NOVEMBER IN FEBRUARY YOU SAY??? Yes, that’s right! The glorious winners of the Nano-Fiction, Haiku, Ekphrastic and Slam Poetry contests from the November Write-A-Thon are posted below. Please feel free to revel in (or envy) their glory.
NANO FICTION Winner:
Fall or Exit
The coffee machine doesn’t start itself. The fridge does not fill itself, and I am the
only one that does the laundry. I am in a relationship with myself. I have dinner all the
time with myself, but I never know more. I never feel like a different person because I am
always myself, all the time, regularly, and in the same places.
I like routine, that is my thing. If you take the base form of the word you get route
or a regularly travelled path. It is also a homophone for root, or the ground feeding
tendrils at the base of a tree. I find this comforting as I eat my lunch under the same grand
oak outside work everyday. There is a table there, worn where I sit. Sometimes other co-
workers join me, but never in the winter months. I wear my thick coat, and pretend I have
a ball of fire warming myself from the inside, like the Greeks believed of soul.
I eat breakfast at home listening to the radio. I continue listening on my ride to
I eat dinner at Rogelio’s, a Mexican restaurant. I come so often they say they will
make me whatever I want. One day I ask for a peanut butter and Jelly sandwich, but they
have no bread. They put it between two tortillas instead.
I’m in a relationship with myself, regularly, and in the same places. One day I will
be with myself and someone else. They will know where to hack at the roots. What route
Quiet, not a squeak
Not a buzz of a dragonfly
In the eye of the storm
In my dreams I’m always walking
downstairs in my sensible flats.
Something about them arouses me:
the way they can be so easily slipped
off, their black skeletons crumpling
in my closet until I am ready to give
them bones. They are no animal.
They are as little as possible
between me and the caress
of the earth below my feet.
Oh how Phil Robertson
would love for me to take
them off and float through
the halls behind my man
like a caveman’s wife,
hand on my swollen belly.
How his mouth would swell
on the aerodynamic curved tip
as I insert my foot, softly,
into his mouth. How
he would suck as if to aspirate
out the vital part of me.
And how he will gasp, his lungs
collapsing into the garden
of his ribs, his words scurrying
before they are spoken
from the shell of his mouth.
SLAM POETRY Winner:
To Love, To God and To Every Other Lie You Believe In
bourbon melts loyalties
in my pestilent mouth
with excusable habitude
that leaves me stumbling-
up to your room,
to that humiliation
you call love.
Naivety has you
your tired love songs
at glossed guitars
until your fingers
bleed all over
Dignity’s linen shirt.
on my every tricked word,
I am the necessary evil
to your crucible sin.
I don’t hear Jesus,
I only hear you,
calling out my name.
I decide to tell you
the simple truth –
what you need
to know is that
We are all
to talk to God.