Underground Writers Network Forum Challenge of the Week ~ #16

Thanks to my dear friend Tony, we are bringing the new challenge. Things are still a little hectic, especially with the mini-convention happening in NYC.

Here goes:

Quote:


A good workout for our creativity. Thanks Tony!

Always open to hearing ideas from all of you guys for the challenges ;) Remember, you have time to post your pieces until Monday 2pm, and voting will go on until Tuesday so that everyone has enought time. ;)

Have fun, and if you are around, I hope to see you the 13th at the convention!

Are you sure Hank done it this way -

With the serenity of a nightingale,
He lights upon the midnight train to nowhere -
Somewhere east of Montgomery

The passengers hear the lonesome voice of the whippoorwhil
Who sounds to blue to cry,
crying in shame for the purple of royalty he deserved.

All the nightbirds enjoy their nightcaps and dessert in the party car,
Entrusting another to find their passage home
The background noise of an old guitar,
Rusted and scratchy,
Guides the dance of two lovebirds

Tainted with the bittersweet smell of whiskey,
Hank's voice bleeds clear
through a transistor radio

It was a long drive to the coast, but the whiskey made it shorter. It also made it more like a ride than a drive. It was hard to think these days. My mind and my soul were constantly being bombarded by thoughts. Thoughts of playing again. Thoughts of weighing in at under 250. And of course thoughts of anger. But not just any anger. This is the kind of anger that make your breaths shorter. The kind of anger that takes a thought like serenity and crushes it.

I figured I had about an hour or so until I got there. With Nevada finally behind me, the thought of hookers might finally leave my mind. God damn women and their bodies. It�s weird how one thing can diffuse and fuel anger all at the same time. It�s like scarfing down your dessert during your colonic. What a completely ugly thought. The drink must be making its charge.

I can smell the salt now. Taste it too. It makes the whiskey better. It�s a funny thing. �Purple Rain� is playing on the radio. It�s a hell of time to hear the saddest song I know. And almost like a conversation I hear him say, �I never meant cause you any sorrow.� I smile and say, �Ah, that Prince. He�s a wise a*s.� If driving down the freeway, with your gas tank and your whiskey bottle showing the same kind of empty, doesn�t make you crazy. Talking to the radio would surely secure you in that category.

I pull up to her house. I sit in the drive way and stare at the front door. I know in my heart what�s right and what�s wrong, but I can�t bring my mind to care. I have to do this. Certain actions require certain reactions. It�s almost like a rite of passage. It�s almost like justice.

Corps eat Corpse


"Whiskey Tango, this is Papa Golf Victor, over," the radio crackled and hissed in protest as the weak signal punched its way through the crystals and tubes of the ancient radio. Hank sat bolt upright from his dusty old couch, wild eyes staring in disbelief at the crackling speaker in its nest of tangled wires. He hadn't heard a human voice in three years. He thought, in actuality, that he might be all that was left.

He worked the dials with a feverish serenity in his eyes. He had seen the passage of his youthful years in the Marine Corps and always maintained his bearing regardless of the dramatic level life took. It was the winning equation for survival. He couldn't pull in the signal and the voices ended. Frustrated, he threw his chair onto the ground and searched the sparse room for an answer. The answer seemed to call him from his gun closet.

Hank pulled the meticulously well maintained M16 from it's rest pegs on the pegboard wall that seemed to groan under the weight of firearms and ordinance. He also slung his Mark 19 grenade launcher over his shoulder for good measure before ascending the stairs and leaving his bunker.

The afternoon sky was purple, and though angry looking, Hank knew that no rain would fall. The color was a side effect of the massive global fallout that had killed millions. On the horizon, a single plume of dust rose like a beacon of both hope and dread. Who were these people, and what did they want. They were heading in his general direction, yet he didn't believe that his outpost could be their objective. Nobody knew about this place but him. Paranoia had insured that after the final crusade. A lone Humvee bounced and jostled closer. Hank aimed his Mark 19 and let loose. Flames erupted from the cab of the vehicle, and it slowly rolled to a stop like a mighty rhino with a dart in its a*s. Hank approached the vehicle, and inspected the charred corpse in the driver's seat. It was burned and bruised deep burgundy from the concussion of the blast. Then his attention turned to the back seat which held a satchel. As hank opened it he spotted several chocolate bars and a box of twinkies. He dragged the body and satchel back to his bunker. "No potted meat tonight, Hank," he said with a half insane smile, "and we've even got dessert."

The Random things in life

�Give me the radio Hannah!� Jennifer squealed.

She placed the hand held radio in the palm of her hand, and put it near to her ear as if she was listening to a seashell.

�Oh.. nevermind. I thought I heard my name called for some prize or something.� She said while sighing.

She placed the radio down and plopped into her purple polka dot lounge chairs. A heavy sigh exits her body as she stares into space.

�Your house is so quiet..�
�I know, my mom�s gone on holiday to Egypt with my brother, and my dad has entered a whiskey drinking contest in some place that I don�t know of.�
�Whiskey? It�s still� out there?�
�Ha, yeah it is.�

A long silence lingers through the room; so quiet, a mouse could be heard scattering around on the wooden floors. Tapping, scratching, and squeaking from both Hannah and Jennifer continued.

�Oh gosh! I forgot to tell you! I wrote this passage for my ex to just mess with him since he messed with me.�
�Ooh, this is going to be good.�

She scans the passage for any signs of evil doing that she plans to do.

