatshepsut, your Isabella 1, your Cixi,–and your means to an end. I am every woman from the past, representing the power behind the reigns of the worlds you know not. Phantom winds knit through your bodies unnoticed; absorbing the souls of the few capable of a higher dimension–unrecognized. Close your eyes and feel me there. Bear witness to my fingers creeping up your spine and into your mind; let the harvesting begin….
by A. Joleigh
Note to blogger: Consider embedding the two youtube videos for which I’ve given links at the end.
Duels are often the most exciting and memorable scenes of a novel. Here are some tips Continue reading
Suspense is a feeling – the feeling of excitement, of tension, of fear, the feeling of needing to know what happens next. As writers, we aim to create suspense, because our readers love it. Continue reading
Chapter One: Deed of the Seed
There it was again, that neighbor’s door down the hall, slamming. The old woman huffed as she looked out the peep-hole. A hard looking man was striding along the passage. As he passed, her peep-hole went dark, just before the silenced bullet went through her eye, into her brain, and out the back of her skull.
At the other end of the hall, apartment #423, where the door had slammed, sat a corpse. The elderly man had three bullet holes in him, groin, heart, and right between the eyes.
Another resident, coming home slightly inebriated, slipped and fell in front of the old woman’s door, where her blood had flowed underneath into the passage. He screamed, scrambled to get out of the blood, and totally freaked out, completely wasting his good buzz. Someone called the police. It would be another two weeks before the body in #423, would be found by the super collecting for rent. He screamed too.
Detective Fred Thompson, was assigned the old woman’s homicide. He had already spent four days knocking on doors, asking questions, investigating every aspect of her life, and had absolutely nothing.
Miriam Joanne Radcliff (Henderson), 67 years old, widowed, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, had no enemies, and pretty much no friends (she’d outlived most of them). She lived on Social Security, and a small pension from her husband of 43 years.
Nothing she possessed had any value worth stealing, and nothing in the apartment had been touched, so robbery was not the motive. Her insurance policy would barely cover her funeral, so wealth wasn’t a motive either. It appeared to be a random killing, and that always led to fears of a serial killer, but there were no similar reported cases in the five state area.
“Fred, how’s the Radcliff, case going?”
“Well Captain,it looks like another dust catcher. I can’t find a single reason why someone would kill her, and forensics has nothing either, a 38 caliber bullet
with no striation matches in our system”
Captain Parks looked tired, and hung his head a second before answering: “Give it a couple more days, then turn in your report Fred. God, I hate dead end cases,
makes us all look incompetent.”
“Yes sir, will do.” But Fred had no idea where to go next, he’d be spinning his wheels the next three days.
It had been eight days since he turned in his report, and was still in a sour mood over it. Captain Parks, came bounding out of his office heading straight for his desk. “The superintendent at the building where the Radcliff murder happened, just found a body a few doors down from hers. Get over there, the coroner approximates the death about two weeks ago, they may be related.”
Fred was almost glad to hear of another murder, one that might lead to answers. “On my way Captain, as fast as traffic will let me.”
Chapter Two: Ants at a Picnic
The C.S.U. (crime scene unit), was scrambling over everything like ants at a picnic when he arrived. Finger print dust hanging in the air, vacuum cleaners sucking up every particle of dirt. Cameras flashing like a strobe light show. Evidence gathering in the modern world of science. He looked at the nearest tech and asked: “What do we know so far?” The tech looked at him, shrugged, and went back to his scrambling. Guess he would have to wait for the official findings, but he would take his own look around.
Dave Merre, the coroner, walked up to him: “Hey Fred, you draw this one?”
“Yeah, it might be tied in with the one down the hall, Dave”
“That would make sense, they seem to be about the same day, I’ll know more later, when I run lab tests. The caliber of bullet looks to be a 38 also. But this one looks to be personal. After all, who shoots a man in his jewels if they’re not pissed at him?”
Fred felt a little queasy at the thought of getting shot there, what man wouldn’t. “Yeah, as personal as it gets Dave, as personal as it gets!”
Okay, who had this guy screwed over bad enough to warrant dying like this? Was it a professional hit, and old Miriam, just collateral damage? How do you tell her loved ones that; “sorry, but she should have minded her own business”. Glad he didn’t have that duty, the P.R. department had one hell of a suck ass job.
“Okay, someone give me the background, who the hell is this guy?”
The first officer on the scene came up to him to give all he had garnered so far. “Yes sir detective, Officer Hansen, responding unit. The victims name is James Trenton, according to the super. He has lived here six years, always paid his rent on time, and lives a quiet life. Never had any complaints by other neighbors, or any problems with the building super. We’re running a background check on him now.”
