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Jun 21, 2019 01:22PM
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K'in is open for submissions. The third issue of K'in is live and filled with amazing voices! Check it out! Then send us your beautiful work! We're reading now for the November 2019 issue. Experimental, traditional, playful, prayerful, celebratory, challenging: human—try us. Show us a new way to tell one of the millions of stories under that glorious sun. Submission details here:https://kinliteraryjournal.com/ Deadline Open.
Literary Mama believes that all mothers have a story worth sharing and honors the many faces of motherhood by publishing work that celebrates the journey as well as the job. We celebrate the physical, psychological, intellectual, and spiritual processes of becoming a mother through words and images that may be so stark it hurts. We welcome perspectives that challenge us to examine motherhood through a variety of lenses. We take pride in publishing new and emerging writers as well as established writers. We seek fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, literary reflections, columns, reviews, profiles and photography. Please read our full submission guidelines for specific details on what each department is looking for.http://www.literarymama.com/submissio... Open.
Voice of Eve is a magazine dedicated to women's poetry and artwork. They celebrate women, their spirit, and their expression through art. Deadline: open. Please read guidelines at www.voiceofeve.net/submissionsbefore submitting. Parhelion Literary Magazine is accepting fiction, flash, nonfiction, poetry, and photography for their summer 2019 issue. They look for strong writing, fresh voices, and compelling characters. Deadline: openwww.parhelionliterary.com Deadline Open.
The American Journal of Poetry is now reading for Volume Seven. Please visit us to read our previous volumes filled with poems from poets the world over, from the first-published to the most acclaimed in literature. A unique voice is highly prized. Be bold, uncensored, take risks. Their hallmark is "STRONG Rx MEDICINE." They are the home of the long poem! No restrictions as to subject matter, style, or length. Deadline: open. Published biannually online. www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.comDea... Open.
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Mod
The December 2020 slot of 'Meet the Author' & a feature on our Facebook & Twitter pages.
The genre we are looking for is Humour/Horror/Hyperbole or all rolled into one. The best part? Members get to vote for it. So, get your plumes ready, submission of entries begins in September 2019. So prune your entries to submit them on or before 30,September 2019. We can rate them all through October, the jury mulls over it in November. The winner to be declared in December 2019. An event thread will be created soon.©To be discussed in detail later.
Best of Luck
Mod
RULES
✍️The short stories posted must be of of 500 words, no more, no less. Any discrepancy will cost them the crown. 👑😊
✍️ The story should be previously unpublished.
✍️ The theme of the event must be borne in mind to make the final cut.
✍️ The winning entries will be selected to compile a new book.📙 Entries made to the competition are automatically acceding to the intention. The author's name will be duly advertised as contributor.
✍️ The initial votes in October, will be by all the members of the group. The moderators of the group give one extra vote in November.
Voting for self is invalid. Thread to be opened in October.
✍️ The stories must be posted between 0.00 GMT September 1, 2019 to 0.00 GMT September 30, 2019.
✍️The decisions of the judges are final & binding.
Posting your story here
signifies consent to the above rules.
