Milk and Ink
The Serial Writer
He pours words into the bowl,
lets them float together in the milk of meaning,
some dissolve too quickly,
some stay dry and uninspired no matter how long they soak.
A spoonful at a time—
some bites too big, some too small,
a soggy metaphor slides down his throat
and he wonders if it was ever worth writing at all.
He crunches a sentence between his teeth,
too literal,
too forced,
spits it back onto the page.
The words are getting mushy now,
blending into one another,
no crisp edges, no distinction.
He thought it would be satisfying,
but it’s just another half-eaten draft.
The Offense
To be the offender,
Is to admit to larceny.
To admit to the collection of works read upon thee.
To smile at smitten words,
Curse at things that would
Would make you think you knew better words,
Better ways to deceive those of higher power,
and become the purveyor of tall tales while being treated as if you were committing the offense of being an adulterer.
It is no matter.
It is of no consequence.
Men and women of greater 'faiths' have written whole novels into a single black bound collection,
Glittered it with golds like it was the most perfect work.
But it is no perfection.
For who are we, but retellers of faith.
Err.
Fate.
Of the gatekeepers we swallow whole keys of, to lock off ways in which someone might take,
take a gander at what trusses were once built,
at the way archways rose high from stone Earth.
But we are not here to speak over the conjecture of the perfection of architecture. No.
We are here to speak on the written word,
The transformative thought,
And the addiction in which we might dream to be a grand stander of script.
Of the newest perception of works,
Like no other rift.
But you can strum your guitar any which way you desire,
To the right ears, you might be sound like you're thought provoking,
To others, it might bring on ire.
For we are the fairfolk,
The writers of unlived times.
It's an addiction,
I just can't surmise,
Where it begins or where it ends.
Pain.
Love.
It all starts just as it comes to an end.
And we will sing to it,
Dance to it.
Worship it all the same.
The addiction is living,
We just like to make it seem a little more sane.
Manifestation of Nightmares
Unfathomable, formidable, and intrusive,
His killer instinct roams
Indistinguishable amid each day’s normalcy.
He is your friend, neighbor, companion, and confidant,
Who with rapture lies in wait,
Biding his time, waiting to mark the perfect moment
To snuff a life from its cradle of warmth.
He listens with rapture to every word,
Always present, always watchful -
Ever the predator seeking fulfillment of
A strangely wired desire which bears
no explanation, rhyme, or reason.,
The evil incarnate housed within
Is a driving force, an unimaginable need
Targeting a sublime completion
of the foulest, darkest deeds.
With each step he makes,
Each act completed,
His mind carries no weight of remorse,
No empathy, and no compassion.
He is merciless, his eyes black and soulless,
Akin to a spoiled apple, rotting at the core.
Born of Hell’s doom and devastation,
He is the scourge of the earth.
Beware, for low and behold,
He lurks around every corner -
A walking, breathing manifestation
Of your worst nightmare.
the insomniac
The night was warm and mild
By moonlight gently aglow
I lay there half asleep
My thoughts quiet and slow
As I turned to switch the light
A sound echoed nearby
And again I was awake
Tides of sleep washed away
At first the sound was foreign
But then I heard a word
Beneath the mild moon
The predicament was absurd
I stumbled to the window
A man stood near the door
And chatted on his telephone
A sound I couldn't ignore
He would finish soon
How long could the phone call be?
