tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post6768879735052270478..comments2024-03-18T09:09:59.625-04:00Comments on Janet Reid, Literary Agent: Contest #101Janet Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00615380335938685231noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-79451470073260780812017-06-18T09:02:16.980-04:002017-06-18T09:02:16.980-04:00This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.Kate Higginshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09861373649696211491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-20250861765192654312017-06-18T08:58:34.892-04:002017-06-18T08:58:34.892-04:00You wrote: “I was plastered.”
I meant to write, “I...You wrote: “I was plastered.”<br />I meant to write, “<i>It</i> was plastered.” It’s a typo, GOT IT? <br />What was plastered?<br />My hand.<br />Your hand was plastered?<br />A plaster is what you Yanks call a bandage. <br />Tell me again.<br />(<i>sigh</i>) I lost control of my car because my HAND was bandaged and slipped on the wheel, and I accidentally hit your police vehicle.<br />But you wrote…<br />Blimey, I forgot one lousy letter!<br />…<br />Hassling the perp, Officer?<br />A bit, Sir. He hit the police car...accidentally.<br />Oh!<br />I’ll release him when he’s finished his statement.<br />Carry on, Officer. (<i>wink</i>)<br />Yessir! (<i>smile</i>)<br />Kittyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09868642232827730189noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-10525204029875234842017-06-18T08:15:33.602-04:002017-06-18T08:15:33.602-04:00Sidewalk Café
“Gah! Why can’t I remember its name...<b>Sidewalk Café</b><br /><br />“Gah! Why can’t I remember its name?”<br /><br />Complaisant, I listen to <i>ma femme courageux.</i><br /><br />“Ugh,” she taps a fist to her forehead, “Italian. Begins with the letters p-o.”<br /><br />I savor the shish ta’ook with tabouli, melding and mingling the aroma. <i>Délicieux.</i><br /><br />“Pobo…poco…”<br /><br />Ha! She is returned! <i>Ma femme méthodique.</i><br /><br />“Podo…pofo…”<br /><br />Gone, at long last, <i>la fatigue.</i><br />Bless. <br /><i>La cuisine</i> Lebanese? Her <i>favori.</i><br /><br />“Pogo...pojo…”<br /><br />I relish her <i>energie.</i><br /><br />“Polo…pom—” <br /><br />Ah! Anticipation is <i>merveilleux.</i><br /><br />“That’s it!” Delight dances on her lips, “The Pomodoro!” <br /><br />This Lyme Disease? Long has <i>ma femme laborieux.</i><br /><br />“See! I will be a writerly dame!”Lisa Bodenheimhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17809067722921953857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-29170774574576360912017-06-18T08:14:12.822-04:002017-06-18T08:14:12.822-04:00She’d promised it would be the last time we moved....She’d promised it would be the last time we moved.<br /><br />I wave her resignation letter in her face; point at the signature. <br /><br />She bats it away. ‘Don’t flail. I’m ending my contract; it’s not the end of the world.’<br /><br />‘But, please –‘<br /><br />‘Everyone tells me, “You work at P.O.G.? Oh, you’re so lucky!” Piece of Goatshit, that’s what everyone says. Fucking bastard.’<br /><br />I don’t need to ask to know who she’s talking about.<br /><br />‘Going back to his wife,’ she continues, in a bitter singsong.<br /><br />I blink back tears and go upstairs to pack. At least she wasn’t fired this time.<br />sophistikittyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02705390137342099193noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-57982452016131546312017-06-18T06:54:11.672-04:002017-06-18T06:54:11.672-04:00Please God let them ignore me. Macy quickened her ...<i>Please God let them ignore me.</i> Macy quickened her pace toward the cafeteria line, her thighs rubbed against each other in protest.<br /><br />"Hey hippo, go feed yourself at the trough." smart-ass Kenny said. Others at the table laughed. <br /><br /> 'Today's Special: Meatloaf - Mac & Cheese'<br /><br />Macy filled her plate. No more counting calories. She reached for the last key lime pie. <br /><br />Alone, in the far corner, she sat. Her letter already written — they'd all be sorry when she was gone.<br /><br />"Mind if I sit here?" Sweet, kind eyes James smiled. "They're idiots, ya' know."<br /><br />Macy pushed away the 450 calorie pie.<br />LynnRodzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10796099106913990163noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-2181507922456121842017-06-18T06:02:33.035-04:002017-06-18T06:02:33.035-04:00She scratches away at this, her last letter.