“Alright Hansen, have everything you’ve got on my desk ASAP, and good work.” Hopefully the background would offer some clue, because right now it looked like they had as little as the murder down the hall.
Looking at the body, there was a strange sense that the victim was smiling. How could you smile when you just got shot in the jewels? He looked around the room, searching for things out of place, something missing. Nothing, it wasn’t robbery, wasn’t something that someone was searching for. The only thing made sense is it had to be something personal, a cold, calculated, killing. He would wait for morning, to get started looking at this guy’s life, and had a feeling it wasn’t a good one.
Chapter Three: Trenton’s Story
As Fred walked towards his desk, he saw that everyone else had been busy overnight. Looked like Officer Hansen, had dropped off his written report, and the background information that was in the system, and it had been organized already. He liked Hansen even more for doing that, saved him some time. There was also the coroner’s preliminary report. Time, and cause of death, bullet calibre (38), and ballistic match to the Radcliff, homicide. So there it was, the two murders were linked, but the coroner couldn’t be certain which was shot first of the two, margin of error on times of death. Flipping through the CSU report, it came as no surprise that there were no fingerprints, and nothing else which could be considered evidence of the killer’s identity.
Now let’s find out who Mr. Trenton is.
D.O.B. 10/12/1943, that would make him 70 years old.
Couple of speeding tickets, couple of parking tickets,
One DUI arrest, 1978. One in 2010, lost his car, and drivers license.
Married twice, both ended in divorce. A few domestic disturbance calls. Not a very nice guy apparently.
Here’s something interesting. Was considered a suspect in a rape case, in 1961, of a 15 year old girl. Was released without charges on lack of evidence.
No children from either marriage, and no relatives listed. Guess I’ll have the records department look to see if he has any brothers and/or sisters.
Arrested seven months ago for assault. He slapped a waitress on the ass at a bar down-town after he had a few. DNA recorded, and 1 year suspended probation.
Credit score of 620, no loans for him.
I guess I’ll have a couple of the flatfoots find out if his ex-wives are still alive, and interview them if they are still around. But I doubt either one of them even think of him anymore, but you never know with women, they can carry grudges a long time.
That evening found Fred, down-town, at the Bare Bones Beer Bar, otherwise known as the 4B’s. He wanted to check on the assault of the waitress, and see if she had a jealous boyfriend. As he entered the drinkery, he noticed it was as low class as one could find in the city, heading towards the bar, he motioned to the keep. “Hello, I’m detective Fred Thompson, 4th Precinct, homicide. I’d like to talk to a waitress working here named Julie Madson. Is she here, or do you have her address if she isn’t?”
The bar-keep looked at his badge, then answered: “Bo Michaels detective, and yeah, she’s right over there.” As he pointed to a dumpy mid thirties brunette serving a table near the corner.
“Ugh, thanks Bo, I’ll try not to tie her up to long, just have a few questions about an incident a while back.”
Bo grunted something as he went to tend to a customer. Fred headed to intercept Ms. Madson.
“Hello Ms. Madson, I’m detective Fred Thompson, 4th Precinct, homicide. I’d like to ask you a few questions about an assault on you by James Trenton, about seven months ago. Do you mind answering?”
“Not at all, what did that old fart do now?” she asked with a hint of disdain in her voice.
“I’ll get to that in a bit Ms. Madson. Are you married, engaged, or currently attached Ms. Madson?”
Laughing, she smiled at him and answered: “No. Why, are you interested detective? I don’t have time or energy for a social life, hell, this job, even with tips, barely keeps a roof over my head, and food in my gut.”
“Sorry, but I don’t have time for a social life either, so I commiserate with you. One more question. Do you have any family who might want to avenge you, for being assaulted by Mr. Trenton?” This time she didn’t laugh, but looked stricken.
“Detective, the last of my family, my brother, died two years ago in Afghanistan.”, as she broke down in tears. This interview was over.
I suppose I’ll pull that old rape case, and see if there’s any more there than I have been able to find so far, this is turning out to be another dust collector.
The next morning , Fred, was sitting in front of Captain Parks, desk, as the captain arrived for work. Captain parks didn’t break stride, but walked straight to his chair and sat.
“Captain, why didn’t you tell me you know Mr. Trenton?”
“Because Fred, I wanted you to come to me at the end of your investigation, so I could answer your questions. So ask away.”