And then he'd walk away
And maybe I could sleep
Minutes passed
And then an hour
Still the man remained
Somewhere an owl cooed
His presense was tedious
He could have been there for years
His words buzzed in my head
I wanted to stab my ears
He needed to be stopped
So disgruntled at best I rose
Rest was a distant shadow
Dreams were foreign prose
The man shouted and laughed
Fueling my pounding heart
He had to be stopped
He needed to depart
The door knob was cool in my hand
My heart a staccato beat
Blood pulsed and pounded
The floor creaked under my feet
The man could be hostile
I knew not his face
But I only wanted to sleep
To rid him of this place
I went to the kitchen
To grab a sharpened knife
It was better to be safe
Somewhere an owl cooed
The man was oblivious
He spoke and shouted still
The sound that deprived me of rest
He needed to be stopped
His voice was like needles
I unlatched the door in silence
He spoke and shouted still
A tone that bordered violence
I knew not what to do
At my back the blade concealed
So quickly he whirled and turned
Shadowy features revealed
It all happened quickly
The man and I alone
It felt like watching through glass
As icy metal struck bone
To the ground fell the stranger
I hadn't even learned his name
His phone cracked and clattered
Somewhere an owl cooed
And then there was blood
From his chest it poured and flowed
Hot, sticky, everywhere
I had only wanted to sleep
The moon watched overhead
Before me the man died and bled
That taunting, silver eye
Illuminating the body, cold and dead
From my hand fell the kitchen knife
Echoing a chaotic mood
The predicament was absurd
Somewhere an owl cooed
Nobody saw
Except that silver eye
Maybe I could get away
Wordless is the sky
I had only wanted to sleep
In defense my actions were made
A mantra I repeated
As I hid the bloody blade
The blood stuck to my hands
Panic would not relent
The situation was robbed of logic
Somewhere an owl cooed
In the street sounded a scream
But they could not know it was me
The body more corpse than man
And I still walking free
I hand't been alone
Somewhere, someone saw
I had only wanted to sleep
My conscience broken and raw
In prison I'd never sleep
Where inmates yelled and stewed
If they took me it would end me
Somewhere an owl cooed
Outside, another scream
If I ran, I'd never sleep
A life of hidden uncertainty
Somewhere and owl cooed
They had to know it was me
I was running out of time
The clock was deafening
That final, telltale chime
There was only one true escape
From what I'd done
From what would be
Somewhere an owl cooed
Once more I uncovered the knife
My hands were sickened with sweat
And my heart thumped and pounded
Somewhere an owl cooed
The blade was sharp and cold
The only escape I knew
I drove it through flesh and bone
Welcoming sleep, final and true
The Serial Writer
You may think it all automatic, but when I was beginning my career, ahem, in way back when, these things were done by craftsman. Alas, I also lost my esteemed profession to computerization.
I had a very important and dare I say, creative task, of identification. By number.
We have in my family, great respect for the writer and the librarian, as much as for the reader. Hence, my eagerness to enter this profession. Like many pertinent inventions, the impetus came from governmental necessity. That bountiful Mother of Invention. The philosophy was one, if I may oversimplify, of Unification. By which I mean there was need to make uniform, as well as unique, our system of identification. It would not do, for example, to have ten or more John Smith's running around the cells.
Of course, like others, I got my start, as it were, on the bottom rung of the ladder, writing Prisoner numbers in white paint on the black of jailhouse jumpsuits. By hand, mind you. Each number unique, while encoding certain identifiers. Not unlike, the Dewey Decimal system. I excelled at my task and was promoted naturally. I advanced from serializing people, to creating barcodes for objects of all sorts, national and international.
This is where things began to wane. I regret, on my end, I saw a decline in business as global economy flourished. Fortunately, I had enough years behind me to look forward to a comfortable retirement, a respectable government stipend.
I can only add as final remark, my awe, at the advancements in my field. Not only are we serializing people and objects, by computer, but we are now also serial numbering intangible goods.
Truly a pinnacle of achievement!
03.12.2025
The Serial Writer challenge @Last
Serial writer is a writer of serial literature, like those novelists who published a chapter a week in the magazines of the 1800s. Or, nowadays, authors of fanfiction or zines. Literature magazines still exist, simply not published nearly as often or to as widespread an audience as they once were, and chances of acceptance are depressingly low, at least in the experience of this aspiring serial writer. More often, pieces written for literary magazines are written with the intention of only being a singular short story or poem. Serial writers can find purchase climbing more niche websites nowadays, such as Penana or, yes, Prose, as well as fanfiction archives such as archiveofourown.
The main difficulty with being a serial writer is knowing if or when a story is finished - many many readers refuse to take their chances on unfinished ongoing works, but serial writing by virtue of the serial nature is usually unfinished, so it’s an even lonelier form of the loneliest craft.
passionate wordsmith
When he was growing up, everyone used to say, what a strange kid that Robbie Stephenson. If his head wasn't in a book, he was writing --in the margins, on his hand, a napkin, toilet paper, desks, the walls, tiled floors. Yes, he was unusual, but his constant scribbling eventually paid huge dividends. At merely 30 years of age, Robbie is an award winning, New York Times best-selling author of erotic romance novels publishing multiple times a year. He has authored over one hundred fifty books over the last ten years alone. (He published his first novel at 18 through Harlequin.)
