Scrib Hard With A Vengeance!

Recently, we wordistas at We Put Words on Paper realized something wildly obvious: we’ve never posted our original work on this blog dedicated to writing! *GASP* So what better way to introduce the majority of our members than posting work that we wrote during our Anticrastination Scribproductivathon Part 3: Scrib Hard with a Vengeance? What is that, you ask? Once a month, WePWoppers hold a lock-in writing marathon! Eight to ten hours of solid writing and working on our personal works, punctured by timed writing exercises and snack breaks (of course), in order to cut through the usual daily excuses (i.e. “I have no time to write!”) and produce works that we can build on later.

The works featured here were written at the lock-in and inspired by the various exercises.

Exercise: Pick an object in the room. Describe it as best as you can.

by Zakk Pollard

Google Images

The 9 is off. The face is like a blob floating in a lava lamp, but it’s not lava. It’s not hot. Sludgy, oozing movements of a small hand and large hand make it drift atop the mantle piece. I never thought time was that easy to change–one minute a gash reads nine o’clock and another hour a bulge reads nine again.  Maybe it’s upside down–maybe it’s six o’clock–or maybe I’m upside down. I’m turning around the face of this clock instead of the hands. I’ll wait a few hours–12 to be exact–and the room will be right again, the clock will be right again. Bulging at 3 and gnarled at 9.

(Inspired by a Dali-esque clock)

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by Laura Roberts

Google Images

As Orson Welles quipped in The Third Man: “Hundreds of years of peace, and what have the Swiss produced?” This one has pinecone pendulums and doesn’t appear to be wound to measure what it’s meant to, but you know what they say: even a stopped one is right twice a day. Is that what the bird it’s named for looks like, perched there at the top? It looks like it’s about to take flight, or perhaps it is tweeting its mastery over the little home it has built there in the leaves and branches. I hear they steal another bird’s nest, actually, make a stolen house a home base for further sneak-thievery. Straight from the dark heart of the Black Forest, I’d be curious to hear the little bird crow, but it keeps silent amidst the electronic devices in the room, beeping and buzzing to themselves. Bronzed, to retain its shape forevermore, unlike its murderous cousin the raven, the cuckoo clock silently ticks on to infinity.

(Inspired by a Cuckoo Clock)

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Exercise: Write a shortie or poem based on a prompt that someone else wrote.

The Prompt (given by A. Kimmerly): A pigeon in the middle of a town square eats an espresso bean.  This causes his wings to flap at helicopter-propeller-like speeds.  A woman nearby walks into the vapid wind, causing her white dress to flail up and show her bottom.  Who is this woman?  Is she human?  How does this public display affect her life?

by Brandon Ney

Google Images

I knew it!

I fed the fat little pigeon an espresso bean. At first, I was afraid it would die. It didn’t. I would never want to kill the bastard. I just wanted it off my balcony. And it worked. The lazy li’l chubster flapped its wings, like a helicopter and took off. Poor thing didn’t make it far before its weight succumbed to the fate gravity presents. As soon as it sunk, those little feathers sheets just beat harder and harder to slow the descent. Thank god for it, too. Because as soon as he neared the courtyard below my building, he caught wind and swept right back up into the air.

That’s when I lost him. My attention fell on her. You know, the one I’ve been telling you about? The one, if it were the fifties, she’s a spitting image of Marilyn Monroe? Well, you’ll never guess what happened. That li’l pigeon’s life changing swoop, saved mine, too, it did. That woman. Well, turns out she aint exactly a woman, now is she? That pigeons saving grace thrust, started a chain reaction of sorts, you see. Blew blondie’s dress right up, baring that fine tucus I keep telling you about.

I tell you, sir, was it something. You could bounce a quarter off that ass, as they say. Smooth and tight with the subtle hint of of dimples, you know like the one’s on that cute young actress we saw in that movie last week? Take those in all their perfection and complement to that girl’s face and apply it to the Marilyn look alikes ass. That’s what I’m talking about.

Everything I could imagine and more, it was. I worry about my imaginings these days, because when Gloria died, I got to imagining. The pen fell in company ink, you know. Yeah my dick was wet from here to the Timbuktu, it was. I’m not proud of it. No sir, I’m not . . . Yep, I’ve had enough imagining to last a lifetime. Don’t you let anyone ever tell you different.

Anyways, what I seen on that there  she-thing, I couldn’t ever imagined, not really, not like that. Right above where that plump rump meat meets her silky lady thigh, you know that crease that you just want to lift up and erase in passion, just to let it fall and draw itself again. That crease. Well, just above that, she had a mole. That mole looked just like Gloria, it did.

I’m not fucking with you. My dead wife’s face hung stamped that li’l Marilyn’s ass, it did. You can call me crazy, if you like, but that damn brown creature looked up and glared right at me, as if it knew, I was sneaking a peep. It knew, it did. Changed my life, you know. I aint never gonna look at Marilyn again My wife sent me a sign. Keep your dick dry, Freddy. Life ain’t ending anytime soon. Thank god, because I’m going to hell. And I sure hope she ain’t gonna be there, yes sir, I do. Or there will be hell to pay there will.

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Prompt (given by B. Ney): Noodle people in space.

Google Images manipulated by AK

It’s Tough Being a Noodle by Elizabeth Smythe

A round silver pot

hangs in the space between space

grains of salt twinkle

in its boiling waters

the giant hand of fate

drops in slowly then with a rush

noodles stiff and lifeless

until surrounded by bubbles, their spines

begin to soften, bouncing off each other

caressing and ripening

then a tip and the seal breaks

in a flood they fall, a thick wet heap,

into a cold container, examined in

harsh lights

now they are covered in sauce

a new skin and garnished with cheese

the fickle hand of fate

slices down its forked hand

and together they huddle,

their journey near complete

to a yawning cavern

becoming one in death.

Catch you at the next Anticrastination Scribproductivathon!

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