Amidst the green where laughter lingers, frolics tumbles through dappled dales, where suns a-drowse bathe shadows into mirth. Restlessly rippling, the stream hums the tune of a bygone narrative. A wisp of wind whispers secrets that slip and slide through knotted grass, a tale only the moon has heard, which she laughs at in the night. Veins of murmurs, pulsating with the pathos of the earth's weeping bosom, do swirl the weight of ages, and yonder a swan serenades the echoes of a sorrowed wing, a melody spun every eve 'neath the celestial veil. A glimpse, a wink, and it nappens, that fleeting wonder, the magic of those glistening orbs caught in the tapestry of twilight and the echoes of ancient dreams. Those elusive dreams that embroidered the threads of the mystic tapestry. 'Tis all there in the eternal tapestry, the voices of long-forgotten lovers and the lapping tide of Time's own lullaby, the whispers of joy, of solace, of anguish, a soliloquy so vast that none can comprehend its entire expanse, yet hushed in the tender embrace of a single moment.

aka the Party Mix

Lady Prose stepped into the tent as the Flame Lord continued his typing with the Clickety Clack. Clickety Clack. Clickety Clack. His eyes took on a mad gleam and his white teeth shone in an insanely evil grin.

”What’s he typing?” The Wolf Den asked.

putski looked over his shoulder to see the bizarre phrase repeated ad nauseam. “All work and no play makes the Flame Lord want to burn things. All work and no play makes the Flame Lord want to burn things.”

The tent flap lifted and MeeJong stepped out, but her body was covered with green scales, her eyes had become golden, her teeth sharp, and two massive wings extended from her back. She’d become a dragon.

The Wolf Den and her companions took several steps back as the Flame Lord stood beside MeeJong. His skin had also become scaly green and he also had huge dragon wings. Flames shot out of his eyes and mouth as he and MeeJong said in unison. “Come play with us. Come play with us. Forever and ever and ever…”

”Oh shit” Shells muttered.

The Wolf Den started to convulse. Long gray hair grew out of every inch of her body as her snout extended and sharp teeth grew. She howled at the moon as putski, the Pearl, and Shells also became werewolves. They showed their claws and prepared to pounce. “Oh we’d love to play with you” the Wolf Den said.

”Wait” MeeJong said. “I don’t think you understand what I meant when I said come play with us.” She produced two bottles of bourbon with a grin as the Flame Lord pulled out a huge joint and a lighter.

The Wolf Den smiled. “Now we’re talkin’”

And a black snake slithered towards them and in a puff of smoke, took the form of a beautiful woman. “Am I late to the party?” Mamba asked.

And the seven of them sat around the camp fire, drank and smoked, and talked about women with three nipples, midget clown porn, creative ways to commit suicide, and which arch villains they wanted to fuck. And the only things that were killed were six bottles of bourbon and an ounce of weed.

The End

Or is it?

And as humanity raced

Blindly toward the finish line

Like a fat kid

At an all you can eat buffet

Believe it or not

There were a few of us

Who broke from the trough

Burned our feedbags

And tried to make a difference

David Burdett

6/2/2023

I killed a tree

Carved a ring

Around its trunk

To deprive it

Of life

It was reminiscent

Of wrapping a belt

Around somebody’s neck

For being beautiful

It truly was a shame

And if I could take it back

I’m fairly certain

In a heartbeat

I’d turn around

And do it again

David Burdett

6/3/2022

Does it stop

Being everyone

Else's

Fault

And become

My own?

I'm told

I own

That

Which is not mine

To own

But how do I know

When it feels

Like I

Am the

Key

To my own

Destruction?

I

Am the key

To

My own

Destruction

Sometimes

I go to write

and there’s a fire

in my brain

i can write

and burn to death

or extinguish the fire

and mourn the unwritten

you're a good guy, I know.

it's evident in the way you smile.

a gentleman in your suit and tie,

but you can put me on trial.

I'll swear to the judge and jury,

all the sins that drip from my lips,

but I'll keep my favorite secrets,

like the evidence of your fingers on my hips.

They love you as a gentleman,

but I have loved you as so much more.

I'll wait for the light to finally shift,

Do they know what you've used that halo for?

but I've seen it, in the flashes,

dark flames creeping at your eyes-

rising when you steal glances at me.

in them, a devil in an angel's guise.

Those perfect blue eyes turn to ice,

drowning in your whiskey at night.

When you see me do you dream

how we must feel, late at night?

For a moment, do you imagine,

your hands tangled in my hair,

as I softly kiss every curve of your throat.

every sound falls like a prayer.

Do you imagine your restraint

tossed in the corner, next to your shirt?

What about my fingers wrapped around yours,

as I brush away all your hurt?

I would pour over every inch of you,

to hear your wildest desires.

and if desperation falls at our doorstep,

do we do the things it requires?