“Why Captain? After all these years, and why Mrs. Radcliff?”
“James Trenton, brutally raped Agness Miller, in 1961, when she was 15 years old. She gave birth to a son in early 1962, and was shunned in her town as a slut for having a baby out of wedlock. Five years later she found a good man who loved her, and married Jason Parks, ten years older than her. She tried to be a good wife, and mother, but she suffered psychological issues that kept her withdrawn into herself. She became an alcoholic at 28, and committed suicide at 30. Jason Parks raised me as his own, and made sure I was loved, but I never stopped missing my mother. When I joined the police department, I read about my mother’s rape, and found the only witness, had recounted her story, and disappeared, one Miriam Joanne Henderson, 15 years old. I found out later, through years of investigation, she was in love with James Trenton, and had been having sex with him at that time. That is why she refused to testify.”
“Now, as to why, after all these years. I had no proof, until seven months ago, when he got arrested and we got his DNA. I had it checked against mine, and it proved he was the man who raped my mother. So I went and confronted him, and he laughed. So I shot him in the balls for the rape, the heart for destroying hers, and the head, so the last thing he would see, would be justice being served, by the seed of his own injustice. Then I shot Miriam for letting him get away with the rape of my mother.”
“Captain Parks, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of James Trenton, and Miriam Joanne Radcliff. You have the right to remain……”
Tears flow, shattering against my cheeks.
Lips spasm from the pain.
Heart ruptures from all the lies.
Nothing else remains.. Continue reading
The howling winds of a predestined tempest fiercely echo into her ears. She sits outside her window, hanging her toes off the edge of reason. Tears rain down her fragile face, reminiscing a life where everything made sense. She is desperate to hold onto the hopes of a rescue from what could have been, an unknown, future love. Yet, with a broken heart, she lives in turmoil, with no hopes of a release from the grim nothing. Continue reading
My heart rapidly pirouettes.
To the twist of my emotions.
Butterfly ballet, in the pit of my stomach,
Sways to the rhythm of oceans.
Desperate to trap my breath.
Memories trickle into my veins.
Undeniable trance in every whisper.
An ache along my thighs remain. Continue reading
You sit alone
Within the shadows of a stage.
Hear me, your muse, sing our song,
That I’ll sing ’til the end of our days.
Pluck the strings of your guitar.
Imagine the instrument’s my form.
Strum each cord to the pounding of my heart.
Invoke words of ecstasy…wanting more. Continue reading
The day began with birds singing.
Children played beneath an awning.
Laughter rippled through the spring air.
Then all ceased without warning.
Bolts of light in the distance.
Violent quakes shook the earth.
Rolling waves of dark clouds came crashing,
engulfing life in its broadened girth.
Terrifying screams go unheard,
muted by the tempestuous blasts.
Where laid a beautiful city
now lay mere remains of its pasts.
A small child, was too frightened to run.
Her quivering lips called for her mother.
No response, only silence.
Frozen in her place, nowhere to take cover.
Tears stained her delicate rosy cheeks,
as her nose began to bleed.
Clueless of what’s happening,
she witnessed the world fall to its knees.
Fires consume the ill-fated city
below the mountain where she’s born.
Screams were heard from burning victims.
Doubtless then, she had been forlorn.
Planes flew furiously overhead
dropping terror onto the people below.
In the vast distance, defense armies gathered
Finding it hard to swallow.
The poisons spread into their lungs.
Every living thing soon perished.
Subdued without prejudice or favoritism.
Inconceivable for life to flourish.
Ashes fell upon her golden lashes,
tainting the life she just began,
and forever demolishing her memories
with the day rapacity conquered man.
— A. Joleigh
copyright © 2013
For three hours I’d navigated through the snow-covered roads. The remains of a cold diner coffee and the buzz from the No-Doz kept me alert, or so I thought. The headlights danced against the white veiled crags, the granite glistening. Four miles of loose dirt roads and another thirty to go. I reached for the radio, expecting no more than static. A sonorous jazz routine emerged from the speakers; reminiscent of Bourbon Street or Toulouse in the Continue reading
DEMURE AND DANGEROUS – WRITING FEMALE SELF-DEFENCE SCENES
by Rayne Hall
Today’s readers expect the heroine to fight her own way out of trouble. Screaming, swooning, and waiting for the hero to come to the rescue, is no longer enough. Continue reading
Dear loyal followers, authors, crazy people, “sane” people, Oompa Loompas, Lollipop Guild…..
