The Writers’ Dream

Back is hurting, ass is sweaty, tired of hunching, always pressing,

Got to get back on my feet got to get those words to seep –

Through my fingers, from my pen, to the desktop, repeat again.

How many drafts does one book take, how much perfection do readers crave?

Doesn’t matter, I don’t care, I know one day it will get there.

Perseverance? That is shit. Try to spend one year like this.

Learn to get up when you’re damper, know each word from front to backwards.

See description and how it lies, find out what meets readers’ eyes.

For it is not the talk of bees, nor the words that make you pleased.

What readers want is not so much, just to read and feel a rush.

To stimulate the modern mind, without much pictures in faster times,

To do the work of talking grand is indeed one dumb-ass of a plan.

They did not come here just to see the mind of yours and learn you’re deep.

They came instead to just relax, to grab a book and eat a snack.

To keep them going for one night, to let them think your book reads right.

Get them thinking it’s a treat, get them wondering why ‘Jack leaps’.

Raise a question, submit the answer, in the middle fill with banter.

Do this once and you’ll achieve, fulfillment of the writers’ dream.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Price of Penalization

She bundled herself up under the blankets. “I don’t want to do it. Please let me leave.”

“Stephanie,” he said. “You pay the consequences if you don’t. He gave you the role, now hold up your end.”

“I didn’t know what he meant!” she said, rubbing a small fist into her eye. “I thought it was a joke. He shouldn’t have laughed if it wasn’t a joke.”

“Well it’s too late. Harry’s waiting outside. You’ll never get a part again if you back out. This is your life, your dream.”

“Exactly. It’s my life. My dream. My decision.”

He scoffed as he set his hands to his hips. “You realize he’s not gonna let you walk without a fight, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, as long as you know.” He exited the trailer.

She opened the blanket just enough to make sure. The knife was still there.

Harry entered the room, and undid his belt-buckle. “Alright, you agreed to this.”

“I asked to be an actress, not a whore.”

“One in the same baby doll.” He laughed, unzipped his jeans, and dropped them to his ankles. “Open wide.”

She smiled.

“What?”

“That’s what they’ll be saying to you from now on.”

“Huh?”

She pulled out the knife, squeezed his dick with one hand, and sliced it off with the knife in the other.

– Thomas M. Watt