I realize this website hasn’t been updated in a long time, but here is my effort to change that. I’m in the market for a place where I can showcase my writing, so I’m going to see if this is the place for that. Probably. Who knows.
Over the summer, I signed up the for NYC Midnight’s Rhyming Story Challenge. The first round took place in October, and I had about a week for this one. The results came out on December 12th, and I’m happy to report that I advanced to round 2!
Since the first round is complete, I’d like to share what I submitted here. If you’ve spoken to me recently you’re probably aware of my recent obsession with sumo wrestling, so deciding what to write came pretty easily.
Here’s a brief explanation, just in case you didn’t click that link:
When the contest starts, writers are given a theme, genre, and emotion to include in their stories. It can be no more than a set amount of words, and must have a recognizable rhyming scheme. There’s no particular structure required or expected, but the rhymes have to sound good. To give myself some structure, I chose an 11/8/11/8 scheme.
This one took a couple of days, and it was pretty fun. The second round ran from Thursday night (12/14/2023) to Sunday evening (12/17/2023). If you’re a fool like me, and waited until Saturday night to finally check your email, you had all of Sunday to complete it!
In my defense, it’s been an extremely busy couple of weeks. I made it in with a minute and a half to spare, and once the competition runs its course I’ll share that here as well.
Here is my round one submission! I hope you enjoy it.
Theme: Competitive
Genre: Drama
Emotion: Delighted
The Rite of Giants
The men stare each other down across the ring, Two wrestlers wrapped tightly in silk. Their chests and bellies bare, their hair tied with string, Cheered by their fans and sumo ilk. One has thirty-five years, the other eighteen, But here, age doesn’t quite matter. Their clear, focused eyes meet in a place unseen, Hidden away from the chatter. The senior feels no threat from this encounter, But refuses complacency. Each match is the only match he must conquer, The truth of sumo’s legacy. Junior is in terror, his energy roars. His face doesn’t betray his heart, As they break gaze to retreat to their own corps, To be cleansed with water, to start. Fistfuls of salt are flung high into the air, To purify this ground of soil. They stomp and slap their bellies with a tough flair, To prepare for their unique toil. They hunker down on heels, again locking eyes. Silence falls as they brace, fists down. No one speaks. No one breathes. No one dares to rise. Quiet weight settles down around. They go at once, crashing together in brawn, Each vying for dominion. Arms reaching, searching, snatching, and pushing on, Muscles strain, seeking to pinion. Together they exist beyond thought and sense, Instinct and training guide the way. The senior commands the bout with strong offense, His stance unyielding to the sway. Junior is flailing, his whole might into play. Sweat pours as he endures the storm. Girding himself, he tries to pivot away, But he is restricted in form. Silk in his grasp, senior gathers last reserves, Power saved for a final thrust. A swift push hoists junior up and rattles his nerves, His feet kicking above the dust. Senior drives him hard toward the outer rim, Preparing a decisive shove. Junior’s mind is in blackness, his thoughts grow dim, But born instinct rises above. He bucks and twists, shoving weight at his rival, Summoning dark, primal power. His feet reclaim the ground, his fierce rush tidal, Battering against the tower. Taken by surprise, senior staggers backward, To weather the charging assault. His energy was drained, and so he staggered, An opening junior had sought. Time slows as they fall down through the open air, And senior seeks to recover. He stomps a foot behind in hopes of repair, But his limb can only hover. They collide into the ground, senior lands first, Youth is the victor for this bout. Due to the upset, there is a huge outburst, And cheers fill the theater throughout. Senior rises slowly, the shame starts to sting. The two move back to position, And bow to their contender across the ring, Obedient to tradition. The senior departs, walking nobly and tall, His aides loyally at his side. He halts at the exit, held by a mute call, A notion from an inner guide. He turns back and lays eyes on the young one’s face, Which is wrought in plain confusion. Junior falls on his heels and makes signs of grace, A rite of thanks and conclusion. After taking his prize, he lifts up his head, Confusion replaced with delight. With this joy in young eyes, senior’s shame is dead, As he recalls his own first fight. The memory of his first victory hits, A bitter nostalgia of glee. He steps back through the years and quickly submits To the bliss of past victory. He returns to the present, immersed in noise, and wipes at some sweat on his brow. Junior – no, a wrestler - stands with keen poise, And he keeps the legacy now.