Art of Writing League, Season 2
Record: 7-3, tied for most regular-season wins
Playoffs: Lost in second round
Week 1: Random Picture Challenge
Topic:
Posted on Sept. 25, 2013
Result: Beat Witty via no-show
Morgantuan was never going to stick around.
He had to stretch his wings. He had to hit the town.
I couldn't expect a king to risk his crown
in the name of love, could I?
My nest would swing with the wind from the cliff's peak,
when the cold tends to split through unkissed cheeks.
It hardened, the broken skin of a single mother trying to make it
and never quite feeling less than naked.
Parantius. Beloved kin. I nuzzled him to sleep every night,
knowing he too would leave and take flight,
knowing he too would cause my greiving at night.
But not yet.
The ninth of January, an exhale keeping us warm,
my folded wing covers Parry, a sheath from the storm.
My breathing is chored. The air's thin in our mountainous home,
but we prefer to stay away from lands crowded below.
I'd hunted the night before to keep us fed for the blizzard,
and though it's less than equisite, in winter, there's less for the pillage.
When alone, I tell Parry stories of his legendary father,
but avoid the part where the ruler of the skies couldn't be bothered.
Footsteps. Parry's a sensitive sleeper, and he nudges me awake.
I turn, puffing heaps of flames expecting a hungry hyena's gaze.
My eyes dart the landscape when I see a darkened man's blade
shimmering in the sun, and he's pulling a large englassed case.
I can't see in, though, so I tell Parry to wait while I examine closer
and slip off for a better vantage point, unwilling to do battle over
some random man who might just be lost, despite my instincts.
So I climb closer, peeking over a tree, I finally glimpse it
and see what appears to be a head of handsome bronze
and glowing teeth I know I've seen.
No. NO! It's ... Morgantuan!
"STOP! Who goes there? Explain yourself or lose your life
because this fire-breathing dragon isn't afraid to use its might."
The man turns, grabbing his spear but not moving to attack.
"I am known," he begins, "as Sir Trenton Runiford the Black,
and I come bearing the head of the beast that killed my family
with intent to repay his deeds in kind and prevent the swill's lone progeny
from ever doing what this villain did."
His words were labored but his purpose was clear: to kill my kid.
But I could understand. Morgantuan was a heartless murderer,
who spurned his son and me like discarded furniture.
It burned me up, still so love-sad. So I offered a treaty of peace.
I'd see that he leaves and let drop that he killed my son's dad,
but first I wanted one more look at Morgantuan's beautiful face.
Trent removed the head as I loomed with a gaze,
then, consumed with my rage,
burned the entire fucking head to ashes in one luminous blaze.
Week 2: Sports Quote Challenge
Topic: "Confidence is a very fragile thing." — Joe Montana
Posted on Sept. 30, 2013
Result: Beat Rawn MD via no-show
This is how easily the shooting star falls from the skies:
He stood tall in the lights, with fame, wealth, glory all in his sights.
Then, in a ball on his side, swallowing pride,
Derrick Rose, Chicago's favorite son, down and calling for ice.
"I've watched it 20- or 30-something times. But I try not to think about it."
This is the superstar, strapped to the leg press,
his back and legs aching from the ravaging 10 sets.
It's in his eyes. He can't escape the image of buckling,
the knee twisted and crumbling, physically humbling.
The superstar was exquisite at jumping, a marvel of grace
now harnessing pain in hopes of discarding this brace.
"Everyone's free to voice their own opinion. I can't stop people from saying stuff."
This the MVP, the point guard, the floor general and captain,
now defenselessly basking in fans' resentment and madness.
But they don't understand.
Their knees have only bent as far as their minds.
But as hard as he grinds, parked on a bike,
the superstar feels like he's going nowhere, marking the time
with meaningless gains. He's seeing what's plain:
He may never again weave through the lane without reeling in pain.
"The thought of me going out there and injuring myself again, I didn't want to put myself in that position."
This is the superstar, returning to work.
