Author: Kiki Writes

Rumored to be a writer. Never hip. Land of Lincoln Cleavage Queen three years running.

Poem–“Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

We’re half-way through National Poetry Month. Are you feeling the burn? Don’t worry. You’re doing great. And this poem is a fun one. It answers a question writers get all the time.

I don’t think you’ll like my answer, though.

***

Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?

I want to say my mind is a prism,
that it fractures the light of reality
into a rainbow, creates a palette
I paint with to please the masses.

In actuality, my mind is a kitchen sink drain
that I clean out now and then
and save the best bits of gunk
to make a meal no one eats.

Poem–“Let’s Eat”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

National Poetry Month continues, and so does the onslaught of my bad poetry. Let’s have some fun with a poem that would have folks loudly declaring that the shoe doesn’t fit if they read it.

Good thing nobody’s read it.

***

Let’s Eat

Men are vegetarian dogs.
They like to chew on skinny things-
matchsticks, toothpicks,
meatless bones
picked clean by high standards.
A man is finicky about his meal.

Women, though, women like to dine,
feast, indulge in the banquet
laid before them, the tastes,
the textures, the variety, the flavors
washing over their tongues, savoring.
A woman is not a picky eater.

Poem–“This Is a Bad Poem”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

It’s National Poetry Month, my yearly excuse to inflict my terrible poetry on your delicate sensibilities, a weekly barrage of cringe-worthy attempts at art.

I hope you like abuse.

***

This Is a Bad Poem

This is a bad poem.
First and foremost it doesn’t rhyme,
except by accident one time.
Secondly, it doesn’t use enough devices.
It lacks metaphors like a drought lacks rain.
It has all the symbolism of an anvil
dropped from a great height
onto a cartoon character
who never saw it coming
despite the music.
Lastly, it took me only ten minutes to write it
and five minutes to edit it.
Fifteen minutes too many because
this is a bad poem.

Read This If–You Wanna Like Poetry

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National Poetry Month is coming up and I want you to be prepared by reading some good poetry before I inflict my bad poetry on you.

Yes, I know. You don’t really like poetry. Well, this isn’t English class and we’re not picking apart sonnets to understand iambic pentameter and symbolism. We’re reading for our own enjoyment and our own experience. Let the poems speak to you on whatever level they find you one. You’ll be surprised how much you can get from them there.

The Breakbeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop, edited by Kevin Coval, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Nate Marshall- This is the first of The Breakbeat Poets anthologies which include Black Girl Magic, Halal If You Hear Me, and LatiNext. I will one day acquire them all. Until then, let’s talk about this one. It features 78 poets born between 1961 and 1999 writing about the experience of existence in the moment.

If the thought of poetry only conjures up memories of dead white folks with dusty rhyme schemes about love and nature, this is going to be refreshing, as these poets redefine what poetry means. I particularly like the visual aspect of Douglas Kearney’s poetry, for example. But every poet brings something special to the page, and the hip-hop flavor is undeniable. It’s so good.

Black Queer Hoe by Britteney Black Rose Kapri- Isn’t that title to die for? Tackling questions of identity, sexuality, and power, these poems pull no punches in their exploration and reclamation. The slim volume of poetry is packed with honesty, emotion, and humor. Some of it’s downright raw, but it’s all unapologetic, and I love that. It doesn’t flinch.

“Queer enough” hits me where I live. “reasons imma Hoe” and “before they can use it against you” speak to me on a soul level. The poems are short, but pack one hell of a punch. And the tweets are a sweet bonus. It’s a fab read.

Citizen Illegal by José Olivarez- Another slim volume, it packs within its pages and poems reflections on race, ethnicity, immigrants, and racism. Latinx lives and Chicago scenes come alive. It’s honest and funny and emotional.

The title poem “(Citizen)(Illegal)” sets the perfect tone. “You Get Fat When You’re In Love” sings to me. And I love “Mexican Heaven”. Yes, all of them. You’ll have to read the book to know what I’m talking about. And you should definitely read the book.

It’s worth noting that Britteney Black Rose Kapri and José Olivarez are both contributors to The Breakbeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop. It’s also worth noting that all three of these poetry books are available at Haymarket Books.

If you ever wanna learn to like poetry, start with one of these. If they don’t make you like it, well, go back to Shel Silverstein and never stop looking for that poetry joy.

I Am an Intimidation Tactic

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I am the library witch.

I don’t know know when it happened, but sometime in the last almost five years of employment I became the library clerk to be feared.

