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Editor’s Choice: Writers’ Dash April 2012

Published on Saturday, May 5, 2012 by

Just in case you missed these gems!

The Writers’ Dash (#writersdash or #dailydash on Twitter) is a 15-minute free writing exercise held on Twitter, Facebook and Second Life® every weekday. At 5:30am PST we share the word prompt on our social media channels; the live event begins in Second Life® at 6am PST.

  • Elation

    I do not yearn for elation
    it is not my drug of choice
    It holds no promise no reward
    where nothing more is needed
    to make me feel sublime
    than that I awake each morning
    and know I am awake.
    Not simply one more nodding head
    bouncing in unison in the vast Herd
    of a swollen majority far far
    from the arts of pragmatism
    as the emotional swell can ditch them
    Who I swear were never granted eyes
    never held an oar to steer their selves
    for all that they show of any independent vision
    on the harmonics of Life which light us up
    outside the vast encapsulating screens
    of those endless tedious replays
    which appears to fuel
    the tone and proper frame
    of that ‘thing’ which they can call
    A living Home

    And what can elation procure
    outside of ourselves
    which is properly Alive

    ©2012 Queen Bluestar

  • Cherubic

    So playing with Cherubic’s Cube

    has really been surreal.

    I try to move a stone-carved boob

    and get a rocky feel.

    These ancient puzzles are a bitch

    I don’t know where things go.

    If I can’t tell which end is which

    will I be sent below?

    I was entrusted with this task

    to break into the tomb.

    If I mess up, I’ll lose my ass —

    the whole place goes KABOOM!

    ©2012 DangerDave Writer


    Slammy Jackson watched as his two homies dragged the white boy from the Ford suv.  The boy had a hood over his head and his hands were cuffed behind his back.  Slammy nodded, and his homies removed the hood.  The white boy blinked, looked around, and smiled at Slammy.

    “So this is what my hoe fell in love with?” Slammy’s voice was angry and bitter.  Curly blonde hair ringed the boy’s forehead.  He had deep blue eyes.  His face was round, smooth, and pretty, almost like a little girl.  And it appeared as though the white boy didn’t have a whisker on his face.  It was cherubic.

    “You messed with my hoe, boy!” shouted Slammy.  He pulled out a nasty knife.  “Now I gonna cut somein o yours off.  You dig?”

    “Well, this is perfect,” said the white boy.  “Perfect indeed.  First, I got your bitch’s soul, Slammy, and now, I take yours.”

    The handcuffs made a jingling sound as they hit the floor.  The white boy reached for the homie on his right.  The other homie fired two rounds from a .45 into the boy’s back.  The white boy turned and grinned, then went back to the original homie.  He reached into his chest, and yanked out the homies’ heart.  The homie died watching his heart beat.

    The second homie fired wildly, hitting nothing.  His bowels and bladder let go.  The white boy yanked his heart as well.

    Slammy stood there, paralyzed except for the spastic twitching of his whole body.  Fear racked his frame.  The bloody-handed white boy moved closer to him.

    “Oh no, Slammy,” the white boy said.  “You’ve done $2 million in crack this year, and will do 5 next year.  I want the money.  Then, I get your soul.  And you get a free, all expenses paid, one way ride to hell.  I think you’ll like it there.”

    Slammy cried like a hurt child.

    ©2012 Roberrt Magne


    Frank drew the pentagram on the wood floor. He stripped to his tightie whities, and then placed a candle at each point. He dimmed the lights in the room, lit the candles, knelt, and opened the book. He began to chant the summoning chant, to draw the demon that he would use to persecute his boss.

    Absalom, Absalom!

    Hocus Pocus, Harum Scarum!

    Oh great demon, lord of the dark!

    Into the pentagram, your backside park!

    The room filled with some white smoke and the house shook. A black cloud appeared in the pentagram, turned red, and turned into a huge, muscular, ten-feet tall demon.

    The demon looked down at Frank, looked at itself, and said, “Be right back!” It disappeared, and when it reappeared, it was wearing green flowered Hawaiian jams and smoking a large joint.

    “Oh!  great lord of the labyrinth,” said Frank. “I require your services!”

    The demon looked at Frank and shook his head.

    “Man, you are so medieval!  Chill, Dude!”

    ©2012 Roberrt Magne


    elation feels good.
    like running through sand
    or swimming hard
    it once left me filled
    with helium
    I floated for days.
    and a little bubble pops up
    like opportunity
    on the surface of my mind
    it was apportioned to me
    and I am grateful
    so much so that
    my cup runs over
    every time you smile
    a bird is freed from its cage
    every footstep is reassurance
    in this mind…it is elation

    ©2012 Ginger Jorgental


    Inspector Albion froze his ass sitting inside the car on this bitter mid-January day.  He sipped bad coffee and watched the door of the Mercantile Bank in Brooklyn.

