Competition Ends 5th December 2021 6:35pm

Christmas Crime

Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
Forum Posts: 191

Poetry Contest

Your poem or short story must also include 1) a pipe 2) a box of chocolates and 3) either a syringe or a small calibre gun.
Your subission must be either a poem between 30 and 50 lines OR a short story between 500 and 1,000 words.  Good luck.  Have fun.

Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
Forum Posts: 191

Christmas crime

Packaged happiness
Being promoted and sold everywhere.
Radio jingles, television and internet advertisements
Trees and houses already decked, decorated
Almost a month ahead.
On the Main, ladies and gents walking by
Lovely smiles, holding each other by the arm, by the hands.
Holding packages, boxes, all wrapped in
Colorful papers by the Elves at the mall.
Rounding the corner and walking by the parc,
Another sort of reality
As a young couple was in their own world,
A world of syringes, pipes and crack.
He saw but he did not see.
His world was of joy, colorful ribbons.
Nutcrackers and delicacies
Provided by a family of which he was part
But to which he knew he did not belong.
The pressure to succeed
The pressure he could no longer take
A pressure which gave him constant headhaches.
It is as he passed in front
Of the ''Choc-O-La !'' factory and saw
The huge box of belgian chocolates
That he decided to go in and purchase it.
The light weight of the gift-wrapped box
Felt  quite different from that
Of the cold steel of the gun in his left pocket.
As he resumed his walk along this grand avenue
He saw the usual Salvation Army person
Ringing the bell and seeking donations.
He  walked by an old lady sitting on a blanket
On the sidewalk by the toy store,
Gave her the box of chocolate...
''Merry Christmas'' he said,
Took the gun out of his pocket
And put  a bullet through his head.
Written by robert43041 (Viking)
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Fire of Insight
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Joined 17th Sep 2020
Forum Posts: 110

Christmas Triolet X 4

There is no silent holy night    
the song of Xmas rings out false          
just rattling tills at shopping sites          
there is no silent holy night.         
Traffic noise reaches dreadful heights        
from shopping site to shopping malls,          
there is no silent holy night        
the song of Xmas rings out false.          
The Minster choir sings Christmas hymns          
stirring this dead stone holy hall          
raising voices in praise of Him          
the Minster choir sings Christmas hymns.          
The congregation moved to sing          
here I sit utter nought at all,        
the Minster choir sings Christmas hymns          
stirring this dead stone holy hall.          
Mum's box of chocolates leave her stunned,
she's dieting! (I've a brave Pa,)
for his crime, meerschaum pipe, oh, crumbs,
Mum's box of chocolates leave her stunned.
Wow! I've a Diana air-gun!
small Caliber, yah! Hoorah!
Mum's box of chocolates leave her stunned 
she's dieting!  (I've a brave Pa)
When my parents were above ground          
magic bells rang those Christmas nights          
carol singers sang lovely sounds          
when my parents were above ground          
until the silent night crashed down          
and killed the fairies and their lights        
when my parents were above ground          
magic bells rang those Christmas nights.
Written by Insiderew (Rew)
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Twisted Dreamer
United States
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Joined 9th May 2020
Forum Posts: 42

Christmas Crime (Or That Time My Old Man Straight Murdered My Mom Over Some Bullshit)

Twas a dark and sad December
When my mother was dismembered
By our father, for some unkind words she said
It was snowing, I remember
Mistletoe and chimney embers
And the hollow eyes from mommy’s severed head

He lit his pipe after a while
And laid his back upon the tiles
Of our bathroom with a belt around his arm
Then he nodded off and smiled
And we gathered single file
To watch as daddy dearest bought the farm

The police gave us some chocolates
Which melted in our pockets
And they shipped us off to live in Aberdeen
Now when I sleep I cannot block it
Or rip those memories from my sockets
It’s syringes and it’s corpses when I dream

Shit’s wild, right?

So when folks be like “yo, Jermaine, I’m tweaking”
“Yo Jermaine,
Can yah spare some of your Xanax?”
My response is always gonna be something along the lines of…
“You broke ass fool, don’t you know my daddy chopped my mama’s head off when I was a little kid??
You think it’s easy to relax after something like that happens?
News flash- it ain’t. So unless you paying me 4x the street value for them pills- step off before I take offense.”

