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Thread: January Challenge: "Control"

  1. #1

    January Challenge: "Control"

    The prompt for this month's challenge, as chosen by jenthepen is: Control

    You are free to interpret the prompt in any way you wish, though of course, site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board. Please note that all entries are eligible to receive critique in the voting thread.

    As previously announced, anonymous entries have been abolished, therefore, entrants must post their own entries in this thread, or if you desire to protect first rights, please post your entry in the workshop thread, and then post a link to it here in the public thread. Failure to do so runs the risk of your entry being disqualified, so if you require assistance with the task, please PM me, and I will gladly help you.

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    Kindly make sure your entry is properly formatted and error free before you submit. You have a
    ten minute grace period to edit your piece, but anything edited after that will likely see your entry excluded from the challenge.

    Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussion related to the challenge can take place in the Bards' Bistro.

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    This challenge will close on the 15th of January at 7pm EST.

  2. #2


    Domination (Disturbing imagery, Mature subject, language)

    Grab that bitch by the throat-
    Squeeze hard-
    and wait...
    until you see the fear
    in her eyes-

    Only then---
    will you have
    complete control-

    All her lies
    and filth
    will be washed away-

    Her fate...
    is now in your hands-

    Tame that
    wild beast
    into submission-
    We need to feast
    on her flesh
    and revel in her

    Don’t let me down
    my son...
    subjugation and humiliation
    are all that’s left
    in the devil’s troth-

    ©Robert F. Callaci All rights reserved.
    Nature weeps, the devil sings
    at mans greed and pride
    and what it brings

    Just lots of useless
    little things

  3. #3

    Peace Seeker

    Let me leave the way I wish
    give me this one last gift
    let me have some control
    may God have mercy on my soul

    Let me choose how I want to die
    let me decide when to say goodbye
    when I am ready I will know
    may God have mercy on my soul

    For my final sin I am willing to pay
    the price for throwing my life away
    this is one thing I will control
    may God have mercy on my soul

    Let me find the peace I seek
    from the secrets I dare not speak
    just say goodbye and let me go
    may God have mercy on my soul

    Now the dark has turned to light
    I found peace a beautiful sight
    I finally have control
    and God had mercy on my soul
    The wishbone will never replace the backbone { Will Henry}

    If you are a writer, reach a reader
    If you are a fighter, teach a leader
    If you are a lover, touch a leper
    If this has helped you, thank you, reader

    If you can read this, teach a thinker

    Author: Lynn Loschky

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  4. #4
    I am in with The Perfect Now. Short I know!
    Mildly dyslexic - Oops may occur, do occur.

    “Let's think the unthinkable, let's do the undoable. Let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.”
    -- Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

    "Failure? There's no such thing as failure, only early attempts at success."
    -- The Love Guru

    "It's not worth doing something unless you were doing something that someone, somewere, would much rather you weren't doing."
    --Terry Pratchett

  5. #5
    Captain in the Army

    March on, march on, soldiers of tin,
    in uniforms bright as breath.
    Wave your little banners,
    Clutch your pretty muskets,
    on and on into Death.

    “Happiness is the only virtue,”
    my mother once told me.
    So I penned crooked smiles
    on all of their faces,

    March on!
    March on, merry and bright!
    Blood is our joy,
    You, all my toys,
    Will please your captain tonight!

    Sedona, my love, my dear, my doll,
    pour us a glass of wine,
    A toast to the boys of the 77th,
    A toast to everyone
    and all that is mine.

    “Hold fast to what belongs to you,”
    my father once sagely said.
    So I gathered a company:
    follow me anywhere!

    March on!
    March on, merry and bright!
    Blood is our joy,
    You, all my toys,
    Will please your captain tonight!
    "So long is the way to the unknown, long is the way we have come. . ." ~ Turisas, Five Hundred and One

    "[An artist is] an idiot babbling through town. . .crying, 'Dreams, dreams for sale! Two for a kopek, two for a song; if you won't buy them, just take them for free!'" ~ Michael O' Brien,
    Sophia House

    Christ is risen from the dead,
    trampling on Death by death,
    And on those in the tombs,
    lavishing light.

  6. #6

    Coddling the Warden (Mature Content)

    Deeming me unfit,
    with a flush you offered
    my tiny gold shackle
    to the sewer rats
    years ago,
    but the digit still peels
    shedding flesh like tears.
    What an ingenious way
    to brand your prisoner.

    Our barred windows
    have the housing inspector's
    greedy paw

    begging for grease again.
    I wonder if you'll remit
    or resort to brick
    denying me the sunlight
    sullied by striped shadow
    that assures me
    the world still exists.

