Tag Archives: poem

BHA’s free-to-enter Pig Latin Flash/Poetry Contest

So a lot of you seem intrigued by the contest, judging by the traffic on the Pig Latin contest page. But not enough writers are submitting.

It could be that you’re all a bunch of procrastinatin’ scribblers, or it could be you feel that $20 dollars (the prize for the winning entry) doesn’t go a long way in today’s economy. If the latter is the case, then allow me to point out a few things you could purchase with this kind of money. They include, but are not limited to:

a vending machine smorgasbord, 5 happy meals, a slightly broken television, a night in a hostel, and this

 

* If you are keen on any of these exciting possibilities, here’s a refresher on the rules:

Write a humorous poem or flash fiction in Pig Latin. Try not to exceed 250 words (we will consider anything under 500 words, though). Submission deadline is on Sunday, August 31st.

Contest is free to enter.

Here’s a handy how-to-write Pig Latin guide in case anyone needs a refresher.

Best poem/flash will be published on Back Hair Advocate.

We’ll also send the winner a crisp $20 dollar bill in the mail.

Send entries to backhairadvocate@outlook.com.

Have fun.

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Sad Person’s Club by Ian Starttoday

The Sad Person’s Club meets once a week

in a cramped church basement

It doesn’t matter why you’re sad

It could be divorce it could be the death of a loved one it could be the supermarket no longer stocks your favorite kind of frozen yogurt

We make an effort not to judge

 

There was a woman named Shelly once who was really distraught about tomatoes

When we asked her to elaborate

she told us to back off

and flashed her teeth

That was weird

 

But it’s up to you whether you want to talk

or not talk

The only rule we have is that you be sad

If you smile even once

perpetually mopey-faced Bruce will escort you to the door

and then you leave

 

One of our longest running members

once got a call mid-meeting

that his daughter had been born

Bruce came to him

wished him congratulations

but informed him that he had to leave this instant

 

Halfway to the door the man became very gloomy about having to leave

and told us so

We’re not monsters

so he was invited to stay

 

Then two of our members admitted

they were feeling very happy about this man’s good fortune at having brought a healthy baby into the world

and they were asked to leave

 

It was all very complicated

and not particularly sad

which is our business.

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PIG LATIN POETRY/FLASH FICTION CONTEST — Deadline extended!

piglatin

We’re pushing back the submission deadline for Back Hair Advocate’s free-to-enter Pig Latin Poetry/Flash Contest all the way to August 31. We need more submissions than we have now to actually be able to refer to it as a “contest.”

As a refresher, here are the details…

Write a humorous poem or flash fiction in Pig Latin. Try not to exceed 250 words (as long as its under 500 words, we will accept it, though).

Here’s a handy how-to-write Pig Latin guide in case anyone needs a refresher.

Best poem/flash will be published here on the Back Hair Advocate website.

We’ll also send the winner a crisp $20 dollar bill in the mail.

Send entries to backhairadvocate@outlook.com. Costs nothing to enter the contest.

Have fun.

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Love Poem by Ian Starttoday

I wrote a poem

and every line

is another reason why I love you

why you’re the only one

why I’ll never take you for granted

and why I’ll never hurt you again

 

except for the last line,

that’s a grocery list of the things

I’d like you to pick up

after we’ve kissed and made up.

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two poems by Rich Boucher

Entendre

Her eyes widened,
and she gasped
as I entered her

cubicle.

 

If Only

If I had a job driving my own ice cream truck,
I’d paint the thing jet fucking black
with an airbrushed execution scene on the sides
and the little loudspeaker up top
would blast Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades”
as I drove through the neighborhood,
vending my delicious ice cream.

Actually, forget about the ice cream,
you know?

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Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He has published four chapbooks of poetry and once hosted a poetry slam series in Newark, Delaware. Since moving to Albuquerque in 2008, Rich has performed all over the Duke City, served two terms as a member of the Albuquerque Poet Laureate Program’s Selection Committee, and is currently a member of the 2014 Albuquerque City Slam Team. His poems have appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, Apeiron Review, The Broadkill Review, Menacing Hedge and The Legendary, among others, and he has work forthcoming in the Write Bloody Publishing anthology MultiVerse, due out in the fall of 2014.

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Mango Salad by Stephen Mander

A man came into the post office today and asked for a chai latte. I said we didn’t have any. He didn’t believe me.

Are you sure? he said.

I said, look around. We sell envelopes, cards, boxes, jiffy bags. This is a post office, not a coffee shop.

He looked at the shelves then at the exchange rate board behind me and said: but I don’t need envelopes or anything like that. I need a coffee. A chai latte preferably. Why wouldn’t you sell them?