Miss you dad…
Every day,
Every single day…
Written by Jermainesplain
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Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
Forum Posts: 191

I do hope  that one day you get to write something without the words shit or fuck in them.

Twisted Dreamer
United Kingdom
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Joined 4th Oct 2021
Forum Posts: 38

The Poison Bride

When the famous poetess passed out in her mashed potatoes on Christmas Eve, 1978, her husband rolled his eyes and her two children carried on glumly chewing. It was a semi-regular performance, the passing out act. George wondered how he'd ended up marrying the silly bitch.

Once on a literary tour, they'd been besieged by girls who seemed to regard him with envy for having such unfettered access to their mentally unstable idol. He'd happily switch places with any of them, or the middle-aged sad-sack men who worried at her ankles at luncheons. Two years ago she'd had a brief affair with an English teacher. To George's dismay, she came back to him.

A minute passed and the kids, whose expressions these days were normally blank, started to look nervous. Amelia Porter might have been a dab hand at a sonnet, but she still needed oxygen. George had another glass of mulled wine. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd learned to breathe through her ears.

Another minute passed. He sighed, plonked down his glass, pushed back his chair, and hauled his wife out of the mash. Normally he'd have seen her eyes darting up and down in a process she called "lamp-lighting".

This time, though, her eyes were still. Wide-open, too. Just two rings of hazel brown enclosing black pupils. 'Shit' muttered George, and let her fall back in the potatoes.

The police arrived not long after. The surviving family was gathered in the living room, fairy lights blinking on and off as last year's Doctor Who Christmas special played on the Ferguson color TV. George stared at his children, whom he'd allowed to share a box of chocolates. The chocolates were a traditional gift from their mother, to be eaten just before bed on Christmas Eve, to give them sweet dreams. Nora was eight and David ten.

In years past his arguments with Amelia had been loud and brutal. The last time they'd fought like that, she'd come at him with a kitchen knife and he'd punched her in the face, as hard as he would have a man.

'Has your wife attempted suicide before?' asked the lead detective. George laughed. He couldn't help it. He'd been taken into the kitchen while a social worker stayed with the kids. 'I'm sorry' he said. 'It's just that my wife was very unstable. She last tried to kill herself six months ago. I was half-expecting to come downstairs Christmas morning and find that she'd stuck her head in the oven with the turkey.'

'You sound very flippant. If you don't mind me saying.'

George looked towards the living room. He lit his pipe and watched as Nora took a strawberry cream from the box. Her mother's favourite. 'There hasn't been much love between us for a long time.'

'And lo, my husband comes
with bloody arrows in his hands.
The tribal drums
cry out across the sands.'

'Poetry fan, officer?' George was glaring at the detective now. He just smiled. 'Not really' he said. 'But my wife is. She's got a signed edition of The Housewife's Guide to Infidelity, the one with the pistol and wedding rings on the cover.'

'I commissioned that cover' said George, smiling a little himself now. He remembered that he'd been his wife's editor for twenty years, since the late '50s, and how when she'd walked into his office he'd thought she was a secretary. 'I can certainly type' she said, with that sly smile he'd found so irresistibly erotic. 'But I type poems, not memos.'

'The gun we used was her father's' said George. 'Small-caliber service pistol. The one he shot himself with.'

A constable came in and handed the detective a small plastic baggie, with a vial in it. He whispered something to the detective, who turned to George. 'It looks like she did it with this' he said. George stared at it and mumbled something. 'What was that, sir?'

George was turning pale. He rushed to his study and brought back the proof of his wife's upcoming book. The detective saw that the bottle in the baggie was also on the cover, below the title: The Poison Bride. 'That seals it, then' he said.

'Wait a minute' said George, flipping through the book until he reached a certain page. He read aloud.

'She gathers up her young
and takes them with her, in a dream.
The medicine will bring
them, in a boat of strawberry cream.'

George ran to the living room and the detective followed. They arrived just as the social worker started screaming. David looked on in shock, with chocolate on his lips, as his sister started writhing on the floor.
Written by Casted_Runes (Turpin)
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Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
Forum Posts: 191

Excellent one. Thanks for submitting.   Regards,, Robert.

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