�Throwing all kinds of dessert at his house?! Why waste dessert? I�d rather ear it Jennifer!�
�Eh, well I want to embarrass him. There�s nothing else to do around here.
"Good good.. the peaceful serenity of his being will be ruined.. by.. ME"
"Hey.. what about me?!"
"Yeah, you too Hannah! Duh"
�Cool! Let�s do it!�

Sahara

Deep south, and the whiskey
dry beneath my feet,
crunching like desert-sand
in denial of peace.
Because silence can be opposite
to serenity, music brash
against softened upholstery
not quite daring
purple � suburbia denies exhilaration
at least in public, price of passage
paid in elbows of soap-suds
and a radio-station
named �Galaxy� �
��� as close to the stars
��� ��as the dreamer could long �
����� ��� your soul drowning slowly in silicon
��� ��� ��� & throat-caking dust





Hello; I'm new to WritersCaf� *waves* And, auspicious start, I misread 'dessert' as desert. I'm sorry.

::biggrin::

Don't be sorry...just try again. :) You can always delete the old and replace with a new.

Challenge of the Week-#16-The Passage

The passage is another term for the loss of the whiskey of youth.
A euphemism.
Another way to grow old without feeling old.

It happens in the serenity of dawn.
Or, at least, that is when it is noticeable.
Purple skies sign the rape of age and loss of the un-nameable.

Radio stations talk of diets that keep you young.
Ageless, they say.
But we all know that age is seen in hand cracks neck crevices.

So it seems that now is the dessert
and the main meal is yet to come,
More filling, but not quite so sweet.

Challenge #16

The radio is in tune.
Dessert will be gone soon.
I make my passage in the bathroom,
and sit on my couch.
It's red vs. purple,
in a race to find the serenity
of winning a game of football.
I have my chips,
I have my dip,
now I just need a T.V.

The passage of time had not been enough. As Sam lay in bed staring at the purple flecks inside her eyelids, she could already tell the day was going to be too long. The remnants of last night�s panic attack settled in a sticky film along her tongue. She hated when she did this, but the long hours seemed to defeat her every time. Instead of being a distraction the radio just seemed to ground her loneliness into every cell of her body. And soul? Do souls have cells? Sam shook her head at the thought. Ooohhh�.. maybe not the best idea.

In the a.m. hours Sam had to chuckle. Her melodramatic melancholy at night seemed so laughable, so ridiculous. She tells herself she will be strong tonight when the sun sets. It�s that enveloping darkness that gets her. She feels cut off from the rest of the world, isolated. Then that egocentric monster rises to whisper cruel lies. �You�re the only one.� �No one else feels this failure to exist.� �You are a waste of a human.� �No wonder you are sitting here alone.� Sam will do whatever it takes to shut it up.

She started the night watching a movie on the couch. In the background she could hear the monster start it�s raving. Maybe just a coke and whiskey to relax. Good idea. Bad idea. Now she feels just a little sad. All Sam can think about is sleep; the only real escape from consciousness. She quickly takes two shots of Irish whiskey for �dessert� and immediately starts bawling. Oh great. It figures that I would be a sad drunk, she thinks. Sam tries to give a little ironic snort but realizes her nose is plugged. Down go a couple antihistamine. This is about when the panic sets in. Can it really be good to mix this stuff? Should I take my meds tonight? How is that going to work? If I don�t, will I wake up reaching for the razor blade? She closes her eyes and quickly downs the medication and promptly races for the kitchen. Water, lots of water. Sam gulps glass after glass of water hoping this will fix everything. Before falling into bed she brushes her teeth. Maybe this last act of a good girl will save her.

Sam had made it through again. Getting by was her goal these days. She has tired of looking for �happiness�. It�s a fool�s tale. Now all she would really like is a little serenity, grace, peace. Whatever label you want to give a still heart. No more yearning. That�s a worn path that leads nowhere.

You sipped the whisky intently
hoping that the answers to life�s woes
laid in the last burning drop.
The passage to your happiness
is always clouded by the haze
of a rancid green fog of illusions.
Your dessert of nightly ladies,
from the shadows of dark alleys,
will bring you no joy, but purple fungus
on your already rotting--man tool.
The radio will soon be reading your eulogy
because you will find that serenity
can only be you six feet under.

What Jim Wanted.

�What times Serenity on?� Jim sniffed as he asked.
He�d been sniffing all day. It started halfway down the university�s main passage. The long thin corridor connected the Chancellor to the student secretary. It was an indicator of their frosty relationship that they were so far apart. In fact the passageway crossed over two rivers. The sniffing had started halfway and was a third river by the time he found the secretary. It was red then yet purple by the time that he got back to his hall of residence.
This building was not serene. It was a towering bunch of breeze blocks built over a medieval plague pit and crammed full of excited drunks, otherwise known as students. In fact the only ones who were quiet were stoned. Jim wished he could be so. If he could stop sniffing that is. He looked around the room despondently. All his friends were ignoring him. Did they not have ears?
�I wish he�d stop sniffing,� one of the moaned. �Just get him to open the window and empty his nasal passage over the pavement.� This was a particularly nice student who�s hair was so spiky and misshaped it could pick up Russian radio and the Finnish Polka channel. Another friend smiled and picked up a bottle full of a golden liquid, �Jim, drink this.�
Jim did so whilst still muttering about Serenity, a film he�d always wanted to see. The liquid set his lungs on fire and soon sleep began to over take him. Then the moaning friend looked at the whiskey holder, �why did you do that?� the friend just smiled, �He�ll get drowsy, fall asleep and for once his nose is too blocked up to snore� now he and all of us can enjoy some serenity.