Gluttony

Written by Lilith

Could you eat all this? Image courtesy of sunsetstation

Could you eat all this? Image courtesy of sunsetstation

There’s a feast laid out before him, but he barely takes the time to let his eyes or mind register it properly before his hands have reached out and the first bite is in his mouth. It’s an apple, he realises, chewing energetically and swallowing it as fast as he can – eager to make room for the next mouthful.

Three more bites are enough, and he’s sick of it. The apple is delicious – red and shiny with a perfect crunch, sharp and sweet to the bite, but there is so much more on the table that requires his attention. He drops the apple and reaches out for a loaf of bread, tearing it in two and buttering it roughly before throwing it into his ready jaws.

The bread dries his mouth, and suddenly he is thirsty; his throat drying up too soon in the meal. His left hand finds a flagon of wine while his right is reaching for a dish of carrots, and he pours it straight down his throat without hesitation. It glugs as it makes his way into his body.

Already, his bloated face is reddening. He polishes off the carrots with no more than the odd courtesy chew, and reaches for the platters of meat before him. They have been prepared to be eaten immediately, and as he tosses turkey and ham slices into his maw, the first trickle of saliva makes its way around his lower lip, and dribbles onto his chin.

More wine. More bread. More meat. He grabs a chicken leg, stripping the flesh from the bone and baring it completely. The bone, useless to him now nothing edible remains, drops to the floor and is forgotten. As the table clears and the meal is over, one small fact does not escape this man. He may be sated, but he is not happy – he is alone.

Gluttony was written by Lilith several years ago, as an experimental piece to aid her general writing – we love her disgusting descriptions! If you’d like something a little gentler of Lilith’s, please check out her most recent fiction 35.2.

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Bronze Regrets

Written by OrdDiff

More machine than man... Photo by Mike Rollerson

More machine than man… Photo by Mike Rollerson

Smoke filled the room. The man at the desk leaned back in his black suit, the lights purposely hiding his face. He had a cigar in one bronzed hand, the powerful bionic handling the plant matter with perfect precision.

“Knew a kid like you once,” he said, “yeah?”

The person he was speaking to could not have been more than twenty. Outside in the harsh chemical rain, loaded up with tattoos and hiding the obvious bulge of a gun under his gang colours, he was the king of the world. In the darkness of the professional’s office, he was a scared kid in an ill-fitting jacket. “Yeah?” he asked, unsure of his words.

The suit swung his legs up over the desk. Any fool could see he was trying to intimidate the youngster. Any fool could see it was working. “He wanted an edge. Thought he could pay for it.” The man coughed haggardly before taking another drag. “Can you pay for it?” he accused in his gravelly voice.

The boy stiffened and nodded, eager to show his strength. “Yes, I-”

“No!” The man interrupted him with a slam on the old wooden desk. “No, you cannot.”

In one fluid motion, the man rose from his chair, letting it clatter to the ground. “You have the money?” he asked. The kid was using all of his nerves to not flee, and simply nodded. “Then what you want is possible. The question is, can you pay for it?”

The kid tried to figure out what the man meant. “I, yeah, I got the G’s right here.” he replied with a mixture of unease and confusion. As he reached into his pocket to pull out the aforementioned cash, a motion from the man’s bronze hand stopped him.

Continue reading →

Inkblots Poetry Spotlight

ripples_water_leaves

Ripples of the mind…
Image Courtesy of Creative Commons

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

[I]
One small question tugs at the mind

And I fear that the answer revealed would be bad.

Am I a mad man at play being sane

Or a sane man feigning being mad?

[II]

Still waters sighing

As tears of gods that crash down

Ripples peace of mind.

[III]

Lightning strike thunders.

Staggering, gripping the fists,

Storm too slow to pass.

This small selection of poems were created by one author – our Haiku Hero, Blue-Eyed Devil – but this time we’re mixing up his writing a little by adding in a short poem with two haiku. Don’t worry, you can still sit back and have your brew while we give you a minute to read, ponder and decipher his mad scribblings, but just with a new snazzy title that puts his work in the spotlight. Plus, you wouldn’t really forgive us if we snuck in a short poem with two Haiku and labelled it as “Haiku Selection V”, would you? If you enjoyed this and haven’t checked out his other Haiku, make sure you take a gander at ‘Haiku Selection IV‘. 

I & You

somewhere_in_time

Somewhere In Time. Their desire for each other leads to their demise. A haunting of memories never to be renewed.
Image: Somewhere In Time film still

Written by Magnificent Mayhem

[I]

Nostalgia is a poison

Sipped from every day,

These sickly sweet memories

Eating me alive;

Chewing holes in the reality

Of what is now.

[You]

I want to call you by your name

To claim you as my own,

If only for the little while

I can stretch out those letters

To keep you on my lips.