He still turns with a jerk on his spin move, learning the twerk
on his new knee ligament, concerning at first.
But the surgeon had words, swearing he'd soon be swinging it.
This is not an end. This is the superstar, focusing tight,
honing his flight and proving he still can go to his right.
This is the superstar practicing, staying late on the clock.
That which doesn't kill him only improves the range on his shot.
The days fade into blots. Six to nine months turns to a year.
This is the superstar, the new season, emerging from tears.
"The only thing that's changed in my game is my confidence level. I think I'm way more confident in my craft, in my game. I worked out a whole year training on my body."
Week 3: Famous Paintings Challenge
Topic:
Posted on Oct. 12, 2013
Result: Beat patrown 6-2
Julia always had better breasts than me.
They were smoother, perkier, came to rest with ease.
She'd flick her hair. The boys would sit and stare.
She'd toy and coyly lick her lips with care,
never overt, but always spinning sinful dares.
We'd been friends for 12 years, since that day in recess
when we'd agreed that we both hated teachers.
Fated rejects, well, until the boys started to notice.
Soon she was flooded with invites to parties they hosted.
Julia brought me with her to the keggers and raves,
until soon I, too, had boys all begging for lays.
Popularity tints the libido. Pretty by association.
Sipping wine through broken makup.
Splitting time with Joe and Jacob.
We were seniors, handed over the right to party.
I found resentment washes clean with a Sprite-Baccardi.
Julia always had better taste than me.
She found a room so close you could practically taste the beach.
Senior week: waves and weed, shots and cock, beer and bikinis.
Trying to face the week as a straight release of stress,
I instead found myself chasing Steve's caress.
Steve sat behind Vicki in history last semester.
He'd transferred to our school this past September
for some sort of basketball deal. And he'd fast enamored
every girl who'd pass him and squeal over his massive member.
When Vicki introduced us, I knew the game was on,
but my confidence was up from Joe, Jake and Ron.
Steve had this great style, and you don't expect taste from jocks,
but all I wanted from his clothes was to take them off.
Julia always had my bests interests at heart.
She made sure our place and Steve's were inches apart.
Besides, she was banging Kyle, Steve's teammate and roomie,
so it was convenient to do me the favor of leaving us two be.
Steve was tough, though, so I borrowed Julia's sexiest skirt,
combed my hair out long, pouted lips, ready to flirt.
Kyle answered the knock on the door.
"Steve? He's in his room. It might be locked, but I'm sure
he wouldn't mind if you dropped by to give him a visit."
So I walked across the living room, grab the handle and twisted.
Julia always had to be the first in everything we did.
She was on top of Steve, tits out and swinging. BITCH!
I stormed out. Stormed down the stairs. Stormed through the lobby.
Ripping every shred of clothing she'd ever lent me off my body.
I stormed out past the boardwalk, past the staring bitches and bros.
At one point, saw Vicki. She tried to give me some clothes.
But I needed to be clean. I needed release. That's what this week was for.
Julia chasing after me, as though I'd ever forgive this cheating whore.
Julia never let me down.
Julia didn't mean to let me drown.
Week 4: Elements Challenge
Topic: Fire
Posted on Oct. 17, 2013
Result: Beat Vividlyvague 5-0
The flame flickers. One draw, deep. Exhale.
It's time to go.
This attic provided home, sanctuary by liner notes.
Crawl space, really. One window, sealed by primer coats,
that couldn't reveal the time I'd consigned to wine-drinking and hiding, cold.
There's a draft. The five-by-five-by-five nook wasn't insulated.
Inhale.
At times, I'd climb the flimsy ladder wincing, aimless.
The splinters made it necessary for socks.
Each winter came and my room grew dimmer.
Proceed. Entrance bearing a lock.
I had the key now.
Mother had been careful to knock.
She wasn't here. Exhale.
The scribbles on the wall would be there till they're not.
Scratches on the headboard, still bare with its knots,
the wood never quite took to its unbearable lot.
