Taking a chance or two...

I doubt it'll do much. Why waste your time? It's better left to the coming darkness. That's what voices resonating in my head tell me. You ever heard them? I do all the time...

Sure, those prizes sure look good--$1,000 here, $3,000 there, and always, there's the ever-elusive and perfunctory word so cherished by the wannabe world of aspirants--Publication. With a capital P.

So I try today, as I have for the last few days now, entering a few words in the contests those writer magazines all the time advertise. Of course, that ever-elusive "Publication" I so long for? Most of it's in crap even I've never heard of, much less any of my biker buddies. Won't even know if they run it, to be perfectly honest, not without them telling me they did, anyway. Not like I'll ever run across a couple browsing a newsstand someplace, that's for sure.

Still, despite it all, something in me wants it still, desires it so.

Publication. Capital P or otherwise. That brief moment in sunshine, a solitary feather in my proverbial cap, even if she be obscure, reticent, meaning-less to anyone.

But me, of course.

For words hidden upon my hard drive--good or bad, cherished or abhorred, inspired or trash--do nothing but gather dust, rust and cobwebs. That, and feed those voices I hear, growing louder with each new passage I add to the pile.

"See?" they seethe. "Yet another, even more they'll never know existed."
Worthless, they squeal. Worth LESS the more they pile one atop the other in digital dungeon.

So today, I set a few free, bound for places unknown, eyes unseen, to be judged, weighed and measured, then weighed again.

I doubt it'll do much. That's what my voices say. I'm sure we've all heard them.

But wouldn't be nice, just once, to show them that four-fingered fist, one proud digit rising tall, front and center? I sure think it would...