Category Archives: Writings

General Petraeus: An #InappropriateElf

This is the story for my submission for the Baby Rabies Inappropriate Elf 2012 Contest. Voting starts on December 7th! I’m #27. If you enjoy this, please vote!!

Twas the month before Christmas, we welcomed to our house

An elf named Petraeus who was quite a louse.

He fell for his biographer, while she was making her edits

And then this general was betrayed by his privates.

elfbroadwell

Now we know why she called the book “Elf In.”

They had an affair, an illicit liaison

But now we know why she called the book “Elf In.”

He lost his CIA job and was out on his own

Until Santa found him and threw him a bone.

Santa took pity on Petraeus and brought him forth

To lead his elfen spies based far to the north. Continue reading

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Casual Blogger In Search Of Manic Pixie Dream Girl For End Of World

I have been told that there is no such thing as a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, that it is a  shallow construct of the entertainment industry created by a machine unable to create real character depth in less than three hours.

If that is the case, I will relax the requirement:
Casual Blogger In Search Of Dream Girl For End of World

But the same world that tells me that the MPDG does not exist also tells me that the end of the world is coming in 2012. How do I believe one and not the other? So whether the world ends in 2012, or in 9912, it would be nice to have someone by my side to watch the comet hit.

If you are a dream girl, you probably want to know something about me, and since I am a casual-not-prolific blogger, you won’t be able to glean too much about me from my blog.

I have been told I am too nice on several occasions, with different meanings embedded behind the words. I have been called nerd and geek much more frequently, sometimes as an insult, sometimes not. I hold to the words of Kierkegaard, though: “Once you label me, you negate me.” I hope you don’t feel dream girl is a label. I don’t want to negate you, either.

Some dream girls for benchmarking purposes: Rachel McAdams, Mandy Moore, Victoria from the Buttercup Bakery.

I am divorced and have an almost 10 year old son who is wonderful. You would probably fall in love with him before you fall in love with me.

I am a media junkie. In college, I was one class away from minoring in Pop Culture, but it required an additional semester, so I chose to graduate as an Advertising major/English writing minor, but I have maintained my amateur status in both. I often quote movies, songs, and television shows in addition to fathers of existentialism.

I am a man who, like Ted Mosby, gravitates to the grand gestures of blue french horns. I am the type of man who would say he would write you a poem every day. It would start on the first day with a well written sonnet in iambic pentameter. The second day would bring a fair attempt at a sestina. And then I would lose it and start writing bad haiku.

The haiku would probably be about zombies.

I have a good job, and I own my own house. The house is mostly a blank canvas – most of my effort has been trying to get the outside pretty (i.e. make the grass grow). If you have any DIY skills, it’s a bonus. Crafty girls (in the sense of Etsy, not the Beastie Boys) get bonus points, too.

If you need letters of reference from friends and ex-girlfriends, I can provide them on request. I just came out of a long-term long-distance relationship that ended fairly amicably. She is reading this blog right now, and think she would be happy to tell you about all the good things and the bad things about me.

If you’re intrigued by this blog, it’s probably best to not reply here. I can be shy and after I publish this, I’ll probably be embarrassed. You may want to just stalk me on Twitter or Facebook and flirt with me and pretend you never read it.

The first page

Some of you may know that for a while, I’ve been working on a novel. Recently, I haven’t been working on it much, but I want to. So I’m going to post the first page or two here. Please read it and let me know what you think in the comments. My writer friend Sarah teases me about it being “chick lit” which I suppose is true if any novel with a female lead can be considered chick lit. So feel free to tease me in the comments, too. 🙂 Comments are love.

Random Acts of Coffee

CHAPTER 1

            As I was getting ready for work, I knocked the fishbowl over. The water cascaded across the kitchen counter and down onto the floor, and my beta went with the flow. After I cleaned everything up and thought about it, I was surprised at my reaction, or lack thereof. My mind was on the things I had to do instead of the things I was doing, but I would have expected myself to give a little scream and rush over. Instead, I just stood there for a moment and watched it all happen. The weird thing was, you usually think of fish flopping around, unable to breathe. The beta just sat there, looking kind of bored, with his fins swept back. I just picked him up gingerly in my hands, put him back in his bowl, and filled it with a half-drunk bottle of Ethos I had in my fridge. Crisis averted.

            With plenty of time to spare before work, I left the house and headed out to the pier, and there, leaning against the rough hewn rails, looking out toward everywhere and holding the last letter from my last lover, I sipped my venti non-fat cinnamon latte and, as nonchalantly as possible, let the letter slip from my fingers. My eyes followed it as it fluttered down, but it was gone as soon as it hit the turbulence of the salty waves around the pylons of the pier. There was a feeling not unlike closure. The only accompanying thought that came to me at that moment wasn’t about him, or what happened. The only thought was to call myself “litterbug,” though I knew that, even as I silently spoke the word, the ink was bleeding and the paper was breaking down.

            In the spring, we didn’t have enough rain in Florida, and everything was brittle and dry, even though we’re on the ocean and the water table is so close to the surface, you can pretty much tap into it with a soda straw. With the drought conditions, there came a series of fires, burning forests and houses and closing down roads. A few of them were started by an arsonist who was throwing Molotov cocktails made from rags stuffed down the necks of bottles of bourbon, filled to the brim with gasoline. But one of the fires, probably the first fire, started when a girl burned a love letter in hiding. The flame leapt from letter to leaves, and was out of control before she was able to do anything. They didn’t press charges against her, and I was happy to hear that. You shouldn’t be punished for feeling passionate.

