Write-A-Thon 2014 Contest Winners

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.




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

to take.

—Tyler Darnell



HAIKU Winner:


Quiet, not a squeak

Not a buzz of a dragonfly

In the eye of the storm

—Dmitriy Borovykh






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.

—Kenan Ince





To Love, To God and To Every Other Lie You Believe In


bourbon melts loyalties

like candy

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

and picking

at glossed guitars

until your fingers

bleed all over

Dignity’s linen shirt.

Impaling yourself

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

too small

to talk to God.

—Lulu Moore