My story is ready. The title is 'The Monster Baby'The shrill loud pitched wail wafted through the entire coach and filled each compartment. In those few seconds people revisited their personal hell. Memories of the worst days in their life, came flooding by. The fall, the scraped knee, the break up, death, they flashed upon the inward eye. Cries of despair, with death like clarity, never experienced this close before. Then the mother played a melancholy tune on the music box, and her baby was calm again. The people in the train went back to their dreams of a happy future, some got the girl, the dream job, some won the lottery, and some found the winning ticket. Some were about to call out the winning numbers of the lottery 10 22 11, but low and behold, the cruel tune wafted in the compartment again, waking them up from their wishful dreams. The mother of the baby desperately tried to keep the baby quiet again. She played on a tiny music box, wound it up twice and it played a soulful tune. While it played, the baby was silent and people around had a rush of memories flood into their head. War scenes flooded on the window screens, alternating between lush green pastures and images of their happy childhood, sweet teenage loves, being popular, some even went back to the times they were about to win a coveted trophy. The cup was in their outstretched hand, almost within their grasp, when suddenly, all the dreams collapsed midway. The people woke up in cold sweat, for the music had stopped, and the baby was wailing again. The passengers didn’t know what was real anymore. They were willing to trade the awful siren sound for more dollops of their delicious past. They were willing to trade their soul for it to the devil! The mother played the lullaby tune on the instrument. Again the baby piped down and so did all the people, who began to dream again. They were right in the middle of the darkest nightmares, but the horrible prospect of death by sound, made them close their eyelids tighter. They had made a pact with the devil no less, for bliss from the screeching noise. When the doors of the compartment opened at the last station, only the mother came out wheeling the pram with the baby sleeping peacefully inside it. The driver looked through the windows of the sound-proof cabin, into the compartment for more passengers to get off, but as usual there were none. The compartment was empty. Did he always imagine a train load of passengers that disappeared again or were they a figment of his imagination? He looked outside the station, through its rickety gates. In the distance, he could see the mum, wheeling her pram on the empty street, towards a stone-grey castle, a pointy red tail swishing out between the pram wheels. Then the baby peeped out of the pram and smiled at him, still standing in the station aptly called ‘Devil’s-Quay’.
Mod
However, I would like to ask members to refrain from editing their work once it's submitted. It would qualify for immediate disqualification. Beatrice, you're excused as yours is the first post.
But no more editing please.
Attagirl Beatrice, you're on a roll. First moderator & now you give me goosebumps, all in the same day!
Sorry about the editing, I shall bear it in mind, although there a few SPAG errors I'm still itching to correct.😅
Mod
My entry to the competition:The Forgotten Soldier
People often wondered if they had imagined it all; the night that changed the face of the village from a dreary idyll, to what it is now, a bustling place with pizzazz.
It all began last Halloween. The last cantankerous child had gone to bed and the whole town was fast asleep. The workers of the mining community were a hard-working bunch. They awoke in the wee hours of the morning and climbed down to the fiery pits of hell to earn their living. So by midnight, the whole town was indeed fast asleep or was it?
Mr. Mcloughlin fell sick that night, and could not sleep due to the fever and began to stroll around the village until he reached the town square. To his horror, he saw 12 pale ghosts arise from the plaques of the dead soldiers in the war memorial, and march around the town square in deathly pallor. They reached the statue of the forgotten soldier, stopped, saluted it and disappeared back into the plaques leaving a trail of footprints all around the town square.
Mr. Mcloughlin watched from behind the corner shop afraid to breathe, lest he was made to join the eerie band of soldiers. He went back home stupefied beyond words. The next morning, he told the tale to the miners in the pit. They did not believe a word until they noticed the white footprints in the town centre. Soon word spread, people came from all around the countryside to observe the anomaly. But although they were out all night, they could not see the spirits.
McClellan was the laughing stock of the village for days. Life had caught him at its lowest ebb. He retraced his steps to the spot every night hoping to see a sceptre, but to no avail. Did he dream that all up on Halloween night? Eventually it dawned on him that he was just delirious with fever. What about the white footsteps? He pondered all night. He never left his perch behind the statue of the brave soldier. Most villagers that passed him by, had thought he had lost his sense as they had always suspected, and left him to it. In the morning, he observed the miners trudge down into the pits to work and by nightfall when they returned, their feet left white footsteps all around the town. Eureka! He had the ghost now!
If all went to plan, he would lose the moniker of ‘Mr. White Footsteps’ this very day. Dawn broke, the pink gloves touched the inky night sky and left blush marks all over her face. The first miners came trudging up the path. A heavy metallic sound roused them from their reverie. They looked up to their horror to find the forgotten soldier come alive! They were rooted for a few seconds to their spot, then they fled for their dear lives. Hollering at the top of their voices.
There was never a dull moment in the village now.
Mod
500 words✓
Theme✓
Mine is almost ready. Will put it up shortly.