    “So this is the place?” asked detective Jorgental.

    “Just watch,” Albion replied.

    After around ten minutes, a Toyota minivan pulled up to the curb.  The door opened, and two men got out and looked around.  Someone in the van handed each man a large sack.  Then a third person joined them, also carrying a sack, and all three entered the bank.

    “They call the bank ‘The Laundry.’  It’s what we picked up on the phone taps,” said Albion.  “And it’s all money from coke and meth headed to the Cayman Islands.”

    “I’ll be damned!” Jorgental said softly.

    ©2012 Roberrt Magne


    I’m so excited that laundry day has finally arrived

    Hopefully, my underwear has been put to good use.

    Understandably, they are not in the best mood to talk at the moment

    It can be confusing to be put on so many times

    I hope they can forgive me for my intrusions

    It would be a courtesy to arrange for dry cleaning

    and usually I spare no expense

    but today I’m feeling as though I ought to get dirty

    do a little something for the man

    sort his unmentionables

    Yes. Laundry has a certain appeal that I’m sure you can appreciate

    given the quality of undress

    and the prospect of stagnation

    sure could use a scrubbing board.

    ©2012 Ginger Jorgental


    When they said write about “Laundry” I was not naturally inspired, but as I settled my mind began to work.

    The first thing that ran through my mind was the smell of old laundries, that detergent smell, wet clothes and steam.

    I drift back in time to my days in the Royal Navy – where, as a Sailor I had to do my own laundry.

    This must have been back in the early seventies, and we were billeted for a short while in a shore base while our ship was in refit.

    One of the buildings was devoted to the Laundry. It was a fairly stark room, just a linoleum floor and some huge sinks, but steaming hot water aplenty to scald your fingers.

    The routine was to dump your kit into one of the big sinks, throw in some soap powder (which we Sailors called “Dhobi Dust” and use a big stick to swoosh it all around for a while with a Dhobi Stick, which was an old worn thing, all bleached white with use.

    We would leave the kit to soak and go and have our meal in the mess, then, on our return, fish it out and slap it about a bit with the Dhobi Stick.

    Then we would rinse it in the hottest possible water.

    In the center of the laundry was a huge great Spinner, made of an iron cylinder bolted to the floor, with a copper lined inner that was rotated manually with a bloody great big handle.

    We would sling our sopping wet laundry into this thing and start to wind the handle, gradually getting faster and faster. Sometimes we would do this in twos to get up to the maximum speed and drain the water from the wet laundry.

    When this was done we would hook it out with the Dhobi Stick, and gingerly untangle everything as it was all still steaming hot.

    Then to the drying racks…. These were slim doors on rollers which pulled out. Inside there were metal rods to hang the laundry over, then push the door closed. You had to be very careful with those rods, they were red hot!

    Then off to the bar for a little refreshment while we waited for our kit to dry. The trick was not to let it get too dry or it was very hard to iron, but there is an old Sailor’s trick to have a bottle of water and take a mouthful and purse one’s lips and blow hard and spray water all over the garment – THEN iron it into a crisp sharp crease.

    Sailor’s Trousers are the hardest as they have seven horizontal seams and it takes ages to get those straight and proper.

    Once I put mine into the Chinese laundry and they ironed them all out again and put in a vertical seam I never quite got rid off.

    My mother used to use old fashioned laundries like the one I just described, in the days before washing machines, they called those places “The Steamie” and it was the focal point for all the gossip.

    Memories, eh?

    ©2012 Albion Innis


    Sam Osborne stared at his screen and frowned. All of the checking accounts at Bank of North America were being siphoned off, the critical information being routed to God knows where via the banks on firewalls. To make matters worse, the hacker had locked down the database. The phones and chat sessions would be overloaded in a few seconds. Sam picked up the phone and keyed in the CEO’s number.  In three hours, the bank would be paralyzed. In three days, the CEO would be in Washington, explaining to Congress what the hell had happened.


    At a workstation in a shabby apartment in NE PA, Miguel Rostakovich looked at his hard drives, their led’s blinking.  The information from the bank was coming in.

    His use of binary code to skirt the bank’s firewalls was ingenious. The code could also run on the firewalls to block hackers.  But, for now, he would shut the bank down for a few days. Then he would give them the information back and let them return to business.

    Perhaps, now, they would give him a job.

    ©2012 Roberrt Magne


    Sam Jenkins walked beside Sam, Jr., his son, as they headed to the corral.