I said, because this is a post office. Post offices don’t generally sell coffee. It’s not what they’re for.

He looked confused, but you’re a shop, aren’t you? You sell things.

I said, yes, we are, and we do sell things. Just not coffee. You’re welcome to put it in the suggestion box, though, and I pointed at it.

He followed my finger there and back and said, you’re joking, right? This is a joke, yeah? Is there a camera around or something? Are we being filmed? Yeah, yeah, very funny. Okay, I get it. Now, can I have my latte?

I said, sorry, sir, this is not a joke. We don’t sell latte. The cafe up the road does, but we don’t. Why don’t you go there? It’s not so far.

He said, but I’m here. I came here. You were open. You were a shop. You must have latte. Some kind of coffee, at least.

I said, look, how many times have I got to tell you? We do not sell coffee. If anyone’s on some prank TV show, it’s you. Now, can you stop wasting my time? There are other customers for me to see.

The man turned around. The queue had been building. He said, but you need to deal with me first.

I said, I have. Next.

The woman behind him stepped forward. The man moved out of the way. I ignored him, smiled at the woman and said, what can I do for you?

She got a list out of her bag.

Mangoes, she said. Unripe ones. I’m making a salad.

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Stephen Mander is originally from Liverpool in the UK, but has lived and worked in Japan, Australia, Hungary, Slovakia, and Syria. He currently lives in Vietnam.

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The Comeback by Catherine Weiss

When he returned to Earth last spring
our Lord Jesus
did indeed make the rounds
of the talk-show circuit.

His talking points were
dealing with an omnipotent
father figure,
the hiatus,
and next moves.

@TheRealJC even attracted
more followers than
Justin Bieber.
Totes populaire.

Unfortunately, the Son of God’s
music career never
did take off.

Sorry Jesus, nobody
listens to ska anymore.

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Catherine Weiss is a poet and author living in Northampton, MA. She has been published in Drunk Monkeys, port.man.teau., Linguistic Erosion, Melancholy Hyperbole, and Red River Review. Her website is http://catherineweiss.com.

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The Movie Endings Ruiners Club by Rich Dodgin

Keith knew he should be enjoying the film, but he couldn’t relax. His mouth was dry and his hands felt clammy. He couldn’t believe they were really going to do this.

They’d planned this out to the finest detail and had practiced and practiced what they were going to say, so he should’ve been prepared. But sitting in the darkness of Screen 1 surrounded by hundreds of strangers made the whole thing a lot more nerve wracking than he’d expected.

It was another one of those stupid ideas that they seemed to come up with when the three of them got drunk together. “The Movie Endings Ruiners Club,” Dave had said in drunken glee. “We go to the cinema and halfway through the movie we loudly announce the ending of the film. Then we leg it.” This had been at 2am when they were incredibly drunk, and they’d all laughed and thought it brilliant.

Now, a couple of evenings later and sober, Keith wasn’t so sure. He could sense the people around him, and the fact that he and the others were going to deliberately fuck this film up for them suddenly seemed a lot less funny.

Next to him, Paul seemed equally nervous as they waited for the agree moment to arrive. He fidgeted and shifted in his seat like a dog with fleas.

“Sit still for fucks sake!” hissed Dave. “Remember what we agreed. We’re in this together. No chickening out. Ok?”

On screen, the mother of the young boy was complaining to another parent about some perceived mistreatment or other. It would soon be time. Keith felt his stomach tighten in anticipation. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. We’re really going to do this, Keith thought. Shit.

“Ready?” asked Dave in a voice loud enough that they could all hear him above the sound of the film.

They mumbled their replies, and Keith focused on the on screen action. Here we go.

“Three,” chanted Dave, as the three of them stood up slowly, “two, one!”

And they all shouted loudly in unison, “BRUCE – WILLIS – IS – A – GHOST!” before racing for the door, laughing and yelling at the rush of it all.

******

Despite his disbelief at what they’d done, Keith had to admit that it was one hell of a buzz and enthusiastically agreed to do it again.

Over the next couple of weeks they managed a few more successful film-ruining sessions, each time getting the rush of adrenaline as they ran away laughing at the insanity of what they were doing.

But they soon found it was harder to get away with. The cinemas had received complaints from some filmgoers and had been given descriptions of Keith, Dave, and Paul. In the end, their local multiplex told them they were banned and that the police would be called if they ever returned.

*****

Which is where Keith thought it would’ve ended.

But somehow the story made the local and then the national press, and before long there were copycat Movie Endings Ruiners Clubs popping up all over the country.

Within a couple of months it got to the point where you couldn’t go to the cinema without someone ruining the plot halfway through. The cinemas were losing money due to declining audience numbers and the numbers of refunds they were paying out to complaining patrons.