Dear...She scratches away at this, her last letter. <br /><i>Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again.</i> <br />It will be my last letter, too. I feel the ink running dry. <br /><i>You see I can’t even write this properly.</i> <br />I have felt her hand upon me, her madness and genius flow through me. Together, we have wrought worlds. <br />Until this terrible disease. <br /><i>I shan’t recover this time.</i> <br />With grave tempo, go to the lighthouse. Fill your pockets with limestones. <br />I bequeath the last of my ink. <br />Be not afraid. Beyond The End, our words will live forever.Eileenhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12350212589821497010noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-58796131745995810272017-06-18T05:12:14.943-04:002017-06-18T05:12:14.943-04:00The sky flipped to black and the day ended.
“It’s...The sky flipped to black and the day ended.<br /><br />“It’s peculiar the way things are going now the End of Days is near,” Clarisse mused, adding some lime to her tequila.<br /><br />“I know,” I said. “The last thing I wanted was to die before I’d chance to celebrate. Ease into The Last Day, rather than rush into it. At least the Jumping Jews of Jerusalem are happy. The Government’s funded their grant for ten thousand Pogo sticks.”<br /><br />“Really? I bet they don’t get them. The application will be void. There’ll be a letter out of place or something.”<br />Mark A Morrishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-5696833978331083602017-06-18T04:31:49.739-04:002017-06-18T04:31:49.739-04:00A shark once thought she'd have the last laugh...A shark once thought she'd have the <b>last</b> laugh<br />But with <b>letter</b>s Steve's too clever by half<br />"Tem<b>po Go</b>ne" he wrote<br />Pl<b>ease</b>d he could gloat<br />“Sub<b>lime</b>” carved the shark for his epitaph<br />AJ Blythehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04529233142099749005noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-61225574243683653312017-06-18T03:21:59.707-04:002017-06-18T03:21:59.707-04:00
“At last!” Smith exclaimed. His lime green shaker...<br />“At last!” Smith exclaimed. His lime green shaker bottle rattled as the ship rocked back and forth.<br /><br />“Sorry, I was writing a letter to your mom,” I said. “Offered her a ride on my pogo stick.”<br /><br />He scoffed. No comeback at 0200. He shuffled out, not even a good night. Whatever.<br /><br />The collision alarm sounded: sharp, insistent. We didn’t have time to guess what kind of drill it was. Metal screeched against metal, it increased with every violent quake. Water poured in. Close the doors; lock the hatches. We had to save the ship. <br /><br />I hope Smith made it out.<br /><br /><br /><br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12964473925684317787noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-47402465121243013592017-06-18T03:18:54.338-04:002017-06-18T03:18:54.338-04:00Do these slimes think they can take advantage of m...Do these slimes think they can take advantage of me with ease? As I said in my last letter to the editor, I demand an investigation. An international consortium of criminals stole my private files and blasted them across the Internet. I’ve been violated, humiliated, stripped naked. The entire country is in ruins because of what they stole from me. Why doesn’t somebody do something? Where is the FBI, CIA, NSA, DOD, and my local police? Why doesn’t somebody protect the Internet?<br /><br />The pogo virus? Phishing scam? How was I supposed to know it didn’t really come from Google?<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02520938664643938416noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-50685769459026012272017-06-18T02:01:43.209-04:002017-06-18T02:01:43.209-04:00ACTI
We were in love. Hadn’t admitted it yet.