Magnificent Mayhem’s two short poems are coupled together to show the distinct differences between two voices. The first sharing anguish and distaste for the past and a longing to break free of such memories, while the second bears a voice dripping in desire, with a hope to keeping the memory alive to satiate those feelings. Originally Magnificent Mayhem considered naming the two pieces “Me and You”, but this created a united relationship between the two, rather than an intrinsic distance. If you enjoyed “I & You”, make sure you check out “Residue” – a wonderful poem juxtaposing the fragility of a doll to the shifting of power within society. 

Aldrick The Mad

Written by Dice

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Ready for a sacrifice? The Stone Table in Narnia is calling…
Image Courtesy of Concept Art from the Chronicles of Narnia

Here follows the final moments of Aldrick The Mad’s life written by his scribe, who had been ordered by Aldrick himself to watch from a hidden location and record all that he saw. The scribe was not entrusted with the knowledge of what Aldrick was attempting in the forest, gold was the penniless scribe’s only reason for being present.

“Yes, yes a sacrifice, poetic in your demand. I understand, I understand. Elven by birth, elven she is, eleven too, ha! That’s why I chose her, a little humour between us.

“No, no my lord, not a time for joke, time for joking is not now. Soon we will laugh though, soon in our victory… your victory, you will be the victorious one. Yes victory at last against your sister, our mother, the betrayer of our Lord.

“Betrayed you she did, like the mother of the sacrifice, she never bore a male of your line, honoured though she was with the strongest men your temples could find, she failed them all, but her daughter, she’s survived six years, more than most, but find her I did. She is found and will make a perfect key for your cell, won’t she hmm?”

Aldrick drags the young nameless girl in front of him and lifts the frightened child onto a large, yet cracked stone dais; the centrepiece to the clearing Aldrick now stands in. The clearing is a strange place with an unnerving feel to the air, even the trees surrounding the stone dais seem to grow and lean away from the clearing. As such, the ground is devoid of any life, the soil is dry and black with large cracks, as if the ground had been burnt. The four mercenaries Aldrick has hired to protect him ignore the situation, a couple even twiddle a coin to remind them it’s all about the money.

Tears stream down the gagged girl’s cheeks, and Aldrick ties her down. There are stone hands protruding from the edges of the stone dais as if  grasping for the ropes which tie down the sacrifice.

“Bring the knife, no, no, he disappeared, useless servant, never really useful, fun though, fun to order someone, others don’t listen. These do, these here. You, Mercenary, bring me a knife.” Continue reading →

Overton Poetry Prize Looking For Submissions, Your Chance To Be Published

Overton_Poetry_PrizeLoughborough University’s Bill Overton – an English professor who specialised in poetry – died in September 2012 after suffering from a long-term illness. In honour of his career, the university has set up the Overton Poetry Prize after raising funds through a special memorial fund. So why am I telling you all of this? Well, if you love writing poetry – and I know a lot of our readers/contributors do – then it’s your chance to be published. Amongst the judges is Sarah Jackson, winner of the Seamus Heaney Prize in 2013, who will undertake the final judging. Below you’ll find all the details for entry, plus if you’d like more information about the Overton Poetry Prize, please visit the link, here. Good luck!

  • Entry fee is £10 per submission
  • Submissions can be a sequence of poems on any subject (up to 300 lines)
  • Participants must be over 16-years-old
  • Competition is worldwide, but submissions must be in the English language
  • Closes on March 31st, 2014

Prizes

  • First prize is the publication of the winning sequence in chapbook form
  • Two runners-up prizes of £50 each

*All rights will remain with the author, but Loughborough University will retain the right to feature the winning poems on their website.

Dear Mister Nice Guy

mr_men_characters

Even Mr Men understand personality types.
Image Courtesy of Roger Hargreaves/Egmont

Written by Lockmaker

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Listener,
Mister Shoulder-to-cry-on,
Tell me shall I stamp your card here?

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Smile-at-her guy,
Mister Wipe-her-tears guy,
Tell me how many stamps do you need?

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Good guy,
Mister Sweet guy,
Tell me of the misdeeds
she commits with your stamps?

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Better-for-her guy,
Mister Cursing-her-for-not-seeing-your-worth guy,
Please hand in your stamp card.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Better-than-the-other guys,
Mister Worthy-through-his-deeds guy,
I hope you see the truth,
That there is no system of rewards.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Each deed does not amount to this prize of flesh,
This gilded dream of silver screens,
This right of deed,
And tarnished dreams.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Friend-zoned guy,
This cage does not exist of evil intent,
The creation of shadowed figures,
Of the striking of keys,
The entailment mistakenly believed.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Shall I stamp your card here?

Dear Mister Nice Guy is Lockmaker’s début piece here on Inkblots. Her poem was inspired by a casual conversation with a friend, evidently speaking of the many varieties of male personalities in the world. If you enjoy cynicism, then this piece is certainly for you. Maybe we’ll receive a response from our male readers entitled ‘Dear Miss Flirtatious Tease’, or something similar? If you enjoyed Lockmaker’s poem, feel free to leave her a ‘like’ or comment below.