Pink Flamingos- Daffni Gingerich/Daffinblog

I huff and puff and walk out. Stamping to my car I sit behind the wheel and curse him. I go to find gas station pizza, the two pack of Hostess’ vanilla cupcakes, annnnd possibly a pint of ice cream that claims to be over loaded with fixins just to try and calm myself. I hate it when I walk in on him with other women. I mean I do disappear, no phone calls, and sparse emails with a few shallow lines of poetry to let him know I’m still breathing, but fuck put a sign on the door. And don’t think of me when you’re with her cuz that’s just weird. Even though many times I’ve done it, even closed my eyes to seal the deal, but that doesn’t matter. I tried to picture him beneath me, so vulnerable so fragile. And completely mine because I’ve straddled him and lassoed his thoughts so he’d never have to say he loved me out loud. But when I heard it echo through my brain I finished him off and left without saying goodbye. It was entirely too real. And we’d only seen each other a good 5 times outside of professional walls. Or maybe that was the first time, who’s keepin track these days. I could only think of how large I’d felt and how such a manly man could shrink so small beneath me. Not his cock of course, that grew. What kind of woman would I feel like if it didn’t. Then there’s erectile dysfunctions and that makes me feel a kinda shitty too. So anyways he was rock hard and I was wet because it was my first time straddling him. I leaned in and placed my forehead on his after telling him I could read his mind. But he already knew and had I love you at the forefront, just behind his skull where all the executive stuff is supposed to happen. So when I connected my head to his I felt entirely too much power. A man’s life isn’t mine to hold.


Daffni Gingerich says simply that she “is a writer.” You can read more of her mesmerizing prose at Daffinblog.

Semaphore-Jimmi Campkin

We build sandcastles just to destroy the pure, wet sand, dreaming of pineapples, messages in bottles and California.  Suntanned toes and blue lipstick, red dyed hair that runs in the rain and streaks your shoulderblades with plastic blood.  Lights twinkle over the harbour like your teeth in the sunlight.  You attract men, flies and trouble, and all three irritate you and spoil your fun.  You ask me, why can’t we burn down the local chapel on a Sunday morning?  And it isn’t rhetorical.  Hell hath no fury like an ex-Catholic.

Later that day, we conquer the sea.  You remove your red panties and pierce them with a shank of driftwood, plunging it into the oncoming tide in the name of Us… and what a concept that seems to me sometimes.  There is no Us, just You, hurtling around the Earth like a cannonball in the Hadron Collider, which you call the HardOn Collider whilst squeezing the blood out of my stiff cock, leaving it sore and limp like a dead chicken.

Today the sea is a flat plane of blue glass, and in the quiet the echoes are louder.  Clouds rumble overhead, keeping watch but never staying long enough to enforce justice.  I’m lying on my back as you fondle my balls with one hand and grip my neck with the other, asking me over and over again why I keep breathing.  It’s boring, apparently.  Breathing is boring.  I should just stop doing it.  My friends say you aren’t healthy for me.  But one by one they are going out, like Christmas tree lights, and soon it will just be Us again… or maybe just You, rubbing powdered glass into the slice you made in my arm with a fish-gutting knife, because…. well, just because.

 

Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Widow’s Rock- Allie Nelson

The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous

with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps

for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of

night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky

that mourning waters light with warmth, each day

the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up

as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.


Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

Captive Freckles – Sarah Doughty and Aurora Phoenix

Aurora Phoenix and Sarah Doughty/Whisper and the Roar

Whisper and the Roar

Captive Freckles

There was something about the way her freckled cheeks turned red that caught my attention. I wondered what made her blush. If it was something I said, or something that crossed her mind. It made the green of her eyes brighten like dew tickling grass on a warm summer morning.

suffused with roses
her emerald gaze
drew inward
coppery lashes lowered
demure veils
obscuring the windows
into her inner fracas.
her cheeks scrawl a chapter
unabridged
in a language
I studied once –
long since forgot.
I scrabble
the freckled pattern –
cues to the lost tongue.

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Writing “Burnin’ Down The Box”

Nathan McCool/Mist of Melancholia

Mist of Melancholia

I’m real sick of all the normal talk in this town.

So dig this:

I stroll into a convenience store wild-eyed

as any nightmare; and I trade

a satchel of moirai eyes and could-be prophecies

for the cheapest, darkest beer I can pry

from the cooler’s scary fingers

at this late hour.
By the time I get home my heart’s bluebird

is already drowning.

-Just a damn lightweight these days. Or so my fates say.

As usual, the violin and the guitar have been into

another tuning fork fight over why the

power for the amp won’t come on.

And one of em popped a string before

cracking the other’s head.

It’ll get nursed with apologies splattered on

a pill-shaped pillow tonight while I

find the loneliest room in the house

to write a very long metaphor in story form

on the ethics and morality

of the mass acceptance of…

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in the NEW ORLEANS REVIEW

David Lohrey/Writings, Musings, Poetry

WRITINGS, MUSINGS, POETRY

New Orleans Review

Saturday, the 19th or the 20th

Surgery is scheduled. I got the green light.
They’ll slice me open next Friday.
He says it will be dangerous.
I could die. The main worry
will be post-op blood clots.
One of those and I’d be a goner.

Are you ready?
Ready? Ready for what?
Ready for surgery? Ready for death?
The doctor enters, holds my hand,
and asks if I’d like a little something
to relieve the pain. I’ll be dead in a few hours.

Are you ready to go?
What an absurdity to say you’re
in your prime. You’re not in good
shape, even if you can hit the ball.
The Golden Years are over. When
her mother died at 93, Andrea
took steps to sue the hospital. She thought
her mother was good for another ten.

By ninety, it’s time. You take a…

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