People whisper not to cross me or I’ll hex them. I’m talked about like a punishment, a threat. “This is Christin. She’s our cudgel.” I am the threat of blunt force trauma in snazzy pants and funky tights and cute dresses. We joke about the ghosts of librarians past, but I’m the one that actually haunts the library. I skulk through the stacks, looking for children to scare and patrons to frighten. Coworkers to bully.

I am more feared than an ’80s slasher villain no matter their body count and how many times they come back from the dead.

I am a curse.

And I have no idea what to make of it. Because I’ve been this way for a long time. I can’t say forever because I wasn’t like this when I was a kid. I was shy and sensitive and incredibly weird. I admit that I’ve always been an angry little thing and prone to fighting and that did give me a little bit of a reputation. Turned out to stick with me even though the only person I fought in high school was my sister, who also had a bit of a reputation as someone not to cross. One of our friends whom we’d known since childhood once said that everyone wanted to be our friend because nobody wanted to be on our bad side.

Okay, maybe I have always been this way. It just had to mature along with me, refine itself into this raven that sits on my shoulder, alerting everyone to my potential.

I seem to haunt every place I go. If there’s a group dynamic, I unintentionally establish myself as the imminent danger.

I think it’s in part because I do not suffer fools. I come from a family of non-fool sufferers, which was rough when I was young and a fool because I was not suffered. Now I’m the one who is not doing any suffering. I do not have time for ignorant nonsense. Has customer service exacerbated this aspect of my personality? Absolutely. There’s a prevalence of fools in this line of work and I will not suffer a single one. That makes an impression. Even when I’m not trying to give that impression, it’s so infused in my aura that I still make that impression. More than once I’ve been told that when people first meet me they’re intimidated. While I appreciate that power, it’s not the default the vibe I’m going for.

Most people want to be liked. Life is easier when you’re liked. I don’t think about being liked. I tend to assume that I’m not liked. I’m tolerated. It’s better to be on my good side than my bad. “Don’t make Christin angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.” And you wouldn’t. I’m less than fun when I’m angry at you (I am hilarious, though, if I’m ranting about something that has nothing to do with you). So, when I find out that people actually like me, it confuses me. Surely, you jest. Did you miss the memo? The vibes? The aura? The warnings?

Or did you figure that befriending the monster would keep you safe? And once you did, you realized that she really isn’t that bad.

As long as you stay on my good side.

I Never Go Out Alone…Anxiety Is My Forever Date

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’m not the most social creature. I’m like a cryptid. Sightings of me in the wild are rare and to be treasured, sometimes worthy of being caught on film.

When I do make these rare excursions into the social sphere, I prefer to go with others. Also like a cryptid, I’m weird and awkward around humans. Having a friend or a group of friends makes that awkwardness and weirdness less noticeable. It also makes it easier for me to be in a social situation. Having someone else or a group of someone elses with me acts as sort of a buffer from the anxiety of being in a social situation. They are the lubricant that greases the wheels of my social interactions, as it were.

Sometimes, though, I have to fly solo. Or maybe just arrive solo with the intent of meeting up with my lubricants and buffers. But either/or, I’m never really solo. My anxiety is always with me.

Here’s the thing: Alone or with friends, if I’m out and about in a social situation, I never feel like I belong. I always feel awkward and I feel like that awkwardness is apparent. I feel like the people I’m interacting with -even friends I’ve known for decades- can plainly see that I’m poorly cosplaying as a functioning human being. Now, with the friends I’ve known for ages, I eventually relax and even though my anxiety never goes away and I will absolutely rake myself over the coals later about everything I’ve said and done, my anxiety at least relaxes with me for that moment. But, if I’m with people I’m less comfortable with because maybe I haven’t known them as long or I don’t hang out with them as much, or I’m flying solo and forced to be in the midst of people I barely know or don’t know at all, I never relax and neither does my anxiety. I spend the entire time in performance mode, and that my friends, is exhausting.

In theory, the more that I socialize, the more comfortable my anxiety could become with the whole act of socializing. The more my anxiety and I feel comfortable with socializing, the more we’ll feel like we belong in those situations and with those people.

In practice, however…well, I don’t know how it works out in practice because I struggle with getting past my basic cryptid nature and ingrained social anxiety to actually put this into practice. The idea of making myself more available to hang out with people seems like guaranteed rejection because who would want to voluntarily hangout with an anxiety-ridden cryptid? Sure, I would, but that’s because cryptids of a feather. Or another more fitting cryptid feature. I guess it depends on the cryptid. My point is that it’s a pretty big ask to associate with me in a public, social situation and not everyone is up for that and I don’t blame them.

