Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 99
Sign: Capricorn
City: Los Angeles
State: California
Country: US
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01/29/07
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Thursday, August 21, 2008
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Poem for Karbon Organic Apparel
Category: Writing and Poetry
Poem for Karbon Organic Apparel
by Sarah M. Clinton
Hello Readers!
We're going to take a brief time out from our regularly scheduled contest announcements, flash fiction, and poetry posts to tell you about something we are very excited about!
Our Editor-In-Chief, Jared Vineyard, while hard at work trying to make J. D. Vine Publications a success has not neglected his own work - and managed to tie his J. D. Vine Publications interests into it too!
Follow the link below and take a look at the T-Shirts with a tiger on them . . . you'll see Jared Vineyard's work representing J. D. Vine Publications in style! While your there, check out the rest of Karbon Organic Apparel's site, especially if you like fashionable, comfortable clothes and the environment.
http://karbonorganic.com/women.html
"What was so exciting about writing a poem for one of Karbon Organic Apparel's shirts was knowing how dedicated this company is to making a positive impact on the clothing industry," Jared said. "They're unparalleled in their environmental awareness."
Good work, Jared! All of us here at J. D. Vine Publications are very proud to be represented in this way!
That's it from the grape vine . . . stay tuned for more blogs about upcoming contests and the book completion!
www.jdvine.com
1:54 PM
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Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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A Craven
Category: Writing and Poetry
Here's another response to our Raven Poetry Challenge by the Featured Poet of our upcoming book, The Creative Writer: First Night's Day & Musketeers of Oswego with other stories and poems. Get your poem inspired by Poe's classic in to us at www.jdvine.com/Blog.html!
A Craven
by Robert Buck
Belied below castle bailey, neath the plays of children gaily,
Echoes stretching labyrinth retching torture etching bitter stones,
I in tower daily keeping, dreaming dreadful dungeon weeping,
Listen hear them scratching creeping, creeping closer crunch my bones.
"What's that?!" A pool in doorway drool, seeping sooner soup my bones....
Bloody blends our marrow moans.
12:25 AM
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Monday, August 11, 2008
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The Raver
Category: Writing and Poetry
Here's a response we received to our Raven Poetry challenge! We hope you enjoy it as much as we do. Get your poem in based on Poe's classic and we'll post it as well! Send it to us at www.jdvine.com/Blog.html!
The Raver
by M.E.P.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over sentences and dialogues I'd edited before-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door-
"Some blame visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my bedroom door-
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in a warm September
And each separate family member rested quiet on their floor.
Tiredly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
To my manuscript a sorrow— sorrow I had writ before-
For a certain gray-eyed character I killed the page before.
(Nameless here for evermore.)
But the raucous loud erratic crackling of the radio's static
Thrilled me- filled me with a rankling loathing often felt before;
So that now, to still my beating angry pulse, I stood repeating,
"I've said visitors can't come this late at night inside my door-
When I'm writing I cannot stand people knocking at my door.
Tell them not to do it more."
Presently my temper shorted and my focused brow contorted.
"Sis," said I, "just this one time in a nice tone I will implore.
But the fact is I am writing, and that noise my mind is blighting,
And unless thou'd have me fighting, fighting who is at the door,
Tell him I don't want him in here"- here she opened wide the door-
Darkness there and nothing more.
Out into the hallway peering, for my quiet I was fearing,
Stairs on footsteps came in hearing and I tensely watched the door;
But my vision was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the sudden shout of "SCORE!"
As my sister kissed the radio and shouted loudly, "SCORE!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my writing turning, all my patience in me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said she, "surely that is brother coming for the status
Of the game. What makes me mad is that they're losing still once more-
Let me see if he's brought chips and soda for us both once more-
Yes, he did! He's at the door."
Open here she flung the hinging, promptly on my space impinging
In there sprang my little brother making noise enough for four.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
With no "if you please, m'lady," plopped he down beside my door-
Plopped he down with chips and soda just inside my chamber door-
Asking loudly, "What's the score?"
Then the lanky boy beguiling my impatience into smiling
By the goofy and disarming grinning countenance he wore,
"Sure thy presence is annoying, bro," I said, "which th'art enjoying,
But my thoughts of thee are cloying. Exit kindly out that door.
Tell me what the heck th'art doing in my room, then shut my door!"
Asked my brother, "What's the score?"
Much I marvelled this ungainly fool defying me so plainly,
In an answer full of meaning- full of relevancy sure;
Writers cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Should be cursed, while writing novels, with a guest upon the floor-
With a loud and raucous guest a-slurping soda on the floor,
Asking loudly, "What's the score?"