I am happy to announce that we have a Google+ profile page that Adrianna is running!!! The page will be there to update everyone interested about our upcoming competitions, and introducing submitted writings by you all. Also, it will be there to share your work from your profiles.
If you wish to have your stories (short or long), poems, or prose posted on our site, please submit to email@example.com.
All of you that were friends with A. Joleigh before, please circle her again. Would you please share this with your circles, too?
How dare they call you their own?
How dare they label you dark?
How dare they shun you?
Africa they caress you with curses
Engrave you with recurring scars
Soil on your natural beauty
Fail to recognize your beauty
Put on make up to cover your face
Terrified to be identified by your face
Africa they masquerade you white
They hide from your tongue
They masturbate in other tongues
They forsake your existence
They put you on exile
For how long will they do that?
Showering presents at your dusty feet
Gifted presents of destruction
Africa you slit the throats of your sons
And you laugh hysterical afterwards
Africa you massacre your heir
Quenching thirsty rivers with floods of blood
Overflowing flooded with corruption you endure
Thirst of hunger
When will the tears end?
Cry oh! beloved Africa
To learn more about Mbongeni Nyadza please visit Meet the Writers.
View from the Open Sea (433 words)
Our dreams are but crystal drops falling from eyes tearing with joy or sorrow; their pings can be heard for miles around; their echoes bounce back to bless or to haunt. One droplet, the best droplet, shone as a white flare for a moment in time; smiles frozen on celluloid; romantic poses pasted into a sticky album and boxed away for latter days…It was just a tiny, liquid drop of youthful expectation collected in a bucket yet it promised the biggest prize. Of all those constrained in my little sea, on that cornerstone I fashioned my house knowing that, one day, I could look back and see it still shining like a beacon Continue reading
Does your story have a scene of danger or horror? Is it scary enough? Do you want your readers to fear for your main character’s safety? Here’s a simple technique on how to make a scene seriously frightening:
Unity candle, incinerated with passion,
ultimately smothered by sin.
Vengeance of an unyielding tempest,
never to forgive again.
It no longer beats to the rhythm
that they, themselves, once shared. Continue reading
Note to blogger: Check that the URLs are still live. Pages and YouTube videos often get deleted or withdrawn. You may want to embed the videos.
For historical fiction, a dagger is the ideal weapon: plausible in many scenarios, and loaded with emotional connotations. Yet, its under-used, because few writers grasp the Continue reading
Dialogue tags (he said, she asked, he replied) can help the reader understand who’s talking. But when it’s clear who’s talking, you can cut the tag. This makes your writing tighter and the pacing faster.
If the speaker is doing something, the action is enough to attribute the dialogue. Simply put Continue reading
He approached the panel on which to create
a masterpiece to live on for centuries.
An image appeared. He began to stroke.
Fondling its impurities.
Channeled by the phantom of his mind’s eye,
Poetically brushing along the grains.
Passions danced across the wooden sheet,
to the quixotic spectrum of his pain.
Enamored and with tears, he stared
at a masterpiece yet created.
So much of himself put into the curves.
In this creation he became elated.
One meager glide with the tip of his wand.
Inspired by a vision, a woman.
Heavenly bold browns and elegant hues,
radiate sensual desires,
like that of a human.
Countless days came and went.
As he glowered, the more of himself he saw.
Although the work of art resembled her,
the person within wasn’t her, at all.
Jubilant over this remarkable vision,
He seen it to be all worthwhile,
To have painted a hidden portrait of himself…
Hidden behind Mona Lisa’s smile.
In thirty years as an editor, I’ve found the same fatty words bloat the style of many authors.
Here is a notorious, fattening, calorie-rich word: ‘could’. If you cut it from your diet, your writing style will be come sharper and tighter.
Beginner writers are prone to overusing it. Experienced authors may use it a lot in their
The misshapen feckless man picked up a stool, and brought it to the table where she lay. He panted, allowing his shoulders to hang, and his posture to subside. He unbuckled the strap from her forehead, exposing the leather-burns, and removed the gag from her busted mouth.
Her comatose body lay there, tranquil. Her chin fully relaxed, leaving her lips slightly open.
Starting at her hairline, avoiding the bruises, he wound a wavy strand around his forefinger.
Embracing bracing lacing capturing the last moment
Sternly staring tattered shattered inside
Cooking stirring up a stormy sorrow
Gathering momentum of sudden abrupt sadness
Quickly sprinting shifty swiftly neatly towards the eyes
Knocking inviting the presence of tears
Reacting to their presence
Prematurely clinging hanging for dear life
ceremonious continuous packed my bag