Short Story Competition EntryMr. Maloney
Friends often scoffed at the century-old kiln in Mr. Maloney’s backyard. He used it only on special occasions, to cook succulent ribs and serve them to his dinner guests once a year. For 364 days, it was left to the forces of nature to act upon. This year though, it made a double entry in the same year.
A lot of strange-looking men had been found walking around the village at odd hours. A few missing animals were also duly reported. People began to put two and two together. Was he gorging on animal meat? In his dystopian world, he said, almost all-things alive were consumed. They often just laughed it off together. Then the children began to go missing. The villagers joked it was the animal Hunters new fetish, but all the same were scared to bits about the incidents.
The local police were flabbergasted with reports of the possible suspect being the respectable Mr. Maloney. The secret service lost no time in tracking down the suspect and keeping a tab on him, because they now believed he had a secret double life. They sent two of their best men, Thompson and Thompson to follow the case. They could not have been more indiscreet. They wore black suits, and even more fancy aviators in the laid back town, drinking at the cafe opposite Mr. Maloney’s home every day, and in the evening they took turns to sleep in the caravan, now planted in an even more indiscrete spot near his backyard. Mr. Maloney went about unmindful of the rumours, studiously ignoring the two new observers. He was used to people passing by his home, and had an almost uncanny ability to ignore his surroundings. The celebrity status in the old town was unmistakable, but he still did not see anything amiss, except when one night, he heard the strange noises from the kiln.
The secret service had noted many strange men enter Mr. Maloney’s compound but never leave. Where were they? They believed the kiln was used to dispose of the bodies. At that very moment, they were inspecting the burning embers in the kiln for evidence. Mr. Maloney dashed out of the house to confront them with trespassing on private property, but they took off in no time.
The next time, Mr. Maloney was prepared with his vat of wax, but the men did not come the next night or the night after. He invited the neighbours over for a barbecue with fresh meat from the kiln that night. The guest remarked that the strange men seemed to have disappeared from the village. They also remarked on the very extraordinary life-like statues of the two men standing in the doctor's backyard. As for the kiln, it seemed to have a fresh pile of bones at the bottom of the pit. The smell of smoking rubber filled the nostrils of the guests, as deep down the rubber masks burnt in the kiln, as did Mr. Maloney’s various secret identities.
These are really good stories. When can we start rating them?
Mod
Anyone have any experience with Entrada Book Reviews? They've got a Goodreads profile and they host weekly contests to win a free editorial review, and I was selected as a winner for this week (I did in fact enter their contest). I already googled them and I didn't see any scams or warnings, but I just figured I'd ask here.
Beatrice wrote: "My story is ready. The title is 'The Monster Baby'The shrill loud pitched wail wafted through the entire coach and filled each compartment. In those few seconds people revisited their personal he..."
Oh wow this was so great, super story and scary!!!
Bradley wrote: "My entry to the competition:The Forgotten Soldier
People often wondered if they had imagined it all; the night that changed the face of the village from a dreary idyll, to what it is now, a bust..."
Wow!!!!
Pam wrote: "Beatrice wrote: "My story is ready. The title is 'The Monster Baby'The shrill loud pitched wail wafted through the entire coach and filled each compartment. In those few seconds people revisited ..."
Thanks 😊
SEXHans solo was a virgin. From the roots of his blonde hair to the tips of his unvarnished finger nails, he was a virgin through and through. He sought to alleviate his status by a series of clandestine liasions with a few women of erm, dubious antecedents, but backed out at the last minute.
Now the word sex abhorred him.
He had given up trying and wanted to put his past and the ludicrousness of his teenage years behind him.
He woke up each morning averting his gaze from his very nubile neighbour next door who seemed to invariably sun bathe naked on the roof. He flicked television channels faster and faster each day with the explicit nudity displayed. 'What one does not see, one does not miss' was his life's motto.
He decried any form of flesh exposed in magazines and public transport made him cringe, and he drove himself around, although he could ill afford it.
He once won a lottery and never let anyone know. He had to plan this carefully. No one could ever tease him again as the 50 year old virgin.