But my brother, undefeated, with a placid face repeated
Those three words, as if his soul into those words he did outpour.
Nothing farther those two uttered; for a moment neither fluttered
Till beneath my breath I muttered: "Maybe now they'll quiet more-
Maybe now the game is over and I'll write in peace once more."
Then again they shouted, "SCORE!"
Writhing at the stillness broken by reply so glibly spoken,
"Doubtless," thought I, "now he's heard the stats, he'll bother me no more,
Else with all the strength I master I will instigate Disaster:
Tumb'ling fast and tumb'ling faster down the stairs they will fall sore-
Or perhaps defenestration more appropriate would sore
Them for shouting at the score."
Then in noise they started riling and my face set hard unsmiling,
Straight I slammed my notebook shut and glared from Sis to Bro to door;
Then upon my pillows sinking, I betook myself to thinking
About stealthily unlinking cord from wall, to thus restore
Silent peacefulness sans radio- a blessed time restore
Than this constant "What's the score?"
With the din around me clashing, all my minty molars gnashing
At the foul relentless noise now burning to my gray cells' core;
Both my siblings glanced divining at my head in pain reclining
On my pillow's ink-stained lining- at my gloom glee-gloating o'er,
As I lay in suff'ring torment, my sad state they gloated o'er
Then turned back to hear their score.
Then, methought, the noise grew louder, like a big electric router
When it trims a board and sawdust sinks diaph'nous to the floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "no space I lent thee- when I've out the window sent thee,
Only then I'll gain nepenthe from thy ruckus and uproar!
Of thy noise and din repent thee, from thy grievous loud uproar!"
Asked my brother, "What's the score?"
"Hockey!" spat I, "thing of evil! Game invented by the deevil!-
Whether thy team wins, or whether ill luck casts them smashed ashore,
I myself am strictly doubting if it's worth this noisy shouting
That so fierce disrupts my routing of ideas- I implore-
Is there- could'st thou just get out of here? Thy kindness I implore!"
Asked my brother, "What's the score?"
"Hockey!" spat I, "thing of evil! -game invented by the deevil!
If you please, my dearest siblings, answer me one question more:
Tell this soul in anguished sorrow if possibly by tomorrow
You will then have ceased to borrow that nice space beside my door-
If by then I can have QUIET and no noise inside my door."
Asked my brother, "What's the score?"
"Be those thy words of parting, now get out!" I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back downstairs and get that can of soda off my floor!
Thy score has just been spoken and my shorted mind is smokin'!
Leave my solitude unbroken!- and make sure to shut the door!
Take thy noise from out my mind and take thy form outside my door!"
Asked my brother, "What's the score?"
And my brother, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
With his fizzy can of Pepsi just inside my chamber door;
All around me is the dinning of two kooks whose team is winning
And my mind is sorely spinning as I stare at chapter four;
And my thoughts from out that block developing on chapter four
Shall be lifted-nevermore!
10:00 AM
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Wednesday, August 06, 2008
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Poetry Challenge: The Raven
Category: Writing and Poetry
Poetry Challenge: The Raven
by Sarah M. Clinton
Hello Readers! J. D. Vine Publications would like to try a new interactive blog with you. This is a chance for you to experiment and grow in your poetry writing. Great poets study the art of poetry, trying different structures, rhyme schemes, and tools to enrich their own writing.
We encourage you to do just that!
Consider the poem, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Study the way Poe constructed this poem. Create a piece of your own using a similar rhyme scheme, alliteration, rhythm, etc. Then submit your poem to us at www.jdvine.com/Blog.html. Then we'll post your awesome new poem for everyone to read! This exercise is a great chance for you to challenge yourselves and grow as poets. We hope not only to enrich our blog and your experience as a reader, but to also continue in our mission of helping writers succeed. Make sure you submit a poem because if the response to this challenge is good, we'll continue to post challenges in the future! Our very own Editor-In-Chief, Jared Vineyard, has agreed to use one of his pieces as an example of what a response to this challenge might look like!
Eating On My Toast
by Jared Vineyard
I remember it quite clearly; after nine o' clock--or nearly--maybe ten o'clock at
most.
Sat I there--just me only--in the apartment, bright but lonely, chewing on
some toast.
No one for me ever calling; I wondered if I were appalling. Then a bug I saw
a crawling--crawling on my toast.
Wretched thing, t' was black and hairy; at first sight a might bit scary to see hairy
legs a crawling--crawling on my toast.
