Why we're here.

A creative writing blog by Shawn M Klimek
(All rights reserved)

Wednesday, April 24, 2019

After the Offing, aka The Gashleycrumb Culprits

With apologies to the estate and ghost of Edward Gorey:
a poem to complement "After the Outing" aka "The Gashleycrumb Tinies".

A is for Abner, who pushed her in rage.
B is for Bertha who opened the cage.

C is for Charles, who ate off her plate.
D is for Dorothy who grabbed him—too late.

E is for Edith, whose joke was ill-timed.
F is for Forrest, whose bath toy gift slimed.

G is for Gladys, who said she should hide;
H is for Helga, who said “wait outside”.

I is for Isaac, who said she should swim;
J is for Janet, who kept the lights dim.

K is for Kevin, whose trick needs more practice;
L is for Luther, whose cakes taste like cactus;

M is for Martin, whose boat had loose flooring;
N is for Nancy, whose girl games were boring.

O is for Oscar, who ran with sharp tools.
P is for PAT who incited the fools

Q is for Queenie, who watched out of sight;
R is for Reggie, who set her alight.

S is for Steven, who “borrowed” her pills;
T is for Tiffany’s chemistry skills.

U is for Unser, who thought it was funny;
V is for Vickie, who dared him—for money;

W is for William, the snowball fight winner;
X is for Xena, whose pets needed dinner;

Y is for Yasmine, the brickmaker’s daughter;
Z is for Ziggy, who said it was water.

The above artwork/original poem is copyrighted to Edward Gorey

Monday, March 25, 2019

50-Word Stories

“We park at the overlook…”
“She’s wary, so I compliment her perfume.”
“'It’s lavender shampoo’, she says. ‘Intoxicating’ I say, and lean close.
“So, you finally kissed!”
“Wait for it! ‘The windows are fogging’ she says, “so I roll one down. In …flies…a…bee!”
“I run home.”
Intending to live-stream her suicidal plummet from the skyscraper observation deck, Nancy ascended the barricade with one hand on her camera phone. Despite being fat and ungraceful, she reached the top; and despite being unworthy of notice, drew every gaze. Encouraged by these achievements, she took a commemorative selfie instead.

Enroute to the bathroom, Dean found himself suddenly staggering to his left, as though aboard a listing ship. Was he having a stroke? Determined to check his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he was startled to encounter a stranger with a questioning look on their face. Avocado? He inquired, impatiently.

Beside the hole lay an object wrapped in a blue tarp and bound with rope. Realizing it might be a grave, I must have gasped because the digger looked up and our eyes met. My heart pounded. “It’s not what it looks like!” he shouted. Relieved, we both started laughing.

Calibration drift in the starship’s engines meant constant intervention would be required to maintain light speed. This meant either exposing a skeleton crew to lethal radiation, risking mutations by frequently interrupted cryo-sleep, or downgrading to a sub-light engine and surviving as pirates. Captain Fox shook his fist and cursed, “Arrgh!”

“Put away the comic book, Connor,” said Mrs. Kennedy, pointing. “Can you tell me the difference is between a superhero and an ordinary citizen?”
Panicked, Connor looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall a likely platitude.
Mrs. Kennedy ignored the other raised hands.
“That’s right. Superpowers,” she said, telepathically.

Three prisoners walked into a bar.
The bar formed the top frame of their cell doorway and every new prisoner had to learn the hard way to duck when entering and exiting. The guards thought it was funny. So, when this trio finally escaped, they took the bar with them.

“Riding the Milky Way “bus”, Earthlings travel the universe at 1.3 million mph—too slow to ever reach another star. Fortunately, the universe itself spins (a fact more obvious from the outside), and to cross it, one need only briefly disembark. So, pack light,” she said. “It’s dark out there.”

Darla unbuckled her seatbelt, sidled into the aisle and then headed for the economy class lavatory. Another passenger, awoken by the click of her buckle, threw off her blanket and scrambled cruelly into her path.  A third passenger then cut off the interloper, who groaned. 
“Karma!” Darla thought without thinking.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

Trip the Lights Apocalyptic

The more we suckle at the muse,
The more ideas that crowd our brains.
Before among the best we choose
Some fix to us like bloody stains.
So trip the lights apocalyptic
(If you can’t be deep, be cryptic)

A poem incorporating 5 random words: APOCALYPTIC, AMONG, CROWD, FIX, SUCKLE

Stop The Alien Migrants

Having eavesdropped on their alien babbling,
We’ve known to reach the stars was man’s desire,
But long dismissed their science as feeble dabbling
(Compared to ours, akin to taming fire).

If ignorance is bliss, then let’s admit it:
We considered them ripe for conquest, if at all,
But today their scientists declared “We did it!”
And that’s why I demand we build a wall.

A poem incorporating 5 random words: ALIEN, BABBLING, BLISS, DESIRE, RIPE

Friday, January 18, 2019

The Unread Tome

I know some classic books, like Moby Dick,
Are such my education should include.
But anytime I start a tome that thick,
I always find I’m just not in the mood.

My eyes glaze over, my brain turns to brick;
The inner pages may as well be glued.
I’d rather watch the latest action flick,
About some kick-ass chick with attitude.

But lately, when we lie in bed at night,
I tend to face your faceless hairy dome.
Though lovely, haloed by the nightstand light,
The face I miss is buried in some tome.

Perhaps if I read more we’d talk about it.
The mere thought makes me sleepy, so I doubt it.

Monday, December 24, 2018

Santa Claus is coming...and he’s pissed

Santa Claus is coming and he isn't feeling well.
Mrs. Claus has menopause and makes his life a hell.
Yesterday, he gave up smoking, and those just begin the list!
Suffice to say that, 'tis the season to be jolly"—but he's pissed!

Santa knows what you are thinking though your walls be made of lead.
He has super x-ray vision and he sees in infra-red.
By new miracles of science he can see inside your head:
Every dirty thought, transmitted by the elves beneath your bed.

Santa's on a fat-free diet and his shorts have too much starch;
He's been having nightmares lately, so he hasn't slept since March;
Rudolph learned his nose was cancerous, so he slit his reindeer wrists,
So, they've canceled his insurance and now Santa Claus is pissed!

Santa knows when you are sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake,
And he knows who you’ve been sleeping with, and knows what drugs you take,
And he keeps a list of Communists who say that he’s a fake;
His elves have infiltrated Keebler, so be good for goodness’ sake!

Santa Claus is coming on a sleigh that's built for speed!
All his reindeer shoot up steroids and snort cocaine with their feed.
There's no way you can outrun them; it’s pointless to resist.
Godzilla looks like Tinker Bell when Santa Claus is pissed.

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Fur Storm*

A stoat during Winter’s an ermine.
An ermine in Summer’s a stoat.
If it springs and you fall, then it’s vermin
A damned weasel affixed to your throat!

We’re supposed to use hues to determine--
By its brown or white fur--how to vote;
But I say: if teeth jut when it’s squirmin’,
It’s a weasel--until it’s a coat.

Some find a fur-garment prestigious,
Think the varmint looks fine on their form;
Others hold that to harm it’s egregious--
Fur as fashion’s a fatuous norm!

Yet when breezes or blizzards besiege us,
It’s the one who wears white who’s kept warm.
While brown fur is an anti-rain aegis.
Is there any escape from this storm?

*A challenge poem incorporating 5 random words: AEGIS, ERMINE, FATUOUS, JUT, KEPT