    “Dad, I don’t want to be a butcher!” yelled Sam, Jr.  “I want to be a cowboy!”

    The pair stopped at the railing, and Sam removed a large knife from his bag and began to work it on a whetstone.  His son frowned.

    Two cowboys expertly cut a pair of yearling bulls from the herd and moved them into the corral.  Sam, Jr. beamed at how the cowboys and their quarterhorses worked as a team.  He grinned as the ranch foreman, Jim Lloyd, rode up and dismounted.

    “Hi, Mr. Lloyd,” said Sam, Jr., to the foreman.  “I want to ride just like you and your cowboys.”

    “Well, young Sam,” said Jim, “your cowboy lesson starts today.  Even a cowboy has to know how to do what your papa is about to do.”

    All heads watched as Sam Jenkins walked toward one of the bulls, with its hind legs tied, and brandished his knife.

    “Your papa is going to make a bull into a steer.”

    ©2012 Roberrt Magne

  • Point Reyes National Seashore

    Jutting out into the Pacific Ocean, constantly moved North by the Pacific Plate and the San Andreas Fault, is a peninsula some call an Island in Time.
    A million years ago it was connected to Southern California. Eventually it will slide into the Gulf Alaska.
    Ancient rock and fossils rest beside today’s mussles, clams, and sea fans in rocks pounded by the surf.
    Seals, Seagulls, and Reptiles find safety on those rocks until low tide makes them accessible to predators.
    Elk, Deer, and Coyote roam the sometimes foggy landscapes looking for food and resting places.
    Ground Squirrels, Wood Peckers, and Quail claim homesites in gentle valleys thick with bush and trees.
    Coast Miwok and Pomo Tribes moved around the area seasonally in search of food, safe homesites. They harvested, sorted, dried, and saved various food items for seasonal gatherings where tribes traded what they had for what they needed and socialized.
    It’s a very beautiful Island in Time in any weather, any season.
    If you go there–walk, listen, look, think, enjoy.

    ©2012 Franja Russell

  • reunion

    everyone knows what to expect
    the necessity to be a cliche
    a living walking failure or success
    and what about the one who never comes
    are there whispers about their fate?

    if you want a life all can respect
    start young no faltering allowed
    the ladder to success is paved
    with humdrum careful steps
    within the human crowd.

    ©2012 pale infinity


  • I was born a whirligig
    dancing, skating, water skiing
    playing on the edge of laws of physics
    pirouettes on waters surface
    only held by some molecules
    remembering adhesion and cohesion
    writing my life minute by minute
    enjoying rays of sun
    the green welcome arc of a blade of grass
    waving over this small puddle
    sliding, a moonlander on earth
    feeling free as bird
    I failed to see
    yes it was me
    she aimed …
    From now
    I hope I can dance
    over the river styx

    ©2012 Goodie


    Ah hah! Those years in High School of endlessly translating from Latin to English,
    page after page of things already translated hundreds of years ago,
    finally I can relate to a word in my lifetime.

    “Verdure — fresh flourishing vegetation, vigor.”

    Once I crossed the Carquinez Bridge on the way to Grass Valley,
    the rolling hills were so many shades of green
    with cloud shadows making the darkest shades across the hills.

    Rolling through the flat Sacramento Valley,
    on both sides of the road stretched vineyards with tiny pale green leaves,
    fruit trees bristling with spiky new leaves reaching for the sun,
    meadows with Angus cattle looking like raisins in a green pudding.

    Closer into the Foothills shades of green followed contour lines
    where cattle have walked back and forth for a hundred and fifty years.
    Lake edges showed growth like a three week old beard.

    Driving the curving road to my cousin’s house
    brought wildflowers into view at every turn.

    Yes, it IS Spring and the Earth is beautiful !

    ©2012 Franja Russell

  • Wave

    welcome, night,
    my heart I grasp
    within this dark
    where I am apt
    to recocile my thoughts
    burgeoning though they seem at times
    I let them unreel slowly
    like unfurling billows of steam
    or a gently rolling, waving stream
    the time begins to pass
    and the darkness does all of it I ask
    so silent, still and warm
    tender billows of air at ease
    and certain moisture off scented leaves
    and a million blades of grass
    tidal worries ebb at last
    under the fall of night
    rest with me then under these stars
    and play with diamond tears
    precious and rare and silent are
    bedevilled by the years
    since silence took in the stealth of night
    a rapturous daring youth
    and blessed content the blades of grass
    where once he was forsook
    ©2012 Ginger Jorgental

  • One Response
      • wow, what an excellent presentation! going to follow your site now. thanks so much.

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