Inhale. Stare at my blocks and discarded toys gathering dust.
There was a child here. There is no child here.
Captain America's leg fell off one day. I bandaged him up.
There are no heroes here. Exhale.
The vintage Mantle-inked glove; he told me he'd handed me love.
Mother agreed but still covered for me when I damaged its cuff.
Close the door on the way out.
Inhale. These floors creak.
The door squeaks.
The master bedroom replete with a faded family portrait.
The boy had a smile. The man'd demand he force it.
Turn it down. Exhale.
The steps spiraled to haven.
This kitchen inspired each craving, now just a retired old apron.
The tiles were painted red and white, but the footprints were obvious now.
Inhale. An ash falls. The smell forms an ominous cloud.
It's time to leave. Exhale.
It's time to leave this vacant pall.
One gazing stall. Faded paint in the corner where the tree would graze the wall.
Inhale. Step out to face the fall. Taste the fog.
Toss the butt into the open basement hall.
The flame flickers. Exhale.
Week 5: Color Challenge
Topic:
Posted on Oct. 26, 2013
Result: Lost to Mr. J 6-1 in title match
I hail from tha Delta's depths, born in tha mud.
Papa was a rollin' stone, couldn't affor' me a hug.
Tha poorest in luck, Mama had us four in a bunk,
wit' Tammy snorin' it up while I dream'd of scorin' a buck.
But that ain't us, we's long been use ta desolate lives:
I walked uphill ta school both ways unda pestilent skies.
Couldn't purchase tha glasses, so squints was stressin' my eyes,
but I couldn't've seen betta days anyways.
Yes, we was bent on demise.
And so mah only friend turn'd out to be this wood'n guitar,
and I learn'd how ta strum 'er wit' one foot on tha bar.
And I learn'd how ta sing from tha pits o' mah gut
and make mah voice real grav'ly like tha grits in mah gut.
And we survived off a can o' beans, that's it for a month,
I'm talkin' a can, eatin' tha metal 'til it's rippin' mah gut.
And mah only friends was these four strings — one always broke —
and my woman, she ain't no good neither, dumb as a stone.
And plus can't trust her to roam tha way she comes wit' lies.
She'll open 'er thunduh thighs and let othuh guys come inside.
But I couldn't blame 'er, since I ain't got nothin' ta offer,
only strummin' for dollars, hummin' and clutchin' my coffers.
And she'd probably 've left me, but she got nowhere to run,
'cause tha Delta is home, even in tha coldest of months.
And I'm prayin' ta tha Lord for mercy, reachin' for a purpose.
Tried sellin' my soul to tha devil. He said it wasn't worth it.
Life dealt me a bad hand, I sing and swallow tha truth.
And I guess that's why they call it tha
— man, fuck this shit.
Week 6: Final Line Challenge
Topic: "And I never saw her again."
Posted on Oct. 31, 2013
Result: Beat Vulgar 7-0
The imprints of tears appear like a time lapse of past fights.
Her lipstick is smeared on the wine glass from last night,
but she's gone now.
She came into my life like a rainbow,
all colors and sugar and spice.
I let my pain go. It's not the same, though,
rubbing the glitter from eyes.
This was day seventeen since Eternity
by Calvin Klein
had flirted me into trying this mountain climb.
I hadn't known she'd existed.
I liked her clothes.
She liked my cheekbones and how they rose when I grimaced.
We went to clubs. I never went to clubs before, reclusive-type
whose evenings usually concluded in Four Roses fused with ice.
I needed more open room to write.
She needed the party life and attention.
So we went to clubs and danced while others offered blind resentment.
They couldn't see us. They only saw her,
as she basked and glowed.
She stood six-two in those heels and swayed like Axl Rose.
And so we danced. From Thicke to Thin Lizzy,
we'd spin, dizzy —
engaged in a personal Sin City.
She started coming home late, with the scent of men's cologne
faintly lingering on the small of her back.
