Sacrilege

I can’t help but post this. I’ll probably burn for it… and for a long time, too, considering how much I enjoy looking at...

Writing Challenge

Time for a new challenge… it’s been awhile. Parameters: Write a short response to the prompt. Read and respond to other responses. Vote for your favorites by clicking the thumbs up. (Note, it will only let you vote once per user or per IP address) After enough responses and votes come in, a winner will be chosen. Prizes: At this time, the winning entry will receive a custom illustration for their story, and a featured post on my website. (For you to bedazzle everyone with!) Prompt: . It is said that a ghost roams this shanty farm. Who (Or What) is it? How long has it been there? Why does it lurk here? What does it see? Tell us its...

Camden Town

Camden Town – by Lori Moritz I found myself On the streets Of Camden Town Watching 40 different women I was with them Every one In Gothic coal-lined eyes In unfamiliar platform shoes Offering up a transcendent perspective While tripping up their ankles On raised crumbles Of ancient sidewalk blocks They wear short skirts Of cheap denim Sewn with a half-stitch Because youth Cares not for quality That goes with style Which calls them back To Camden Town Every time A boyfriend or two Tears the skirt from you Camden has something new Only 3 pounds Sterling If you know the system Of bartering And you do it To satisfy the yearning For something more Than 3 shillings of love He asks you back To Camden town Maybe get That purple corset Hanging in the window The one with black lace Camden’s not a trashy place Just a vile stink that settles Neath ultra-glitter Sticky perfume And sparkley eye goo To make his prick Pick you apart When your heart No longer sits In Camden town Buildings built to last Through centuries of lust Await their fate As display cases Servicing familiar faces That will still Come Here Walking When I’ll no longer be around...

The Queen of Cups

Hey guys! This is MY very first showcase on my VERY own website! I hope you like it: The Queen of Cups – by Lori Moritz First Session – I see what I know. What do you see? The pretty voice wants to soothe me. Make me like her. I don’t like her. I don’t like anything. The pretty voice is supposed to help me. I forget what the owner of the voice looks like. A generic woman. Immemorial. Isn’t that amazing? I can give her one thing, though… she has a pretty voice. All you need in this field, I suppose. When my daughter begged me to come, I resisted. I can’t be hypnotized. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t even like my daughter, how could I like this girl – this hypno-therapist. I came because my daughter thinks something on the inside is plugging up the ducts of my love flow. The offensive plug is lodged so far down the pipe, I need guidance to get it unstuck. I spat into the sink. To hear of it! There never was a love duct. Love is missing in me. It always was. So no therapy could magically bring it back. I came here to prove that to her. I thought – so wound up in a mental vice grip of negativity – that I would see only blackness. But wouldn’t you know it. Something comes to mind. Look around and tell me what you see… Fine! “A kitchen.” It isn’t my kitchen, though. Instead of walnut, “The cabinets are white. The counter-tops are tiled in indigo blues.” It’s much bigger than mine. “With an island.” I always wanted an island. “And everything is clean. Pristine.” My kitchen has old wine stains on the counter. Sticky goo on the stove. No island, and absolutely no blue. But something is...

World War Z

I’m reading this book called World War Z by Max Brooks. I’ll confess, I have a pretty horrific mind. So, I was pleasantly surprised to get genuinely creeped out by the first few pages. It gets gnarly on about page 5. Bravo! I also have managed to have dreams about my baby trying to gum me to death during a breastfeeding session, all as a result of this book, but that’s just me. No really, folks… That’s the kind of reading that sets me on fire. I love it. It’s like virtual crack. I don’t need to smoke it to feel paranoid and otherwise jacked-up. Brooks tells the tale through a series of reports from various characters all over the globe who have personally encountered the zombies and lived to speak of it. The people come from all walks of life, which is where things get interesting. You hear the motivations of politicians, the view points of the common citizen, army infantry, doctors, swindlers… He’s included virtually every identifiable group, however, I am not quite finished yet. He may have missed a few. I whole-heartedly recommend this novel to anyone who loves a good freak-out novel. Better yet, It goes beyond the gross. Brooks makes social commentary on many different levels. It covers the economics of a cover-up that evolves into a world war of a second nature. I can’t help but immerse myself in the thought experiment: What if it actually happened? May god grant us all the strength to write something that can put others in as gripping an emotional vice-grip as Brooks’ World War Z. Great stuff! And may the force be with...

Blood Rain

Blood Rain – by Adam Wilby I hated the rain. I hadn’t always felt this way. I vividly remember the day that I did. It was August 23rd 2008 when everything changed. I looked into the face of the man I had just punched. Blood was dripping from his nose, for his own part he was staring with an expression of disbelief at the claret puddle in the palm of his hand. The people stood closest to us had fallen silent, out of the corner of my eye I could see most of them were biting their lips; the odd few of course were clearly amused at what they saw at some impromptu entertainment. “Do I look like some cheap tart to you?” I asked the man rhetorically. If I hadn’t been so angry I might have been incredulous that he appeared so surprised. I had been sat at a table near the bar with one eye on the door while I waited for Stella to arrive. That evening the two of us had planned to meet here for a couple of drinks before moving on to a nightclub just down the road. Consequently I had gone out that morning and bought myself the red dress I had seen earlier that week when using the shopping centre as a shortcut to work. He’d walked over and asked if I wanted to dance. If Stella hadn’t once again kept me waiting I would probably have declined his offer with a smile and the false promise to catch him later. As it was I had grown bored of sitting by myself. In any case I didn’t see the harm, as the pub was less than a mile from my flat, while I wasn’t exactly one of the regulars, I was confident that if anything untoward happened someone who knew me would...

The Punch and Judy Show

THE PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW – by Adam Wilby Judy heard the keys rattle in the lock as Punch let himself into the flat they had shared together for the past two and a half years. She had never liked the flat much, situated as it was directly above the record shop where Punch worked during the day, it was also located near the two main nightclubs in the town centre. Judy had lost count of the number of times she had been woken up during the night by people who apparently couldn’t handle their drink as they staggered, shouted and swore loudly on the way home. It was small wonder that when Judy climbed out of bed at eight every morning she had bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. Even so she was never so tired as not to know that Punch would return to the flat almost precisely at noon every day for his hour long lunch break, in keeping with their established routine Judy always made sure there was a salad on the dining table waiting for him. Punch had made his feelings clear on this as he took his diet and fitness very seriously, just one of the examples being the five mile run he took every day after work meant he didn’t have an inch of fat on him. This being, if Judy was to be honest with herself, one of the reasons why she had felt an attraction to him so soon after a mutual friend had introduced them. As the shop closed at 6pm it meant that Punch would, almost as regular as clockwork, return home perhaps an hour afterward. While he was out Judy generally kept herself busy as there was usually something to occupy her attention. Indeed over the course of just over two years of living in...

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