If not for chance, with one more bite; if I did not glance, I just might had extra
protein with my Toast!
I was jolted and I bolted--involuntarily revolted--to the kitchen with my toast.
I headed for the stove real quick and turned the dial just as quick and listened
to the click, click, click till fire flared beneath my toast.
The creature sprawling and quickly crawling, clinging and slinging to keep from
falling; avoiding its disastrous roast.
At my fingertip it nipped, pinching till its pinchers ripped my fleshy finger tip
and I dropped the toast.
Burning with a lustrous flare, I--just I--watched it there till the insect was a ghost.
Time of year, I can't remember, whether November or December,
But this I remember clearly, t' was after nine-or nearly-maybe ten o' clock at
most.
Sat I there--just me only--in the apartment, bright but lonely, looking at my
blackened toast.
The clock was tick, tick, ticking, tocking as I gently began rocking--
rocking with my blackened toast.
Then I began to cry and wished it were me to die at nine o' clock or ten at most.
For I truly was appalling. Who would ever come a calling? What a horrible host
to turn my only guest to ghost stead of sharing my now blackened,
crispy toast!
That's it from the grape vine! We at J. D. Vine Publications look forward to reading your newest poetry submissions! And don't forget to enter our regular competitions for the chance to be published and receive a cash prize!
4:59 PM
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Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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Blackout
Category: Writing and Poetry
Here's a piece of Flash Fiction submitted by the Featured Poet of J. D. Vine Publications' upcoming book, The Creative Writer: The First Night's Day & Musketeers of Oswego with other stories and poems.
Definitely an interesting story; let us know what you think.
Blackout
by Robert Buck
Daniel came to with his bloody hands staring up at him. He looked around dreading what surreal circumstances would behold this week's delirious déjà vu. He was in his car. It was . . . 5:05. Why was it so dark? Must be morning. Where did the blood come from? He examined what he could reach of himself: legs, arms, shoulders, stomach, chest, neck, face and head; checking for bumps, gashes, moisture, any irregularities of any kind. He felt none the worse for wear save another mild attack of amnesia and he wasn't bleeding anywhere. Whose blood was it?!
Daniel tried to remember the events of the day. He met the guys after work for a quick TGIF pitcher at "The Doll House". . . . and now. He looked in the back for clues; same old junk. He was bothered briefly by the awareness that he never had really considered anything other than his cockpit as relevant, all else was simply repository for what was done or saved for later. How could he think so trivially at a time like this? Shut up! He was too foggy for any further contemplation anyhow. He decided to get out and inspect his car. The handle was gone. He groped the floor and surfaced with a slender, silver opener. . . . more blood. Now what? It began to rain.
Get out of the car, he reminded himself! He reached across the porous cover for the shotgun door. It was locked! He forgot, or had he ever known, how things worked. What was that? Something . . . rustling . . . growling? He repositioned and looked in the rearview mirror. Whatever it was, it was not casually preening out in the open for his perusal. Duh! Was it within or without? His breath froze! He sweated eyes, ears, nose, and teeth; a beast lurked near, ready to relieve his predicament. Panting silence. . . .
To hell with this; being eaten is better than waiting for it! Get out of the car, NOW! Maybe he would have more options (he had nothing specific in his muddled mind) if he turned the key on accessory. He had had trouble with the ignition for . . . gosh . . . a long time. He had to wiggle the key to make it work. Sometimes it tumbled like a charm, other times it would take several minutes of robotic tremors. Now where was the stupid key? Glory be, it was in the ignition! In a split second he solved the puzzle. He had gotten sleepy and pulled off on the shoulder to . . . pass out. Yes, that's it. His explanation made only partial sense but it was good enough for his urgent mood.
Daniel poised himself and his means to freedom. Slowly he turned, feeling for that familiar tightness where he would have to begin his special maneuver (this time he would hold his mouth right). He heard a recognizable grinding; the engine was already running! Without a mull he clutched low and smoked rubber! He felt a sticking strain. Only then did he look up to see if he could see where he was going. Daniel yowled and his face contorted! He looked like the figure in the painting "The Scream". There was a demon on his car, whipping and thrashing grotesquely! The fiend was moving methodically around, beating passenger windows and it would soon be slashing pilot's glass with its spiraling dreads! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!"