Yes, I know that could just be my anxiety talking, but it could also be true.

In conclusion, this is one of those things that I’m going to spend my existence working on. Maybe one day the practice will finally prove the theory. In the meantime, enjoy the cryptid sightings.

Holy Shit, I Haven’t Published Anything in Five Years

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You may have noticed that the latest release on the site hasn’t changed in a while. A little over five years, actually. I had this realization late one night while my brain was doing its mental gymnastics before it finally shut up and let me sleep.

Holy shit, I haven’t published anything in five years.

It should go without saying that I’m not counting the freebies here or the Patreon projects I’ve done. I’m talking about self-publishing or in the very rare case traditional publishing. Haven’t published a damn thing in five years.

There was a period of time between 2013 and 2019 that I had something published at least once a year, and in many case, multiple things. Those were the boon years, I suppose. I had a ton of ideas, a ton of projects, a ton of time and dedication to getting things written, revised, polished, and published for the masses.

Now, by no means was I successful. I think my best-selling title has sold a little over 500 copies in its entire existence. But I was productive. I always had something going. I felt like as long as I kept churning out stories, something would eventually catch. I’d build that mythological platform that agents and publishers look for and I’d be able to take the next step in my writing career.

Instead, the bottom fell out.

Writing became hard. The ideas dried up. I shifted focus to just getting through Murderville for Patreon because everything was so difficult. I had nothing going. Nothing to publish. It all dried up. I think unconsciously I decided that I was done. Not necessarily writing because I don’t know how to be done writing even when it’s hard. But I was done publishing. I was never going to write anything that anyone would want to read and it was too hard to write anything for myself that I’d want anyone to read for a price. I was just kinda done.

Then by some miracle writing stopped being hard.

But the urge to publish hasn’t exactly returned. At least it’s not exactly like it used to be.

While I am looking to get back into the game and reacquaint myself with the business of submitting short stories while also keeping my eyes open for agents that might be a good fit for me if I ever manage to finish a book that wouldn’t be a waste of their time to read, the drive to be focused on producing and publishing as much as possible hasn’t returned. That frantic urge that pushed me to publish multiple novellas and short story collections in a year is nowhere to be found. And honestly, I’m kind of glad for that.

It’s been nice to write without it feeling like I’m sucking out my own bone marrow with a crazy straw. I want to enjoy it. And I want to take my time reintroducing myself to getting published, be it traditionally or self-done. Why be balls to the wall when I don’t have to be? There’s plenty of time for me to go full-tilt when I’m ready.

So I guess that latest release will just remain unchanged.

For now.

Flash Fiction–“The Children’s Floor”

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It’s Leap Day and since February is extended by one day, let’s do another little bit of a flash fiction.

And by little bit of flash fiction, I mean a 100 word story. Until I was inspired by yet another contest, I’d never considered writing a story so short. It proved to be a wonderful challenge.

Of course, I didn’t win the contest, but I did gain a new story skill.

The Children’s Floor

It was the way the library was designed. That was the problem. The way sound ricocheted around the building, showed up in unexpected places. That’s why Alice hated working the second floor, the children’s floor. She only had to cover an occasional hour here and there, but those always seemed to be the dead hours when there were no children or parents or anyone else. Only her.

Alice and the voices.

The ghostly conversations, disembodied voices asking questions, stifled giggles mocking her unease.

That’s what she hated about the children’s floor.

Alice would never know if it was really haunted.

Flash Fiction– “Haunted House”

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Since February is the shortest month -even during a leap year- it seems fitting to take advantage of that and post some flash fiction.

This is a 500 word story that I initially wrote during a NaNoWriMo while doing several pieces to make my 50,000 word count. The first draft was twice as long and not working. A 500 word story contest inspired me to cut it in half and I was much happier with it.

I lost the contest, but I gained a story.

Haunted House

She’s hiding behind a desk in a room. Not under it. She doesn’t want to get trapped. Under it, she would be trapped. Behind it, she can jump and run. And she can keep an eye on the door, peering over the ruined wood as she kneels on cracked and crackling tile.

He’s hunkered down in the room across the hall. She can’t see him even though the door is ajar. There’s only a little bit of light in the hallway. Everything is in black and white. The only color is the writing on the wall, the drippy numbers that mean nothing to her. The big blue three looms over her.

She doesn’t know him. She snuck in on a dare. He was already inside. But now they’re both in this together, a sacred pact of bad decisions.