He had ensured things were planned down to the T. He ordered a return ticket to Sembach, Germany for his proposed plan. One would assume, he would pack his bags with smart clothes or protection, but all he armed himself was with books. Tonnes of ancient volumes, hand bound in pure leather. The X-RAY machine caught only parchments in the screen. Hans Solo, just smiled. He may look like a nerd on his departure, but arrival will mark him as a sex god! He had very high hopes.
The pretty attendant at the ticketing counter glanced at Hans approvingly as his bags were screened and revealed the books. Hans looked hopefully at her, she smiled back at him. Hans began to dream of possible names. And then he saw her frown, he had forgotten, his plan was activated that very minute. He smiled, she frowned, he picked his luggage and embarked on his journey. He would rectify the error on his return he thought. In Germany, he spent the weekend reading books in his hotel room, without even stepping to see the city.
Monday morning, he returned puffy eyed to his office, straight from the airport. The door clanged loudly as Hans entered the room. He was the cynosure of all eyes.
He yawned loudly as he entered his cubicle.
There was a reason he had picked Sembach.
Disheveled, red eyed, clothes all awry and a suitcase stamped with the words SEX!
He would not be called a virgin again. Although, to rectify that little error, he would have to go back to the airport and see that goddess again,if she would have him. For his hopes were risen anew. For when he returned, the airport codes for Sembach were not stamped onto his boarding pass, but the more sober airport of his hometown, and it did not have the acronym SEX.
Pam wrote: "Bradley wrote: "My entry to the competition:The Forgotten Soldier
People often wondered if they had imagined it all; the night that changed the face of the village from a dreary idyll, to what i..."
Thanks
Jason wrote: "SEXHans solo was a virgin. From the roots of his blonde hair to the tips of his unvarnished finger nails, he was a virgin through and through. He sought to alleviate his status by a series of clan..."
Brave name for a story, and I totally get the drift. 👏
The Mighty WurlitzerDavid O’Toole watched the eyes of the visitors, show emotions ranging from morbid curiosity, to that of sheer terror in a matter of seconds. He prided himself on having procured it in under 5 minutes of entry to the museum.
The Musical Museum housed a number of ancient instruments. But the most popular among them all, was the pipe organ called ‘The Mighty Wurlitzer’. The last remaining relic, of an era gone by.
On a typical day, the machine arose like a phoenix from the depths of the stage and lit up eerily in purple, leaving goose bumps on the flesh of the audience. David then took the velvet-cushioned seat and played haunting melodies all evening.
He watched with sadistic pleasure as the people squirmed in their seats with inexplicable terror. The lights were dimmed, and if someone touched their shoulders, they were sure to die of fright.
The climax was when he played the last melody, and an unobtrusive piano to his right, began playing by itself! There were never any announcements made, someone always noticed them and whispers passed along the hall in subdued echoes.
Then David would take a bow, and the audience would be still glued to their seats, numb-struck by the eerie phenomenon. Not one of them had heard of the automated machines in the year 1924. David had tweaked the machines as a little private joke at the audience’s expense.
For twenty years, David played with sardonic pleasure, and the museum had a surge in audience with each passing year. In 1925, it had its first casualty. An old patron of the museum did die, when the eerie beats, reached a crescendo. He was but the first among many in the years to come.
On the last evening, David began playing. He smirked as his piece de resistant, was about to begin. He pressed the automated switch to make the electric piano begin playing, but there was no response! He walked over to inspect the piano, when all of a sudden, the Wurlitzer arose a few inches from its platform and settled on a cushion of air. David blinked his eyes. Then the Wurlitzer began glowing in the most grotesque colours, and playing the most haunting melodies by itself. Davis was confused, the wrong machine was playing! He looked at the audience, expecting to see fear on their faces, but all he saw were eerie pale faces leering at him. He thought he recognised a few dead men among them. Were they the men that died in this hall? Was this retribution? He broke into cold sweat. He tried to play, but his fingers would not move anymore. His heart suddenly seemed very heavy and breathing became restricted.