Katie Faye Yorkie wagged by him and smothered Cindy with slobbery kisses of relief. Cindy to Katie: "Did you have fun at 'Watch-em-Wash' with your daddy?" Cindy to Daniel: "Your car looks better honey, at least on the outside (sadistic laugh). It's been a long time. Are you going to burn some burgers after you finish painting Amber's 'Little Red Wagon'? Remember, the game is at seven." Daniel to the gawping air: "Aaaaaaaaa, ooooooooo, yeeeesssss." Then to Cindy: "Do you still have that AA guy's number?" (Twenty-four hours lost forever in bottles and cans littering the backseat of his mind.)
End
1:51 PM
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Friday, July 11, 2008
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Write Writers!
Category: Writing and Poetry
Write Writers!
by Sarah M. Clinton
Hello Readers!
I think the following quote captures the topic of this blog quite nicely.
"I try to sit down at the typewriter four times a day, even if it's only five minutes, and write three sentences." --Roger Zelazny
To me, this means that the best way to become a great writer is to write. It's important, as an artist, to sit down and work hard on your art at least a little bit every day. What you write may not be the best you've done--you may just not be in the mood for it. But the more you stretch those muscles the better they work. And imagine how much writing you would get done if you sat down four times every single day and wrote--Or even just once a day!
Keep writing!
We at J. D. Vine Publications would like to reach out to all of you poets and fiction writers out there and encourage you to enter the current competition. Quality writing can be hard to find. If you're a writer who has taken the time to write and develop great works of fiction or poetry, you have a great shot of being published in an upcoming Creative Writer anthology! Submit your work quickly at www.jdvine.com! The deadline for submissions is September 30th 2008!
That's it from the grape vine! Have a great weekend and we hope to hear from you soon - wither via entries into the competition or the Flash Fiction contest!
4:28 PM
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Wednesday, July 09, 2008
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March Madness
Category: Writing and Poetry
Here's a piece of Flash Fiction for you to enjoy! If you want your Flash Fiction to appear in our blog, submit it at www.jdvine.com/Blog
MARCH MADNESS
by Sally O'Quinn
When the whistling stopped, Dan knew the marching would begin. It had been this way every night for a week now. Loud, even thuds on the ceiling, the rhythmic pace always following the same course. Down the south side of the room for about 10 feet, then a sharp turn to the right for six feet where the marching went from thuds to clatters as the carpeted bedroom in the apartment above him joined the tile of the bathroom floor.
He knew this because all the apartments in this building had the same layout. This was the B building, and in B building, everyone's apartment looked pretty much like his. His friend Walter lived in A building, where the floor plans were reversed, but that really has nothing to do with this story. It's just that all sorts of information was marching through Dan's head right now, marching to the same rhythm as the determined foot soldier above him.
He turned up the volume on his television and tried to concentrate on an episode of "Seinfeld". It was a good one. Jerry and George were riding in a limousine, and the driver thought they were Neo-Nazis. He was taking them to Madison Square Garden to make a speech to a crowd of other Neo-Nazis. Boy, were they sweating, trying to get out of this mess…
The marching above Dan changed course, moving diagonally toward the kitchen, where more tile amplified the sound. The whistling had been revived, some off-key tune he didn't recognize, and occasionally a few words were sung. It sounded German.
On the television, Elaine and Kramer were standing on a street corner, waiting for Jerry and George to pick them up in the limousine. Dan usually got a good laugh or two from this episode, but tonight it was impossible to concentrate on what was being said. His hand tapped the arm of the recliner to the beat of the stamping feet above, and his anger began to build.
What right did this jerk have to interrupt someone's life every single night with his jack-booted insanity? Didn't he realize there was someone living below him, someone who might not appreciate the damned marching and whistling? Maybe this guy really was a Nazi! Dan had never met the occupant of the apartment above, and, for all he knew, this guy could be some Skinhead or Aryan Supremacist. That would explain the German gibberish he was sure he'd been hearing in those moments when the marching subsided.
He turned off the television. Sorry, Jerry, but some anti-Semite neighbor of mine doesn't want me watching your show. Dan decided it was time for a confrontation.
On the way to the elevator, he began composing the speech he would deliver to this hateful, thoughtless individual who probably lived alone in his apartment, surrounded by pictures of the Fuehrer. He wondered if it might even be an old German war criminal, hiding out here in the building with his memories of the glory that was the Third Reich.
I don't care how old he is, Dan thought to himself. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind and maybe even a punch in the face. Satisfaction "uber alles", that's what I'm talking about!
The elevator doors opened and he made his way down the hallway to the apartment directly above his own. Gathering his anger along with his courage, he knocked loudly on the door. The marching stopped as a woman's voice called out in German.