The emptiness of home kept me from calling her tack
even if I'd have been better off alone instead of swallowing acts.
And this all was just that.
I knew it somewhere, beneath the frilly dresses.
But when we'd hit the town, nothing seemed to kill her essence.
Charisma consumes all in its path.
I was becoming obsessed.
We could sit for hours, soaking in the rush of her zest.
There's a quiet silence in watching yourself disappear.
My identity slipped at an untenable clip.
Enveloped in tears,
I stared at the face in the mirror through opal contacts.
The blonde wig reeked of cigarette smoke and cognac.
The mascara was trickling over pointed cheekbones.
The legs were shimmering in the light from streaked hose.
I looked into the mirror. I looked at a Perfect 10.
I shattered it with a single blow,
and I never saw her again.
Week 5: Photo Challenge
Topic:
Posted on Nov. 9, 2013
Result: Beat Adonis 7-0 in contender match
Spin. Spin. Spin.
But when she stopped doing pirouettes,
Jennifer spent her evenings with sushi, saké and cigarettes.
A citiot trapped with suburban sub-humans
who preferred bourbon consumed amid unnerving club music.
So Jennifer danced.
Though she worked days in a cafe for coin,
her greatest joys came on stage for Ballet Des Moines.
The focused type, humble but still could sashay with poise,
Jennifer danced and, when she finished, went backstage with boys.
This was her life: Defining her worth via Jack, Dave and Roy.
She'd act playful, coy, then retract ... until she met her match.
Terrence wasn't like Jennifer, but he liked Jennifer,
and he biked everywhere, treating life secular.
He was aloof, mostly — even his ring finger was preoccupied.
But they were on the outs, he'd say. Didn't speak oftentimes.
Jennifer, she'd swallow lies. Jennifer, she'd fall in line.
Jennifer, she'd tell her friends back home about this awesome guy.
Terrence took her to the city, to the hippest plays and concerts.
But he'd disappear for days, apologize and blame it on work.
But Terrence came by early the day Jennifer was late.
Her career tipped in the balance, and he's telling her to wait.
She wasn't ready to be a mother.
She wasn't ready to not be one, either.
He mentioned a clinic, swore it was a popular procedure.
But Jennifer wanted to define herself as more than a mistress here,
so Terrence kissed her on her forehead and disappeared.
The doctor's mouth was moving.
That's how she knew he's speaking,
something about bad habits, a thin frame and fluid leaking.
She was naked underneath the hospital gown,
so Jennifer danced because nothing else seemed possible now.
Spin. Spin. Spin.
And once she walked off her dizziness,
Jennifer found herself alone with sushi, saké and cigarettes.
Week 8: Wu-Tang Clan Challenge
Topic: Tearz
Posted on Nov. 16, 2013
Result: Lost to Frank 8-0 in title match
My father couldn't move his left arm on the hospital bed.
He nodded instead, swollen from fluid bloating his adominal set
and all through his chest.
The tubes kept him alive but also collared his neck,
so he strained with his right hand to reach out and coddle my head.
His only son, I stared blankly, knowing my father neared death
but unable to muster emotion as his only progeny left.
I kissed his cheek. He smelled like medicine mixed with disease
and died six days later. My mom by his side had drifted asleep.
This is about the time I'd turn to the funeral service
and tell a story about breaking down crying, consumed by the sermon.
But that didn't happen. My father died, me near turning 19,
my grandmother at 22, my dog at 11.
I don't even believe in a god or a heaven, yet it's here that it strikes me
that not once did I shed a tear without Visine.
I'm an emotional void, coasting on an autism cluster.
A patchwork palaver-pushing semi-person and caustic disrupter.
I've learned to channel emotions through dismantled devotions,
better at handling obits than looking myself in the mirror.
The selfishness seers. I've felt a gradual closeness
with psychopaths, liars and the baddest of culprits.
My lips twist to an enveloping sneer. I try to wash it away,
but Listerine only kills 99.9 percent of plausible pain.
