Okay, writers, here are the rules and regulations for the August version of The Great Bamboo Ridge Year of the Monkey Writing Contest. Remember, you can write a prose piece (short story, essay, what have you), a poem, or even a short play. We’ll stay at 1000 words this month. So you can write a…

Roaches. Dung beetles. Spiders. We sometimes use our names for fellow terrestrials to characterize each other. Some might say those are our truest names and selves. I might say so. For about a year and a half of elongated appendages, I was called Spider but outgrew that in tenth grade and became Dog, which lasted…

A single flamed match Lights night to showering stars Silencing crickets

I kept slipping off my seat. I ordered another Guinness draft. “You’ve had your limit,” Elvis the bartender replied. “Hey, don’t be cruel, mister bartender.” I pivoted outwards on my seat and waved. “I’m outta here.” Elvis grabbed me by the shoulder. “You’re not driving, brah, are you?” I shrugged his hand aside and swung…

Okay, writers, here are the rules and regulations for the June version of The Great Bamboo Ridge Year of the Monkey Writing Contest. Remember, you can write a prose piece (short story, essay, what have you), a poem, or even a short play. And yes, you guessed right: you can write a piece that is…

Congratulations to Leilaniolanai, Jim Harstad, and Doreen B. You’ve each won 10 Bamboo Bucks to use in the online store. Just mention that you’re a June winner when you check out. Okay, folks, check out this month’s rules and triggers, and let’s write : )

Under the blue sky, The nylon net of diamonds, Settles on fishes.

My golf game Is starting to come around, Finally. I took it up six years ago, When I turned seventy, Sort of to honor Whitey, My father. I’m hitting solid drives Straight up the fairway Almost every time, these days, And I make the occasional par, Flirt with the occasional birdie. As they say, it’s…

Ohana Style restaurant had been around for over a quarter of a century, occupying its original location on Piikoi Street in Honolulu. Breakfast drew the largest crowd. The tables filled quickly. I took the elderly Kimura’s order, commenting on their youthfulness. “It’s the food, Nani,” winked Mr. Kimura, gratefully accepting a refill of Kona coffee….

My father sells insurance and real estate and owns a deep-sea tuna fishing boat. My father strips car engines and puts them back together to kill time. My father beats information out of Nazi prisoners of war and then takes them out and shoots them once they have said whatever they can say as fast…