Goofycabal

Burnt Offerings The Papier-mâché statue. Wind blown, stoic. Watch him stand guard. His painted eyes gauge everyone's hearts. He makes the feeble cower. Makes the braggarts puff their chests. This sacrificial guardian awaits his destiny of ashes and flame. Patient. You envy him. The drummers wake. Leaping heel-toe-heel-toe, a primal stalk before their instruments. Your ears pulse to the rumble of stick-on-taught-drum skin. Your heart matches pace. Bass drum pounding drowns its smaller brethren, a quickening of rate. Drummers frenzy, their whirling sticks merge with the night air. Invisible. You feel their drumbeats in your gut. A

People often ask how I became such a successful author. I laugh, and tell them it was inevitable. But then they ask: “Well, how did you do it?” I simply stare at them. Wild eyed. Really make them squirm. It’s best when I don’t blink. If that fails to scare them off, I’ll be forced to sigh and actually offer them advice. Something along the lines of: Step 1: Get plenty of rest before you start writing. About 18 hours straight should suffice. If you have trouble getting to sleep, a few glasses of bourbon are likely to be beneficial. Step 2: Use your dreams as inspiration. However, be careful how you word the stor

A world of stories waits to be told. So can you tell me how to get,                        how to get to        Inspiration Street? A writer’s gaze should never tire Like Sauron’s       eye                          up                          in                          its                       tower Listen with your eyes Listen with your eyes And write everything you see. I can see a rainbow:        Where does it start                                or end? Bent through the air - a pot of gold? An enemy’s heart? Curved from a prism - an enigma? A turd? Don’t look before you        leap. Cats have nin

She throws herself open begging my contribution. Invites the hand strokes I make clasped right-handed. At her worst, she glares at me. Blank. Brooding. Intimidating. Cold. My companion in art she takes what I give she grabs it tight. My receptacle. My resource. When I am without her, my hand lingers      alone. When I return she leaves me      impotent. If don’t feed her attention      when the urge strikes she doesn’t want it later on. She dominates my soul. A bondage I can’t function without. She’s only satisfied when I give her my heart. I fill her up, she drains me dry. She gives me nothing, but my o