So I tell tall tales and catalog disconsolates
with blue-state sob stories and scatter-shot dishonestness.
It's vicarious masochism, text messages with emojis exposed.
But if I wrote from the soul, the acid would prove too corrosive to hold.
I live through these characters — one week a faggot, the next a whore —
and each piece provides release for personal resentment stored.
So when I cut through the tension's core, my heart of darkness free and clear,
I find it's always easier to shed other people's tears.
Week 9: Dark Picture Challenge
Topic:
Posted on Nov. 22, 2013
Result: Beat breathless 6-1
The town was off limits. That much was certain.
So Benton obviously couldn't help but lust to search it.
Drawing dusk as curtain, he whisked from under sheets,
slipped on dungarees and even left a running furnace.
No one had to know. He'd built up trust on purpose,
and despite his rush of yearning, he still was hushed and nervous.
The twisted staircase creaked like the crickets underneath,
but as he slivered from the tree, no one so much as heard it.
The town was off limits. That's what the elders told them.
They'd sell their coal for smelted gold, an otherwise reluctant purchase.
But the town had held beholden, so it's best to trust the sermons,
and the people of the trees shared belief in sheltered omens.
Not Benton, though. He lived for the rush of learning
and had overheard one of his dad's friends discuss the urban.
At 16, with something stirring, he had soon built up the nerve and
laid down a plan to scout the land out beyond this crusted curtain.
The gate was screened, so he scraped through a thicket rut
and bit his tongue through pricks and cuts as he escaped the scene.
The woods were dark. He knew them well and made his flee.
Blind, he braced with trees but hit a branch and scraped his knee.
The lights were coming into focus, through the brush he strained to see
the budding residentials and smoke stacks that swayed with breeze.
And there it was, the towering point of the town's famous cathedral.
Benton gazed at its steeple and hungered more to grace its seats.
He stepped with superstition on to the freshly paven streets.
His plan had been made for weeks. The avenue was dim, and
yet he practiced, drew his mission: First left, then straight for three,
and as he strained his feet, the church came into his vision.
Silence. The door was heavy and thudded closed behind him.
Candles everywhere. The flames would leap, the only lighting,
they helped expose pius, those there to meditate and read.
"Welcome, son." A man's voice. "Join us and take a knee."
"Oh, hello, sir. I'm sorry," Benton said plaintively,
"I didn't mean to disturb anyone or break the peace."
"Don't be silly. Come, now. All are welcome. Pray with me."
Benton followed the man to row of candles laid in threes,
but as he bent his wounded leg, he felt the pain release.
"Gah!" Benton bolted out of his crouch and displaced the scene,
taking out a stand of candles as the others gazed so hatefully.
The noise was loud. The overhead lights displayed his deed:
A mess of wax, burns, mud and sacrilege betrayed his breed.
"Who are you?" The man's vocal tone was changing quick.
"Why did you come here? You tree rat! You filthy paganist!"
Benton froze at first, but his mind was made to split,
so he dashed back through the heavy door and escaped the fists.
His gait was swift, so he reached the village, creaked back upstairs
and played it slick, laying in his toasty bed while cracking, scared.
The village elders had sworn to protect their own for all its costs,
so by the time Benton was found, the townspeople were mid-holocaust.
They strung him up on one of the last trees standing that would hold,
and pretended this all was over something more than coal.
Native American Quotes Challenge
Topic: "One does not sell the land people walk on"
Posted on Nov. 30, 2013
Result: Lost to NYCSPITZ 6-0
The screen door slammed shut. It always had, ever since Trevor broke through it that Friday to show his dad he had passed cuts. He held his new jersey, all gassed up, a total spaz, and Gerald patted his son on the back and choked a laugh. Lucinda would gloat and brag to her friends about her firstborn's varsity jacket. Jessica rode to his games with the car seat in backward, harnessed and strapped in. Trev broke his left tibia. He limped his ass to the games anyway and held the screen door open fast with his crutch while hopping with the cast. It always slammed.