As soon as he could string words into sentences, Robbie was making up stories. When he learned to write, he wrote and illustrated stories on the ruled writing paper his mother bought by the pound at the local teacher supply store (anything to keep him from writing on the walls). He wrote about a little boy having adventures in the woods or scoring the winning runs, baskets, or goals in pivotal games, and being celebrated and adored by all. By sixth grade, his main character was a loner who solved crimes the police couldn't, a brilliant boy detective who garnered success and adoration by solving the most difficult cases that would stump even Sherlock Holmes (he'd read the complete collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories by the age of ten).
In middle and high school, Robbie became an avid runner and swimmer garnering several medals for his efforts. He claims he only participated in sports because he got some of his best ideas for stories in the silence under water or running around the track.
Until Alys Duprey.
Alys (whose name has been changed to protect her privacy) invited Robbie to the Sadie Hawkins dance his senior year of high school. Later that night they sneaked into her bedroom and he discovered his greatest inspiration and new (second) favorite past time. It was then that he began his meteoric rise to celebrity status. Apparently, Alice was not averse to giggling about a good time with her girlfriends so Robbie remade his writer's haven in his parents' basement into his personal lab where he began experimenting with willing young women the climactic scenes of his novels.
His draw was more than the bedroom gymnastics, however. Each of his paramours received her own story written with a feathered pen--that served other purposes as well, of course-- anywhere and everywhere he felt inspired to write on her person. No longer limited to paper, napkins or his own hands, Robbie expanded his writing surfaces to include flat backs, warm bellies, firm thighs... For him, it was fulfilling a need to write when inspiration struck without having to disengage from his second favorite activity. For her, something to remember him by...at least until the ink finally washed away.
Robbie Stephenson is one of the greatest erotic romance novelists of our time. His dedication to his craft is commendable.
Reflection
Mirror Mirror, on the wall
Can you wait while I answer the call?
Will my MC take the bait
Or will he play it safe and wait?
Have I paid all the pending bills
How quantum particles jump over hills?
What's for lunch? And for dinner?
Powerball's due. Will I be a winner?
Mirror mirror, you reflect and I do too
Just let me see this project through
Then a promo may be on the cards
A game of sticks and juicy rewards.
Once done, I may relax and sigh
Taking time to ask how and why
Should my MC work around the hitch
And stop the villain, the troll, and the witch!
Someday I will reveal it to the world
The clever tale I spun; all unfurled
Then I can go back to my real life
To bills, to jobs, and chores; the usual strife.
Be Aware of Homphones and Use Puns in Moderation
I can’t sugarcoat it. I’m a self-diagnosed, self-medicated serial writer. I sow my oats by pouring ideas out for others to enjoy. I don’t write to bowl anyone over or spoon feed them my opinion. I try not to milk a topic to the point where it becomes soggy. I write because I need to write.
Each morning, I must break fast and start composing a story before time slips away, If I don’t post something before lunch, I’ll have that empty feeling in my stomach. Writing also serves as a release. In general, mills in my mind grind out so many ideas that if I don’t write them down or box them up for later, they’ll surpass an expiration date and get stale.
There are days when I want to go back to simpler times, before writing dominated my thoughts. When my priority was giving my teacher an apple, jacks were the go-to game to pass the hours, and my girlfriend, my honey, combs her hair so it’s perfect in each picture. Deep down, I know that’s not possible. Still, it’s important to appreciate the past so you can live in the present.
By no means am I against progress. With regards to writing, some modern conveniences are, well, they’re great. Spellcheck is beneficial to catch errors, like when I meant to type “Crave” but used “Krave” or “Alphabits” instead of “Alphabets.” And as for the ease of rearranging paragraphs in a story, I’ll be the first to acknowledge that Copy and Paste is just special, ’k.
Fortunately, I don’t need lucky charms for inspiration. Writing is still organic for me. And I’ve aged out of using words from the Urban Dictionary like “kix” or “trix.” Putting them into something I’ve written now would come off as pandering. I stay true to my style, so my writing is honest. Once I tried substituting “goodbyes” with “cheerios,” but it came off as disingenuous. A mistake like this gets me frosted, flakes away at my confidence because I know better.
Don’t get me wrong, I embrace being a serial writer. I accept that “putting pen to paper” is something I must do each day. Because that’s Life.