Good night, Sleep tight


 My friend, and man of many talents, Richard Thomas, has an exciting thing going on with his online magazine Gamut.

He mentioned that his site will even have some dark poetry, which inspired this rhyme. Go check his powerhouse, Gamut out after reading! By the way, he’ll be offering some great opportunities for writers (which most of us bloggers aspire to be).


What is it now, you frightened child,

With tousled hair and eyes so wild?

The bed bug monsters in your head

Grow when you get out of bed.

Staying in bed keeps them so small,

They might not even bite at all.

In fact, your fear makes them more strong

So hush now child, and run along

Be careful not to make too much noise

Bed bugs love the taste of girls and boys

If you start to cry, they’ll make you scream.

You’ll wish it was only a bad dream.

They’ll rip you open, and eat your heart

They’ll tear your little body apart.

So you’d better get right back in bed,

Before the morning finds you dead.

Good night my child, hope you sleep tight

Don’t let all the bed bugs bite!

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Funny: A bedtime story


 
He had never been popular. Tod was a normal looking kid who got average grades in his typical middle school. 

He wasn’t very athletic, nor one of those “bad boy” types who seemed to always be sneaking around with a cigarette or a girl.

The fact that girls seemed to go for guys like that, was almost enough to bring him back to the “girls are stupid” phase, except for her. Julie.

She had everything a 14 year old boy could long for and more. The only problem was that Julie was popular, aka blind to the rest of humanity, especially nobodies like him.

So Tod daydreamed about doing something amazing.

When the news segment was about a school shooting in Florida, he fantasized about being the kid who took the gunman down and saved the class.

If the weatherman mentioned the possibility of strong storms, he fantasized about leading Julie’s class out of a damaged school.

Even his dreams were about giving Julie the Heimleich maneuver or saving her from a distracted driver at the crosswalk.

He’d be the hero somehow. It felt like his destiny.

One year. 

In one year he’d gone from being unpopular to the most popular kid in school, and now, here he was reading a note from Julie, and she’s calling him her hero.

One year of tests, diagnoses, medications and hospitals was all it took to be a hero. Well, that and his life. 

He’d never imagined dying in a hospital bed before he turned 16, but he could feel it coming. Funny, he thought to himself.

Lots of fish…


blue-fish-6723

Once upon a time there was a fish.

One fish in the sea of millions.

The thing that makes this fish tale different,

Is that this fish didn’t know  how to swim.

She tried.

She tried so hard.

To be like the other fish.

To “fly” through the water.

The other fish made it look easy.

The same water that lifted everyone else,

Was suffocating, heavy, immobilizing.

A few fish tried to help.

To teach her how to swim

No use.

She couldn’t swim.

Eventually she stopped trying.

She wasn’t strong enough.

At least she wasn’t in her mind’s eye.

So she drifted.

So she fell.

So she drowned.

But don’t be sad…

There are lots of fish in the sea.

The Arrival


This is part of a book I’m writing as we go. A blog book if you will. Yeah, I know that’s not how people are supposed to go about writing/publishing/promoting books, but I’ve never been a fan of rules.

My previous post was the forward to it.

It’s too late. The fire is dying.

Shhh, I think I hear something.

Huddled around the dwindling fire, the women spoke with haggard voices that suited their aged faces.

They listened carefully for any movement, the smallest sign that tonight would bring what they had long waited for.

Leaves rustled in the distance, followed by the sharp snap of a twig.

Hurry, he’s coming! Bring the oil!

They placed the pan with the oil on the fire and soon a strange earthy aroma melded with the warmth from the fire. The rustling in the woods was coming closer. Even the fire seemed to quiver with anticipation.

Remember, he doesn’t know. It is not for us to tell him.

Shhh, he’s here.

The women’s knowing eyes looked at last on the face they had seen only in their visions…the frightened, dirty face of the boy who stumbled out of the woods.

Bedtime Stories: Double


Double, double, toil and trouble.

The steady surface hides a bubble.

One part works, the other plays.

One part runs, the other stays.

Part depressed, part amused,

Everyone remains confused.

How can two exist in one?

How can darkness hide the sun?

What the hell is wrong with me?

Chains of anger bind the free.

Ok, that’s fine. The way it goes.

It’s better mainly one side shows.

No one could understand what’s real,

Both parts make up the way I feel.

Show the pain, the somber side.

Easier the “good” to hide.

Keeping expectations low.

For days when there’s no joy to show.

But every now and then, I see

The part I wish was more of me.

The loving, happy, carefree part.

Deep within the icy heart.

If I can somehow find a way

To make that part grow and stay.

Then maybe in that burst of fun

The two would finally become one.

Bedtime stories: about a girl


Once upon a time there was a girl.

I know, I know, no one wants to hear another story about a girl. All the stories that could possibly be imagined, have been, until some psycho like Jodi arias comes along with an especially gruesome twist, but never the less, I’m a girl, and like all the other stupid bitches, Who go off doing their self-absorbed shit, I’m writing it.

This girl believed in love. This writer isn’t sure.

One day the girl received a letter saying her long lost love was returning. She excitedly got ready and started tidying her home. She wanted everything to be right, perfect.

When her love returned, at first things seemed well, but soon the arguments started. She knew she needed to do more, and be more of a good love, for the feeling of love to stay strong. She tried. She could be better. More thoughtful. Less moody. Happier. She tried. She worked. She learned.

The writer watched.

As the household got more under control, and as thing began to flow more smoothly. Life did become happier and still manageable. Love was kind of shelved during this time of transition, and when the time came to reexamine the feeling, it was still there, although through the process the girl had learned that love is not free.

Love is forged between endurance and sacrifice. It is bathed in pain and bears many battle scars. It is not a commitment to be made lightly, nor an adventure to go on with improper preparation. Love is synonymous with pain. Love should be revered, and love should be feared.

Wise women would keep that in mind.

This writer will.

goodnight , sleep tight.

A series of unfortunate events (blatent plagiarism, I know)


That title could be referring to traumatic injuries, natural disasters, or really bad haircuts. More likely it is all reminiscent of a bedtime story, which one day I will probably tell. 

I was thinking of beginning it now, but the sky is so blue, and the warmth of this summer day has sucked the desire to write away from me. Koontz, my Mountain Dew, and the porch swing are calling me. 

Till we meet again…

Bedtime Stories: Feeding Monsters


There once was a pretty girl. She listened to her teachers and her parents. She kept her room clean and she played the piano well. All in all, great kid. She loved to brush her long  blond hair. As she … Continue reading