One bedroom window was sealed with paint congealed on frame. Jess had made the mess when she decided that teal was lame. Pink everything. She and her friends squealed and waved brushes everywhere, not doing much of anything. Jerry touched up best he can, but ultimately the crust would peel and fray. This was life with girls. A tight-lipped world for a father whose stripes were earned the hard way. Lucy would stroke his head at night to calm his nerves, steeled and gray. That damn window never opened, though, fused and locked. And in the summers, Jess wielded complaints that her room was hot.
The den still reeked of smoke. It had become Jerry's asylum when the kids were born. He'd emerge, doused in cheap cologne and act like he'd never been hiding. Dim and warm, the den was a place of peace. Straight release. Pour a Scotch on the rocks, rock in the chair and taste the peat. He smoked Marlboro Reds down to the filters. The full flavors savored fully. Five or six a day, enough to make him weak. He stopped coming down to the den eventually and faced defeat. But the oxygen could only make him breathe so long.
The garden was perfect, though. Lucy would work her hoe to turn the stones and keep her soil fertile. Tomatoes, mostly. She tried zucchini and asparagus, but her family hated both. She slaved to grow fresh fruits and gave them to the neighbors, hoping they'd repay her with baked goods. Trev liked the green peppers. Jess preferred the red. If teens ever agreed, heads would surely explode. Lucy liked the dirt in her toes. She liked the feeling of breathing life into the earth as it grows. After Jerry died, she spent more of her time in the garden, foraging thyme and discarding weeds and spoiled roots. It wasn't long before she was under soil, too.
"So, have you made a decision?"
The agent, smug with the siblings.
"The latest offer was two hundred and fifty."
Jess gave her brother a look, half-puzzled, half-dizzy.
"They want an answer. They want something done quickly."
Trev looked back at the house, with its love and its history.
"Tell them to hold," he said.
"Let's try to get them to double the bidding."
Playoffs Round 1: Jay Z Challenge
Bye week as No. 3 seed
Playoffs Round 2: Expression Challenge
Topic:
Posted on Dec. 19, 2013
Result: Lost to Frank 4-3
The rain fell. The trickle captured a melody.
The patternless weather sweeps, latching torrential beads
in windshield shadows on a passenger's empty seat.
She's still, retracting to memories.
Today, she learned cribs cannot be returned after assembly.
The calls were the hardest.
Half-written thank-you notes crawled the apartment,
along with stacked boxes and empty picture frames.
The sprawl of an artist,
complete with deep, inflicted pain.
He peeked through the window.
He stalled at the door.
Knock too hard, risk blowing the entire house of cards to the floor.
The exhale releases a Marlboro roar.
"It's just me."
She's in a ball on the floor.
She's in a bawl on the floor.
Stillborn children don't receive birth certificate sets,
so she clutches to her sonograms and fertility tests.
There's a brokenness,
a missing piece of the puzzle
from the fetal displacement that left him feebly muzzled.
The doctors hadn't seen any trouble,
with the umbilical too snug for their screens to uncover
and so tight that his breathing was smothered.
And now,
she's here.
Was she ever even a mother?
He wasn't a father. He's pretty confident of that.
He breaths.
The apartment has all the ambience of an Applebees,
complete with prepackaged dreams and indigestion.
She's hit depression. Approach within discretion.
He was wearing a T-shirt the last time.
It's mid-December,
and the bags under her eyes couldn't begin to carry his guilt.
She didn't tell him directly.
The news sort of trickled through old friends in various spills.
Vicarious chills. Fatherhood, a role he'd've barely fulfilled,
now seemed the only way to repair his milieu.
She's biting her nails down with careless malaise,
leaning against the radiator, hair in her face.
Trying not to stare, he paces.
Questions. Few answers. They weren't important.
The only fresh air's in escape.
But he already ran from it. There's no reprise.
He sits. He cups her hand in his
with open eyes.