What's this? Was Eva Braun in there, too?
After a moment, the door was opened by a very pretty blonde woman in a bathrobe. She was definitely too young to be Eva.
"Hello," she said. "Are you from the cable company?" Her eyes were clear blue and her cheeks dimpled slightly when she spoke.
"No, I…I'm… your neighbor from downstairs," Dan stammered. "I heard…I've been hearing…marching…" his voice trailed off weakly as he stared into her lovely Teutonic face. Sorry, Jerry, I would have been no good to you at Nuremburg.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "That's just my son, Henning. He gets bored. Our cable has been out for over a week now, and I'm having trouble getting anyone in here to fix it."
As she said this, the foot soldier himself appeared at his mother's side. He was about eight years old, dark-haired and pale, and he wore a toy gun on his belt. Dan decided he wasn't going to punch him after all.
"Has your husband looked at the cable box?" he asked, "Sometimes if you just mess with the box a little, it comes back on."
"I am divorced," the woman said. "My husband went back to Munich, and it is just the two of us now." Her accent was adorable. No wonder Hitler fell for Eva.
"My name's Dan," he said, offering his hand to the woman. "Maybe I can help figure out the problem."
"I am Brigitta," she smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile.
Henning stared without a word. There was something about the kid that was a little creepy. He wasn't Eichmann, though he might be one day. Today he was just part of the package that included the lovely Brigitta, and Dan was tired of watching Seinfeld reruns alone.
"Which way's your television?" he asked as he walked bravely into Eva's bunker.
3:25 PM
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Friday, June 27, 2008
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Flash Fiction Returns!
Category: Writing and Poetry
Flash Fiction Returns!
by Sarah M. Clinton
Hello Everyone!
Now that I'm back, I'd like to see a little more interaction from our blog readers. To that end, we're bringing back the Flash Fiction Contest!
For those of you who are new to the blog, the Flash Fiction Contest is simple and FREE. Submit a piece of flash fiction at www.JDVine.com/Blog.html. We'll pick stories we like and post them in our blog!
This is FLASH FICTION, so the stories shouldn't be too long -- probably about 500 to 1000 words; although, if it's a great piece and a little long, we may still choose to post it!
This is a great way to get your name out into the writing community. Include information about where our readers can see more of your writing and we'll include that in the blog too!
That's it from the Grape Vine! We look forward to seeing your flash fiction soon!
1:30 PM
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Thursday, June 26, 2008
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Sarah’s Back!
Category: Writing and Poetry
SARAH'S BACK!
by Sarah M. Clinton
Hello Readers!
I'm back and so excited to see what's changed while I was gone . . . and what brilliant new pieces of writing you've submitted to J. D. Vine Publications!
For those of you who are new to the blog, my name is Sarah. I've been on a bit of an extended leave of absence (thank you Jared!) and am now back (Yay!) and ready to get into the swing of things -- and ready to give everyone information about the new and exciting things J. D. Vine Publications has been working on!
The editing of the third book of The Creative Writer series is well underway! Jared seems to be very pleased with the progress. He also is very excited about the newest competition!
The entry fee for a piece of fiction is $5, with the prize being the title of "Featured Author" for the fifth volume of The Creative Writer and $150.00!
There is no entry fee for the poetry competition; however, we're so excited to see great poetry that we're offering the title of "Featured Poet" and a cash prize of $50.00 to the winner!
Polish up those pieces of writing folks and submit them for possible publication or even the winning title!
That's it from the Grape Vine . . . stay tuned for more exciting updates! Like who the finalists of the fourth set of competitions will be!
www.jdvine.com
1:14 PM
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Monday, June 02, 2008
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Competitions Now Open!
Category: Writing and Poetry
Competitions Now Open!
I hope your fiction and poetry is ready because the 5th Creative Writer Fiction and Poetry Competitions are now open!
The winner of the 5th Creative Writer Fiction Competition will become the Featured Author of the 5th book in The Creative Writer series! That means the winner's story will be the cover story of the book and the first to appear in the compilation! This winner will also receive a cash prize of $150.00! There is still only a $5 entry fee for the fiction competition.
The 5th Creative Writer Poetry Competition is FREE! The winner becomes the Featured Poet of the 5th book of The Creative Writer series and wins $50.00!
The finalists in both competitions will also be published! Get your work in to us today!
To enter these contests, go to www.jdvine.com!
The third book of The Creative Writer series is in the editing process right now while we're judging the great works of fiction and poetry that were entered in the fourth set of competitions.
12:34 AM
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