As the audience filed out quietly from the hall later that evening, they could not but remark, that they had assumed it was all part of the act. They had heard rumours of the automated machine, but had never expected to see such a horrible death.
I love the story 💗It's eerie and one is left guessing to the very end!
A little birdie told me...‘A little birdie told me’, said a smug lady for the umpteenth time. I swear if I found that little bird I would wring it's the little neck. It has been the bane of my childhood, and most of my adult life too. I had quite an eventful childhood. Scraping my knee, breaking a few teeth (not my own of course), my escape to the dormitory past midnight and more such escapades in the same light. On each occasion, I would have skipped notice, had it not been for that infernal bird, that but has single-handedly upset my every plan and has been on to my every secret.
That night as I lay down to sleep with my eyes half open, alert for the slightest noise, an idea popped into my head. The next day, I began to save fish bones and meat from my meal with alarming speed and dexterity. I stashed it away in my secret hiding place and let the magic unfold.
The housekeeper came in a few days later with her nose twisted up in the air and complained of a stench that was beyond her abilities to remedy. The room indeed had begun to smell of a collection of rotten eggs and puke combined. The cleaners were called. They made an awful racket. The birds didn’t venture near the house for a whole month after that.
But spring was here soon, and along with it so were the birds, who were now nesting, and came in armed with twigs. I could not possibly bite their heads off under the circumstances!
There were no two ways about it. They had to go. I began to dig a deep pit at the edge of my plot. The new stash of remains would go there. The next morning, the birds came with their irritatingly curious beaks pecking for juicy food. They zeroed in on the pit in no time. Soon there were swarms of them hovering over the pit like bees. I had to make no effort at all to capture them. I leapt straight over them and tried to grab the lot with my outstretched hands. Sadly, I didn’t account for the deep pit, and down I went right to the very bottom. The birds flew away of course. It took me ages to crawl out of the hole. It was dusk now. My mistress would be here. I had to look presentable. I licked my wounds and pride and crawled back home.
She was sprawled on the silken bed already waiting for me. I smothered her with kisses and lay wrapped in her arms all night. When I woke up, she dressed herself in a hurry, and walked down the stairs. I followed her downstairs, naked as day, rubbed my head against her legs and purred softly. She kissed my whiskers and tickled under my collar.
It was a hot day. I decided against going to the garden. Instead, I lay on the porch and purred.
Mod
Alexis wrote: "A little birdie told me...‘A little birdie told me’, said a smug lady for the umpteenth time. I swear if I found that little bird I would wring it's the little neck. It has been the bane of my ch..."
Gosh Alex! I thought twas a tale of one your escapades 😉
Mod
Mod
Jason: 2,3,3,3,2,2,1=16
Bradley:5,4,13,2,4,3=17
Alex:3,1,1,1,4,3,2=15
Beatrice:5,5,5,5,1,5,5=31
Catherine: 4,4,2,4,4,3,4=25
Sandra:1,2,2,5,1=11
Members of the Jury vote this month. Winner of the competition to be declared in December.
Mod
1st prize Beatrice Williams🏆
2nd prize Catherine Habbie🏆
3rd prize Simon Bradley🏆
Mod
Hurray! I look forward to seeing my name in print.
Mod
Cannot wait to see it either. Best Christmas gift 😍
This makes Christmas extra special. Thanks GB.Wishing everyone on Goodreads New Authors, season's greetings & a very happy New Year 2020 in advance
Mod
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08372HMR...
Well done on your remarkable feat. You are now an acclaimed author!
Hurrah! I finally join the bandwagon. Thanks New Authors
Mod
New Authors does certainly live up to its motto! Thanks a ton .GB
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Books mentioned in this topic
Goodreads Best Poems 2022 (other topics)Goodreads Best Short Stories 2021 (other topics)
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Goodreads Best Short Stories 2019 (other topics)
Goodreads Best Poems 2020 (other topics)
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Authors mentioned in this topic
Aiman Sabir (other topics)Bernard Smith (other topics)
Catherine Habbie (other topics)
Darci J. Steiner (other topics)
Ricky Mato Paisip Narewec (other topics)
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