It’s quiet. All she hears is her own breathing.

And footsteps. Echoing. Closer.

She wants to cry. Instead, she ducks down and holds her breath, afraid he’ll hear her breathe.

Can he hear her heart pound?

She nearly bolts when she hears a door squeak open. Nearly. It’s not her door. It’s his. The door to the room across the hall where her friend in poor life choices is hiding.

She risks a peek and sees the monster they’re hiding from disappear inside, tall and grimy, with filthy hair stringing down his back, his soiled wifebeater somehow stark in the scant light.

He’s in there now. He’s in there with him.

She risks a breath, afraid it’ll turn into a scream. She hopes to whatever God might be around that the monster doesn’t find him.

She should run before the monster finds her.

Vague sounds of movement. A muffled scramble.

The reverberation of a crack!thud gags her. The body of the friend she never knew falls through the door, his balding head now a bloody mash on one side. The unblemished side smacks the tile, causing another ripple of nausea. He lies there, his head and shoulders in the hallway, the rest of him swallowed into the darkness of the room he’d been hiding in.

She stares in horror because what else can she do? The worst has already happened, right?

Another muffled noise from across the hall and then the fresh corpse is jerked into the darkness of the room.

Adrenaline floods her body.

Now she’s running.

She’s out from behind the desk and into the hallway before she allows herself to process that she’s moving, her footfalls giving her away as she pounds down the busted tile in search of freedom in the dim maze.

The echoes become a stampede.

He’s right behind her, he’s gaining, and she can’t remember how to get out.

She can’t get out.

Her last thought in life isn’t a fear-driven plea for escape. It isn’t even panicked.

It’s the calm answer to the question that caused her to sneak inside in the first place.

“So, that’s why the haunted house corpses look so real.”

Read This If–Love Is in the Air

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There are a lot of tropes in genre fiction and naturally, the romance genre has a ton.

One that I’ve discovered that I enjoy is the forbidden romance. Not the “I can’t be with you because I have hang-ups” kind of forbidden, but the “We absolutely cannot be together because outside reasons” forbidden.

These two books are on the opposite ends of the spice scale and their outside obstacles are wildly different, but their forbiddenness satisfies my thirst for the trope.

Love at 350° by Lisa Peers- On the very mild end of the spice scale, we have love during a TV baking contest. Tori Moore is a high school chemistry teacher with dreams of opening her own bakery. With an empty nest looming, her twins get her an audition on American Bake-o-Rama, where she meets Kendra Campbell, the notoriously tough judge, who’s going through her own life upheaval. It takes no time for the two of them to develop heart eyes for each other, but there’s a clause in the contract about fraternizing that would cost them both dearly.

This is a very sweet story and due to the nature of the contract, the romance is a very hands-off slow burn. I realize that doesn’t sound like it would be too entertaining, but it is. In part because there’s a lot of story going on around the romance. Tori’s facing a huge life change as a divorced woman with her twins leaving for college and the prospect of leaving a job she loves for the dream she craves and winning the contest would be her springboard. Meanwhile, Kendra is facing the closure of her beloved restaurant while dealing with her business manager brother’s matchmaking.

And then there’s the competition itself, which is very much like The Great British Bake-off with the likeable contestants you’re sad to see leave. But this show has a little more drama including secrets and sabotage.

The book also includes a recipe for paper bag apple pie. Who doesn’t love pie? (Don’t answer that.)

Mistakes Were Made by Meryl Wilsner- And on the absolute other end of the spice spectrum, we have a May-December romance with one big complication. Cassie Klein uses Family Weekend at college to go off-campus and ends up landing a very hot one-night stand with an older woman…who turns out to be the mom of one of her best friends at school. Oops! Erin Bennett wasn’t meaning to hook-up with a college student when she went to visit her daughter at school and she definitely didn’t mean for it to be her daughter’s friend.

Things get complicated when Parker brings Cassie home for the holidays. Cassie and Erin find that any hope of keeping their hands off each other impossible and start hooking up on the sly. The complications get even more complicated when the super hot sex sprouts genuine feelings.

What I like is that Erin and Cassie have lives and relationships outside of this burning, horny passion. Cassie has school and friend drama beyond keeping it from Parker that she’s hooking up with her mom. Meanwhile, Erin’s faced with keeping this secret from Parker while also battling her ex for her daughter’s attention.

It’s a whole lot of messy and a whole lot of good. And the sex is really, really hot.

If you give these forbidden romances a try, I hope find them irresistible. And if you don’t, keep it a secret.