Monday, November 21, 2011
Flashes In The Dark Publishes TRINKETS
Thank you to Lori Titus and Flashes In The Dark for publishing Trinkets one of my short horor tails. Give it a read as well as Flashes In The Dark in general--a site with chills and thrills for all.
Labels:
ezine,
flash fiction,
ghost stories,
horror stories,
Milford,
Trinkets
Friday, November 18, 2011
Knock Stories
Thank you to Hall Brothers Entertainment for accepting our four knock stories:
Eggs, RIP, Operation Just Isn't A Game, and Hair of the Dog for publication.
Eggs, RIP, Operation Just Isn't A Game, and Hair of the Dog for publication.
Labels:
ghost stories,
horror stories,
knock stories
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Parade of Bad Poetry Presents:
Smack Me
To some it sure is funny,
To others, it’s quite sad.
While time turns into money,
I sit on my fat pad.
I try to be insightful,
And witty and urbane,
But to many it’s quite doubtful
That I have anything to say.
To some it sure is funny,
To others, it’s quite sad.
While time turns into money,
I sit on my fat pad.
I try to be insightful,
And witty and urbane,
But to many it’s quite doubtful
That I have anything to say.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Bad Poetry Presents:
Physique
I think it’s fair for me to say
‘That time is meant to run away.
That time never really attaches,
it just slaps you as it passes.’
No cultural lasting impressions,
only the saggings and retentions:
those ravaging hits and runs
on your face, chest, legs, and buns.
The lack of hair upon your head.
Your belly could double as a bed.
The slightest movement makes you tired.
Everything else raises your ire.
All this is natural for sure,
as we near the end of life’s tour,
when each of us should check our egos
and burn those toupees and spangled Speedos.
I think it’s fair for me to say
‘That time is meant to run away.
That time never really attaches,
it just slaps you as it passes.’
No cultural lasting impressions,
only the saggings and retentions:
those ravaging hits and runs
on your face, chest, legs, and buns.
The lack of hair upon your head.
Your belly could double as a bed.
The slightest movement makes you tired.
Everything else raises your ire.
All this is natural for sure,
as we near the end of life’s tour,
when each of us should check our egos
and burn those toupees and spangled Speedos.
Copyright
Even the bad poetry. Copyright in all this is the property of this unread uncommented blog. We press forward.
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