    Your key violates the padlock
    and I jump to attention,
    waiting for inspection,
    ready to pipe up
    "Prisoner number one
    reporting for orders, sir!",
    as number two
    resumes her shrieking
    from the basement.

    Just a corner crack whore
    incarcerated without a rite;
    she's no hope of a gold shackle,
    but still bound to wear your brand.
    Singing the chorus of Disco Inferno,
    you stoke the fire
    and then simply stare
    until the poker assumes the shades
    of an African sunset.

    "Bath then dinner!" you bark
    before descending the stairs.
    I lean upon the wall
    toeing an idle phone jack,
    making a note to dust it
    before it results in attack,
    when the screams
    of a million demons
    come barreling from below
    and a hint of singed skin
    seasons the breeze.

    Shocked into action
    I bustle to the bathroom
    to entreat the tap to exact
    the perfect temperature,
    then hustle to the kitchen
    to guard the roast.
    Bloody rare is a must
    or I'll be treated
    to another piercing

    by a needle dressed in rust.

    Wih prisoner two's pitiful pleas
    thwarted by super glue,
    silence abounds.
    I arrange your plates with a smug smile,
    almost slaphappy
    at the new inmate's induction.
    Perhaps she'll replace me
    as your prized plaything.

    I pull out your chair
    as you run twisted fingers
    through still damp hair.
    I place a napkin upon your lap,
    and then curtsy with care
    so as not to bare scars.

    With bowed head, I giddily whisper,
    "So good of you to throw a party
    most wonderful Warden,
    it's a joy to have some company."
    and I spy a glint of gloat
    in the flint of your eyes.

    I offer you a bite
    with a silver fork
    so far beneath your grasp
    as a dirty little ditty
    bounces about my brain:

    Please spare her the boneyard
    beneath the basement floor,
    unlike the whores
    who came before,
    dear Lord,
    let this one be a keeper.

  7. #7

    Self Control

    When she made her entrance
    I opened the door
    to feelings straight from the soul.

    Though my senses were reeling
    my mind wasn't sure.
    “Are you receiving, control?”

    Yet, we became lovers
    to share with each other,
    she wanted a flat, a cat and a pup.

    But more than that,
    a role as a mother.
    “Hello control, you're breaking up!”

    So, I buttoned my lip
    as I let things slip
    'til she was aware of my doubt.

    Then, leaving me there
    with nothing to share.
    “Control receiving – over and out.”

  8. #8

    The trial of Mathilda Crump.

    Mathilda Crump, a fiery lass
    had found herself in need of cash
    but lack of any expertise
    made new employers ill at ease.
    A skivvy for a cruel man,
    the only job that came to hand.

    Her portly boss, Sylvester Tadd
    was always screaming, always mad.
    “That's not the way! No, not like that!
    Do it again, you useless brat!”
    He bawled at her both day and night,
    nothing she did was ever right!

    One day she finally saw red
    and grabbed the knife they used for bread.
    She thrust it deep into his chest
    and watched the blood soak through his vest.
    She waited until death was sure,
    then called the long arm of the law.

    Of course, they hauled her off to court
    to face the wrath that justice sought.
    The case was short, her guilt was clear,
    her temper would now cost her dear.
    She mentioned how, in mitigation,
    Tadd dealt out humiliation.

    The judge had pity for her plight
    and mentioned that it was not right
    for anyone to claim control
    over another living soul.
    “However, jail is justified,
    since justice must be satisfied.

    “We all must retain self-control
    and make good judgement our main goal.
    Although the court here understands,
    you can't take law into your hands.
    Report abuse and any strife,
    don't try to solve it with a knife!”

    Mathilda looked around the court
    and curtseyed as she had been taught.
    “Your worship is quite right,” she sighed,
    “my guilt can never be denied.
    I guess,” she said, eyes to the ground,
    “I let that boss Tadd grind me down!”

    The judge smiled at the way she spoke,
    he liked repentant common folk.
    “I'm pleased,” he said, “that at this time,
    you see the folly of your crime,
    how your impetuosity
    gave rise to gross ferocity.”

    “Oh yes,” she cried, her voice was strong,
    “I see now, sir, where I went wrong.
    I lost control. I was a fool.
    I should have let my temper cool.
    If I had planned, I could have tried
    to make it look like suicide!”
    Life makes more sense if you don't take it personally.

    My Poems

  9. #9

  10. #10
    [untitled - January]

    hand-waving my sock

    reaching out to the forum
    to pat my own back
    A twice-weekly programming blog
    Infield Singles: Baseball Poems
    A weekly menu for a family of four
    Eclectica: Genre Poetry

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