I ...ACTI<br />We were in love. Hadn’t admitted it yet. <br /><br />I arrived on time—that is, early—for her party. Toured her apartment. Her highlight: Chekhov’s gun on the mantle. Certificate of authenticity on letterhead.<br /><br />ACTII<br />Twice, we made eye contact across the crowded apartment. Grinned. <br /><br />In the kitchen, I brushed against her. Power decreased, all electricity rerouting between us.<br /><br />We danced the pogo-a-gogo. At last, guests departed. She crooked her finger. “Help with something?” <br /><br />ACTIII<br />My smile lit the apartment. Crept over, eager to “help.”<br /><br />She aimed Chekhov’s gun. “Sorry. I’m a writer.” Like that explained things. Then, she fired.<br />John Davis Frainhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18020019400599228492noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-67946636452720596992017-06-18T01:56:05.479-04:002017-06-18T01:56:05.479-04:00
Who knew her last letter, stuffed in such a slim ...<br />Who knew her last letter, stuffed in such a slim envelope, could weigh so much. I examined the envelope as Stokely stamped up and down the hall. Little fucker. <br /><br />“Knock it off.” <br /><br />I tossed a dead soldier towards him. The bottle broke against the record player, “Island of Pogo Pogo, by the Groovie Ghoulies” started, as I drained another Mai-Tai. <br /><br />I ripped open the letter. <br /><br />You get the cat.<br /><br />“Come on!”<br /><br />Stokely jumped up on the sofa with ease and curled up by me. He looked at me regally and closed his eyes. <br /><br />I pet him. Little fucker purred. <br /><br />Drats.<br />french sojournhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14262858704848580714noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-31288095803204056972017-06-18T01:46:41.381-04:002017-06-18T01:46:41.381-04:00“A pogo stick might work.”
“Please. A repo goth c...“A <b>pogo</b> stick might work.”<br /><br />“Pl<b>ease</b>. A re<b>po go</b>th can take care of him.”<br /><br />“A gesta<b>po go</b>dfather is more likely. Next.”<br /><br />“Al<b>po go</b>ose-liver?”<br /><br />“He smelled it <b>last</b> time. Something more contem<b>po. Go</b>.”<br /> <br />“Plug his nose with <b>lime</b>, then. Mask the smell of his chea<b>po go</b>ldfish.”<br /><br />“He’s already in the pagoda. <b>P-O-G-O</b>-D-A?”<br /><br />“Wrong <b>letter</b>. Needs another a, <b>Po. Go</b> spell check.”<br /><br />“Fixed. <i>From <b>Po, Go</b>ld Commander, to Mochi’s court jester, to be opened in the pagoda.</i> As soon as he reads ‘Po,’ go in and kill…ah, I know what to bring him!” <br /><br />Explosion. Hip<b>po go</b>op. Jester gets away.Karen McCoyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02640324898284007337noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-32839601270489257882017-06-18T01:44:53.674-04:002017-06-18T01:44:53.674-04:00One missed period, then nine more.
Thirty-three h...One missed period, then nine more.<br /><br />Thirty-three hours of labour.<br /><br />One last scream, one last push, one last breath. Surgery to save the baby.<br /><br />First word, first question, first lie: "Mommy's away."<br /><br />One fake letter, then hundreds more.<br /><br />A pogo sick, a skateboard, a bicycle. All "from mom".<br /><br />My daughter discovered the truth: fighting without surcease.<br /><br />One lemon-lime margarita, then countless more.<br /><br />A red light, a squeal, a crash.<br /><br />Surgery to save my baby.RKeelanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16761835094251669865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-37541334968939167142017-06-17T23:49:33.400-04:002017-06-17T23:49:33.400-04:00Tom smiled at the pink pogonia. A lime bow dressed...Tom smiled at the pink pogonia. A lime bow dressed the pot. An envelope, marked with the letter G, leaned against it. Thirty years, and she still cared enough to find the perfect gift.<br /><br />He eased the card from the envelope.<br /><br />Happy anniversary, Tom. Our nest is empty, and I must fly, too. I gave you thirty years. The rest are mine. Enjoy the orchid, given with love.<br /><br />An engine started.<br /><br />He had to stop her.<br /><br />No.<br /><br />He, too, would give a last perfect gift.<br /><br />He took the orchid to the greenhouse and, with tear-filled eyes, he let her go.<br />Barbarahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15769803733067838372noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-3622518462467744452017-06-17T22:27:34.637-04:002017-06-17T22:27:34.637-04:00
