Daft (an acrostic poem)

Doomed to repeat the same mistake

Anton kept pushing his boulder up his hill

Fountain pen on paper, he began the poem once again

Though he might be insane, tonight he might have a new outcome

 

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Plot (an acrostic poem)

Putting characters into harm’s way seemed like fun

Little did he know how painful it was going to be to him

Ordinary words built the structure one at a time

Then the book was done until someone pointed out a hole!

 

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In the Beginning (a 100 word story)

The darkness grabbed onto his words and crumpled them into tight rejected wads of failure.  He typed with such a frenzy to keep ahead of the monster, but it was faster than his imagination, consuming all his ideas and dreams.  It then had the nerve to regurgitate its partially digested remains onto the page.

He tried to rearrange the mess into something that hinted at his intentions, but he was not a forensic investigator.  The work seemed dead.  And to think he thought he was a writer.

He consoled himself.  “Well, it’s a start.”  He saved his work and shut down.

 

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Save the Words! (a 150 word story)

And then there were no more words.  All writing stopped and the world took a pensive breath.  Soon the accusations flew.  The right, left, and center blamed each other on their frivolous use of such a precious commodity.    Large documents were written by scholars about the lack of words and what that meant for society.  Talking heads spewed countless hours of drivel about the cataclysmic problem.  Entire books were devoted to finding the solution to this disaster.

All hope was lost.  Shut off the lights, it was time to just give up.  There was nothing left to see hear.

She threw her pen down in disgust and went to bed, frustrated beyond belief.

The next day when she picked back up her pen the words spring out, and the world was saved.  Millions lived, some of them died, but the words went onward.

So goes the life of a writer.

 

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Purge (an acrostic poem)

Putting half her life in the trash never felt good

Until she did it though, there would be no freedom

Reaching for the next stack of poems

Going through each she remembered how hard they had been to write

Even as she let each slip through her fingers into the recycling

 

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Word Count (an acrostic poem)

When sitting down in front of her computer

Olivia began her daily penance

Racing fingers

Dancing on the keyboard

 

Crafting new realms from the ether

Outpouring her imagination onto the page

Until she felt she could write no more that day

Nanowrimo would push her to become the writer she wanted to be

That or break her will to write till New Years.

 

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