            I didn’t have that kind of passion, so my letter was down there in the deep, slowly dissolving instead of flaming out. I didn’t even have to go out of my way to destroy it. Routine brought me to the pier every time I worked a closing shift. I love the smell of the salt blowing in from the ocean, and the way it mingles with the sweet comfort of my coffee.

            I watched a cruise ship disappear into twilight shadows as the sun set at my back, and thought about those passengers on board, where they came from and where they were bound. I’d never been on a cruise, and wasn’t sure I would enjoy it, confined to the ship in tiny cabins, on the way to exotic tourist traps. But my thoughts, already mildly melancholic turned to envy as I thought how luxurious it must be to be pampered by the staff, also trapped on board with nothing to do but serve guests twelve hours a day. I was envious of just being on vacation at all.

            A chilling autumn breeze blew across my bare arms, bringing gooseflesh and a violent shiver, breaking me free from my thoughts before they became too wistful. I took a long, warming pull of coffee through the small travel lid hole and enjoyed my own personal piece of luxury – good coffee, the beach, and the orange glow of the sunset. Magic hour, I thought, the time when everything was lit as if from within. Tipping back the paper cup, I closed my eyes, taking in the last drops of the complex flavors of bitter, sweet, and spice as it spread across my tongue, the taste of a sunset in the fall.

            I slowly opened my eyes and braced myself against the rails and took one last long inhale of salt air before turning back toward land, then tossed my empty cup at the mesh metal trashcan to my left. It bounced of the rim and fell like a brick onto the boardwalk and began to roll away. I was able to grab it with an awkward lunge before it could blow into the ocean below. As I gently set the empty cup deep in the bin, I heard one of the fishermen.

            Smiling, I made eye contact, recognizing him as one of the regulars who cast their line into the waves below. I didn’t know his name, but could recognize him from the dirty white Dixie cup-style Navy hat he always wore cocked jauntily on his head. I shrugged a what-can-I-do look at him with a crooked half-smile.

            “You do me a favor, Shaquille?” the weatherworn man asked in his weatherworn voice.

            “What’s that?” I asked, still smiling, curious.

            “You have a great night.”

            I could feel my smile blossom along with the color on my cheek, and laughed. “You do the same, sailor.”

            The man chuckled back at me, eyes sparkling and mischievous, tickled by my reaction. He tipped his hat as I walked past him before turning back to his fishing. I walked past and smiled to myself at the brief exchange.

Poetry: Writer’s Block

This is a poem I wrote a long time ago, like when I was a teenager and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I like bits of it.

My pen writes with my blood
A dagger cutting the page
Poetry is like a flower bud
But my pen only writes my rage
My thoughts are thick like mud
Like the schemes of an evil mage
So I sit and chew my cud
And let blank paper age

Unused ideas getting moldy
Like wet and rotten hay
I curse the muses boldly
They’re absent anyway
Silent sprites haven’t told me
What I need to say
Eyes reflect darkness coldly
I keep my screams at bay

Against the desk, my pen, it taps
My foot, it does the same
New thoughts now within me lapse
Elude me in their game
Imagination in me naps
My writing hand is lame
I put on my pens their caps
My anger is now tame

Poetry: Stars Fall

I’ve had this poem written for years, and thought I’d posted it online, but I can’t find it anywhere, so here it is for you, dear readers, and Google searchers.

Stars Fall
by Matt Hoskins

Stars fall, far flung from highest heaven’s light;
Fated flight for all those below to see,
If above the rut’s edge they raise their sight,
And seek, incessantly, perchance to dream.
Stars fall, trailing feathers of phoenix fire;
Pathfinder’s trail for those who want to be
Offered upon the Promethean pyre,
Burn the emotion and suppress the scream.
Stars fall to fertile but still fallow fields,
Seeding the soil with starlight and heat,
Pregnant with promises of future yields,
Nourished, and nurtured; care given replete.
Stars fall, as angels do, with wingless grace
And falling, trace their fire upon us all
In brief moment passing, they fill the space
That is left hollow when we ourselves fall.
Stars fall with hope they will one day return
To brighten the dark skies and guide the lost
Wandering like Kwai Chang Caine, and burn
Down the bridges they have already crossed.
Stars fall, infrequently. Follow and find
Them as fast as you can. Hold on to them
Through the pain. The passion, return in kind.
The heat and pressure of it form the gem.
Stars fall when they hear the earth to them call
Inspiration to those under sky’s blue cowl
Counterpoint to knowledge they can’t know all
And comforting to know that
all
stars
fall.

 

Poetry Blog 3: 8/5/2009

Poetry’s Speakers
Write a short poem, and then write another from a different, perhaps opposing perspective.

The color draws me near
Not the red of the rose
But the yellow at the center
The first of the year.
Around me petals enclose
As I sample the nectar
The food I gather here
Will ease the woes
Of the brood after winter.

The brisk breeze carries a buzz
But I don’t know what it is
A sound I do not know
And then I found out what it was
The buzzing sound was his
I’m unable to speak “no.”
He does what he does
Taking from my anthers
Violated and left fallow.

Poetry blog: 7/30/2008

Today’s exercise is to write a poem about what it might feel like to walk on the moon and maybe look up at the earth. This is what I came up with:

Drastic steps to silence sibilant, strident sound,
Noisome noises, all the discord of the earth.
Across the soft dust into dark, I bound
Though bathed in light, the quiet is worth
1/6th it’s weight in gold. The missing round
And blue orb brings a smile of mirth.
The pinnacle of peace is finally found.