“Tell me about her, the last time you saw her,” s...<br />“Tell me about her, the last time you saw her,” she softly pleaded. “I need to know her, to know you. Please Flynn.”<br /><br />“She wore pogonias in her hair and drank vodka martinis with a slice of lime.”<br /><br />“Was she pretty?”<br /><br />“She took my breath away every time I saw her.”<br /><br />“How did she die?”<br /><br />“By her own hand.” <br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Because I couldn’t do it for her. She begged me, but I’m a coward, I just couldn’t.”<br /><br />“She left you a letter?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“What did it say?”<br /><br />“I told you I’m a coward, I haven’t read it.”<br /><br />“Let me Flynn.”<br /><br />Steve Cassidyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03166816870967552955noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-91092231956917171622017-06-17T22:26:37.268-04:002017-06-17T22:26:37.268-04:00FAMOUS AUTHOR
Like a starlet in the limelight Nat...FAMOUS AUTHOR<br /><br />Like a starlet in the limelight Natasha bestowed smiles on all two of her fans. How I'd gotten stuck babysitting her on this book tour I'll never know. She signed books and pranced. Then, like a chea<b>po go</b>ing to the movies, Natasha lined her purse with treats. She snatched the last Snickers, something I'd looked forward to as a balm for my sore feet and bruised ego. I couldn't let that slide. I eased up to her purse, popped the letter in, and grabbed the Snickers. Later, she'd read: Book tour cancelled due to lack of interest.<br />Sherry Howardhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04326605891373049617noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-42230878343139849922017-06-17T20:44:57.206-04:002017-06-17T20:44:57.206-04:00Dearest Jane, my first pen pal! Your sweetly scen...Dearest Jane, my first pen pal! Your sweetly scented missives, mailed from exotic locales like Peoria and Walla Walla, were sublime. You never described yourself, but I imagined you a beauty because of the throngs of people who followed wherever you went.<br /><br />In your last letter you agreed we should meet. I immediately traded my entire savings for a one-way train ticket. It wasn’t until I saw you across the crowded tent that I knew I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. <br /><br />Please forgive me. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know I suffer from pogonophobia.Just Janhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12546035917149403735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-10225919331278437362017-06-17T20:34:15.076-04:002017-06-17T20:34:15.076-04:00You want fellas, this is the happening place, the ...You want fellas, this is the happening place, the matchmaker says. No more boyfriend roulette. <br /><br />Really??? I say.<br /><br />Yep. Og—<br /><br />Ogres? No way, I say. Dated those. Scars to prove it. See?<br /><br />Ogres’ll never hassle you here, I was gonna say, she says. And that’s gross.<br /><br />I want brawny knights, princes on horseback, fellas like that.<br /><br />Huh, she says. You got expensive tastes for a scaly ol’--<br /><br />Please, I say. I’m so flaming hungry.<br /><br /><i>Hungry!?</i><br /><br />Lonely! I meant LONELY! I shout, but she’s already gone. <br /><br />I weep a little for myself. Slim, exotic, gorgeous—so why’s my love life draggin?<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-67549132411004690992017-06-17T20:31:49.779-04:002017-06-17T20:31:49.779-04:00Breathing hard, I stood over my landlord. “You com...Breathing hard, I stood over my landlord. “You come here, waving this lease in my face?”<br /><br />Flick.<br /><br />His cigarette still smoldered, a thin line of smoke curling toward the exposed wires in the ceiling. “Eviction notice? That’ll be the last letter you ever send.”<br /><br />Flick.<br /><br />I kicked the gasoline can. The bubbly, amber liquid congealed with two years’ worth of construction dust and slimed its way under his body. “Oops.”<br /><br />Flick.<br /><br />“You think they’ll pin this on me?” <br /><br />Flick.<br /><br />“I think not.”<br /><br />Flick. Flame.<br /><br />I held it under the lease, and smiled.