The Daily Mail started a campaign demanding something be done and blaming the three lads from Edinburgh as the cause of it all.

As a result they became minor celebrities for a couple of months and even appeared on a few television and radio shows. Keith found he was recognised wherever he went. Most people were friendly towards him, but some of those who’d had their film going experiences spoiled were quite confrontational.

He was therefore relieved when the cinemas finally hit on the idea of having audiences wear earphones to listen to the films. The problem gradually faded away and so did the public interest.

******

A few months later Keith and some friends were in a busy bar chatting with a group of female students they’d just met.

Keith was getting on particularly well with a dark-haired girl called Julie. She was attractive, intelligent, laughed at his jokes, and there was a natural spark between the two of them. This could be the start of something special, he thought.

Which was when one of his friends interrupted their conversation to tell Julie, “You do realize that is the Keith Forsey you’re talking to — don’t you?”

Julie frowned. “From the Movie Endings Ruiners Club?”

Keith glared at his friend, and then nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, that was me.”

“God. For a while I hated you and your idiot friends. Every time I went to see something at the cinema some moron ruined the ending.

Keith groaned. “What can I say? It was a stupid idea that got out of hand.”

Julie laughed. “Don’t worry. The last time it happened I was on a terrible first date, watching an awful film with some guy I realized I couldn’t stand. It was a godsend when some jerk stood up and told everyone what was going to happen. We all asked for our money back, and I got to make my excuses and go home. So thank you.”

“Wow, I think that’s the first time anyone has every thanked me for ruining a movie ending,” said Keith, beaming as he did.

*****

Later, when it was obvious that the interest was mutual and the two began discussing possible first dates, Keith half-jokingly suggested the movies.

“No thanks,” Julie said sweetly, “I think I’d sooner commit seppuku than be caught in a movie theatre with you. No offense.”

“Fair enough,” said Keith, giggling.

They went for a romantic dinner instead.

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Rich Dodgin is an Edinburgh-based fiction writer and music journalist. Visit him online at http://www.richdodgin.com/.

 

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Call for Submissions

Back Hair Advocate wants your submissions. We’re looking for humor, but what we truly want is great writing.

And one more thing — we’d like Back Hair Advocate to start putting out stories that take more of a nontraditional structure. So think letters, email correspondence, wedding announcements, personals, missed connections, math word problems, whatever really. We’re still going to publish stories with a traditional format, but we’d love to get some diversity in this area.

We can’t wait to see what you come up with, folks.

— Ian Starttoday

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Skippy Goes Sailing by Gary Moshimer

I coughed a little. Some bloody fluid sloshed in the rubber tube coming from my chest.

Outside my door some doctor was ranting. He was looking for the patient in the room across from mine.

“She’s in X-ray,” the nurse told him.

“It’s Friday,” he said. “I have to get out of here. The holiday.”

He was acting like an ass, and I didn’t like the looks of him. He was an ugly fuck. Big everything– feet, nose, ears. I decided he looked like a clown. I decided his name should be ‘Skippy.’

I’d just had some pain medicine. I was blameless.

I called out to him. “Hey, Skippy.”

He ignored me. He tapped his clipboard impatiently.

“YO, SKIPPY!”

He cocked his fat head and looked in at me. “Excuse me?”

“You know where I’ll be for the holiday, Skippy? And that lady? We’ll be right here.”

He shook his head and turned his back to me. The nurse, Angie, made a dimple at me. I loved her, she was so cute.

“Where are you going, Skippy? Country club? Or do you have a big boat for those big feet? Skippy goin’ sailing?”

He mumbled something to Angie and she gently closed my door.

After a bit I saw him from my window. I watched him heading for the parking lot, his lab coat slung over his shoulder. I waited for him to reach his BMW or his Mercedes or one of those cars with the doors that open up like wings. But he just kept walking, past the lot, out into the street. He stood on the sidewalk, looking both ways. He crossed the street and kept going. The white of his coat finally disappeared. I pictured him going into a bar, or visiting a prostitute, or going to his luxury apartment overlooking the water and dressing up in his clown outfit and dancing in front of a mirror, all by himself. I saw him drinking from a bottle and tweaking his ruffled collar and running in his floppy shoes and throwing himself off his balcony because he was that unhappy. My automatic blood pressure cuff turned on, and the reading was twenty points closer to normal.

I watched the horizon over the bridge. The sun was setting. It was beautiful. A cloud bank had a slice out of it and some of the sunset leaked through and it was the same color as the stuff in my tube. I coughed. I felt better, I really did.

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Gary Moshimer has stories in Smokelong Quarterly, Jersey Devil Press, Pank, Frigg, Cease, Cows, and many other places.

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