Sometimes, I swear I can feel your hand,

tracing the top of the slit in my dress.

and the higher and deeper you go,

the more I have to confess.

god, maybe you're just as dark as me,

and in each other, we find rays of sacred daylight.

One look and I already feel your hands in my hair,

oh, but you're a gentleman... right?

Dear Alison,

Thank you so much for your submission to _____ Journal/Literary Magazine/Review! We received so many entries this year and unfortunately, only one winner could be selected.

Needless to say (you already knew from reading that intro!) your submission has not been accepted for publication. We appreciate your time and effort and entry, and enormously hope we do not have to read anything resembling your writing in the future! And that includes all writing contests we sponsor!

Thank you, and have a nice day (after waiting to hear back from us for four months!),

_________, Editor/Reader/___ name of journal/literary magazine/review

PS, in case you were wondering who won:

_____ earned their MFA at Harvard University. Or Yale, or Brown! They are published in fifty-two literary journals, twenty-six literary magazines, and twenty times and thirty times in the The New Yorker and The Atlantic, respectively. They are also, somehow, an incredibly talented artist and cartoonist, and their art has appeared in the Guggenheim as well as The New Yorker, where their caption for a recent comic strip earned them a senior position on the editorial board. Don't know what that is? Neither do we! It sounds impressive so keep reading! This writer also appeared in Cosmopolitan, but for their fashion sense, the style of which has gone on to be renamed in their name. Oh, but there's more! This writer went to (insert Ivy League University) for their undergraduate degree, and now resides as a writer-in-residence at that university! Is there more? Yes! This writer is known for their quirky quips, and has been featured in The New York Times Sunday edition!

Alison, you're probably wondering, at this point - how did I not win this writing contest? But really, it's ok! You tried, and that's what matters!

We wish you the best of luck (do we?) on all your future writing endeavors!

Here's another excuse to use an exclamation point!

Yours most sincerely (this time for realz),

The aforementioned editors

chocolate silk

draped over

inky cream

delicate seashell

pressed to rib

long form

read slowly

warm scent

inhaled deeply

drowsy heaven

now found

I like this topic. It seems secondary but is so very important a theme-- primary. I feel Friend is more of a verb conceptually than a noun. A Being rather than an Entity. A Becoming rather than a State. It is the relationship of one Self to an Other.

One is drawn to Others for reasons inexplicable. I use One very deliberately and avoid person, because this relationship occurs as much with other humans, as with animals, or objects even-- odd as that might sound. All depends on personality, more so than human nature. (Friendship is not reserved as a human capacity; and we know that One can be human, and unfriendly.)

My observation is that most people are Interested-- they are adherent to the idea that Friendship is Give & Take. With an emphasis almost inevitably on what is Received. Or if given, then on what is gained from the apprehension of the Receipt. Where genuine friendship exists, there is no such Transaction. 

To me the underlying trait of true Friend is Disinterest.

When you are Friending someone, or something, you do your best and with no expectations of return. You simply have a recognition of the need or needs of someone or something else and attend to it; whether it is being present, giving encouragement, or warning, or sustenance, it is done for the Good of the situation. Almost as if you have an unwritten obligation to that Other. Maybe from a past lifetime.

In the course of this opening up of One's Self to interaction, there is considerable risk. The Other has its own personality and characteristics. You run the risk of having your habits and thinking altered by that Other. A thing which may happen quite inadvertently and to the dismay of the Other, who suddenly finds things that were regarded with esteem to be vanquished in the necessary reaction that occurs when entities, on whatever level, meet. This occurred to me recently. I lost my ability to multitask. And everyone reassures me that it is for the best, that it's simply better to do one thing at a time, for the result of thing; but it is a Loss, to me, because it means simply that less gets done.

As an illustration of Friendship, I offer my Bajeczka. My familiar, whose name translates from the Polish to mean "Story," literally, though it could also be Fairytale. (*This is a true story.) My Bajeczka was half Siamese, half American Shorthair. Solid ginger, untypical for a female. Mackerel pattern. Her only brother, Słonecznik ("Sunflower") was Blotch tabby, also solid ginger. The two were born to our tiny red point Siamese, who my older sister had rescued from a tree with her friend Amy while at the bus stop. We were 12 and 14 respectively at the time. Free to good home, Słonecznik was adopted within minutes of "availability." Weeks passed. Nobody wanted Bajeczka, because she was female and deemed eventual kitten-making burden.

Nobody, I should say, except me. There was something about this cat that was unlike any I had ever experienced (and we'd had plenty, all great). I had this distinct feeling that I had been Friended. That this cat would choose my company even if I had nothing to give, in terms of material things (food, shelter, basic needs). Bajeczka saw me, and sought me, to perch on my shoulder as I did homework, or worked around the studio, or to take a walk in the yard with me side by side for 14 years. I suppose someone might say-- "sounds like a dog." To which I nod--depends on the dog.