<br /><br />“Just a Zippo gone bad, they’ll say.”Scott Ghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00293362485142152780noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-49152526560798963482017-06-17T20:31:30.888-04:002017-06-17T20:31:30.888-04:00From his seat in the airliner, Abdul watches the s...From his seat in the airliner, Abdul watches the sun over the refugee camp at Aleppo go down magnificently hued by campfires and a sandstorm on the horizon. <br />It is the sublime vision, the last, for night advanced out windows across the aisle; darkness moving west to east, and this night would let terrible things happen.<br /> A small explosive, screams, the cabin door is breached. <br />“Ease off, easy now,” he instructs the infidel pilot in the London accent that kept many secrets. <br />“We’re turning west.” <br />The copilot watches him, a brother in faith, and surely now in shared fate. <br />“Abdul?” <br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03546056344286926982noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-24509984047629724822017-06-17T19:55:57.807-04:002017-06-17T19:55:57.807-04:00The athletes stood together, wearing lime-green bi...<br />The athletes stood together, wearing lime-green bibs.<br /><br />Stuart eased forward to check the stats. Maybe this time he wouldn't be last.<br /><br />No such luck.<br /><br />Stuart took his place in lane 47. The worst.<br /><br />“Take your mark.”<br /><br />“Set.”<br /><br />BANG!<br /><br />The athletes surged forward, across the asphalt, into the field. Around the gates. Dodging rocks and gopher holes. Over hills. Across ditches. Home stretch.<br /><br />The referee marked the time and location of each fall.<br /><br />Only three made it back.<br /><br />Stuart took his place on the center podium. Screamed the letters U-S-A. Accepted his gold metal.<br /><br />Slalom pogo. An Olympic first.<br /><br />Dena Pawlinghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14444683810125395220noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-31372976323633360582017-06-17T19:37:01.379-04:002017-06-17T19:37:01.379-04:00Dear Sir, the reply reads.
I’ve never been a sir, ...Dear Sir, the reply reads.<br />I’ve never been a sir, but I didn’t have anyone to help write the letter.<br />We would like to assist you, and you certainly seem worth of our aide –<br />I’ve never been worthy of anything.<br />But –<br />Now we get to it.<br />Unfortunately, at this time we are unable…<br />Blah, blah, blah. What they mean is NO.<br />I toss the letter onto the cardboard and rags that serve as my bed, use the lime-colored pogo stick to ease myself upright, and pretend the leukemia won’t soon steal my last breath.<br />Barbara Lundhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05031635871739502352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-8219629029123083762017-06-17T18:54:18.771-04:002017-06-17T18:54:18.771-04:00It was over at last. Mosby would disband rather th...It was over at <b>last</b>. Mosby would disband rather than surrender. Baron's <b>letter</b> was smudged throughout as evidence of the many fallen tears. There were no comp<b>lime</b>nts and vows save one. He was coming home, never to part again.<br /><br />"Miss Mac! Men coming with a wagon."<br /><br />I raced down the lane, looking for Baron, but he was not among the riders. Their grim faces told me all. They <b>ease</b>d to a stop so I could climb in. He was covered in blood. His pulse beat a faint tem<b>po, go</b>ssamer whispers of his failing heart. "Told you--" He smiled wanly.<br />Julie Weathershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13725236516593676381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-67387572259850739632017-06-17T18:26:36.854-04:002017-06-17T18:26:36.854-04:00I'm supposed to be writing Gram a letter. A th...I'm supposed to be writing Gram a letter. A thank you letter. For the sublimely ugly sweater she gave me for my birthday. It's too horrendous to even be ironic. <br /><br />The color: a shade of mauve even mauve wouldn't claim. <br />The collar: scalloped. <br />The cost: she must have bought it in some after Christmas sale last year, because who gives a sweater to someone with an August birthday? <br /><br />Since I can hardly write "Sweet pony on a pogo stick, please never send me something like that ever again" I've been struggling. <br /><br />Anyone with some tact that can help?ES Gracehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12669333994018272865noreply@blogger.com