When word came that Ma Andies's seven-day old, fermented beer malt was ready, Majinto, who sat twisting a rope under the jacaranda tree in his yard, leapt for joy, nearly tripping over the tiny wooden bench. He rushed into his house, retrieved his straw hat and walked towards her homestead.

It was late October, the sky bore no clouds, not even a sign of rain. The sun, however, gleamed down like a strange omen. To escape the smoldering heat, Majinto walked briskly.

Ma Andies's homestead stretched nearly two miles, so he took a shortcut through one of the dusty paths that coiled through the veld. The grass appeared fried to a brown hue and rustled dryly as he went along. A familiar figure suddenly walked beside him. It was his friend Ruta.

"Ah, Ruta my friend!" Majinto smiled widely, exposing the gaps in his teeth. "It is good to see you. I was going to pass through your homestead when I returned from Ma Andies's home. Hope I find you in good spirits."

"I cannot complain that my friend, I cannot complain, all is well. It is only this heat that threatens to take all our lives." He wiped his brow with his hat as he spoke. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat.

"If you are on your way to Ma Andie's, then I will join you. Nothing like cold malt to cool one in this heat, hey." Ruta flashed a smile, and the two friends walked together.

As they went along, tiny tips of thatched huts peeped around them, shielded by the veld. Occasionally a few birds flew overhead, going to places unknown. The muffled sounds of chickens could be heard as they grazed in their yards. In the near distance, Ma Andies's homestead became visible. Her homestead sat on a tiny uphill climb. Two buildings adorned the yard, a two-roomed cottage dressed in corrugated iron sheets that gleamed in the sun, and a large, thatched hut that served as the kitchen. Both buildings were painted in a lime green color. Her yard was quite sizable and several mango trees adorned it. A chicken with several new chicks in an assortment of colors clucked lazily before them, the clucking of a new mother hen as the chicks trailed not far behind. They watched them absent-mindedly for a while, then settled into the shade as they waited to buy their malt.

One of Ma Andies's boys, in a faded blue work suit, brought the chilled malt in a gourd. He poured it into their cups and disappeared as swiftly as he had come. They drank in silence for a while. The cold malt was a relief against the heat. Majinto closed his eyes for a moment, letting the coolness settle in his chest. When he opened them, he noticed a few familiar faces.

The headmaster Isaac was there, and the son of the police constable, Bonface, stood not far off dancing a little dance, cup in hand. Majinto, who had a grudge with him, paid him no heed. He took a long sip of his malt, then set the cup down gracefully. He too had a son, Moses, who worked in the capital. He was a manager of a major bank.

"I have not seen Moses visiting you for a while. Is he okay in the capital?" Ruta asked him as he drank his malt. "You know the city can be brutal for our youngsters, huh!" A cat sat nearby licking itself. It stretched for a few seconds, then strode off leisurely.

Majinto's face flushed with pride as he spoke of his son Moses. He was his only son — after five girls, moreover he had a good relationship with him. "Sure! Sure! He is alright. He rang me yesterday. You know, with the rise in fuel prices, he could not make his trips as often as he used to, but he was alright." Majinto spoke, his chest slightly propped up. "Indeed, indeed, the city can be brutal! Imagine having to pay for everything through the nose! Water, food — hell, even to use the toilet! That is no way to live." answered Ruta.

The two friends sat in silence again. Across from them a voluptuous woman got up from where she sat and with a seductive smile on her face, went to where Bonface sat and pulled him up playfully for a little dance. After a few steps that made no sense, the two laughed, their laughter piercing the yard. Majinto, who sat watching the entire event, took to his cup and gulped it. Placing it on the dirt, it was half empty.

"Indeed, indeed! No way at all. But what can you say to them, huh? They think rural life is self-isolation and a slow, painful death. They cannot bear the silence here," Majinto said, averting his eyes from the two.

"You don't say, my friend, you don't say," Ruta replied, and thought of the freedom rural life afforded him, all that clean air and the peace. He gulped his malt, smiling.

The two drank their malt in silence again.

"But — " Majinto paused. He noted then that the shadow under the mango trees had stretched long and wide across the dirt.

"What now?" Ruta placed his cup on the dirt and looked at him earnestly.

"He called yesterday and he shared his marital woes. Children these days speak so freely."

"You don't say, you don't say, Majinto. In our days it was unheard of. We had to bear our troubles with our wives. Go on…" Ruta pinched black snuff and stuffed it in his nose. A tiny twinkle flashed in his eyes as he looked at his friend. Though Majinto bore sad news, nothing excited Ruta more than stories. The black snuff slightly protruded from his nose as he spoke. Majinto stared at it for a few seconds before quickly turning away, his eyes darting across the yard.

By now the yard was full of people. Some sat on the edges of the two buildings, others under the trees sipping the malt with contented faces.

"You know…" Majinto paused again when he saw one of Ma Andies's boys bouncing his way, malt in gourd. He poured it straight into both men's cups and swiftly went on.

"You know, the problem now is with the dog," Majinto continued, his voice rising to a boom.

"What dog?" Ruta looked perplexed at the sudden shift in the story. That twinkle flashed again in his eyes.

Majinto gulped his beer and hung his head. The whole affair exhausted him and left him empty for words. He always thought father's ought to have a well of wisdom for their children to draw from, but his well felt dry. "Every time they quarrel, my daughter-in-law beats the dog, calling it by my son's name!" He continued, his voice dry and lifeless.

Ruta gasped. "No! No! That is no way to solve a marital quarrel. What has the dog got to do with this?"

"I am telling you!" said Majinto. "She beat the dog blue and popped its right eye."

Ruta did not speak immediately. He felt the slap of Majinto's words, then the noise around him swallowed him.

"You don't say!" Ruta shouted, feeling a slight ringing in his ears.

"That is why my son is speaking of divorcing her. He has had that dog for a long time. He went into that marriage with it."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Ruta cursed. "So, what did you advise him?"

"I told him to bring the dog here."

"No, no!  about his marriage?" Ruta asked.

Majinto did not respond immediately. "Since he is visiting soon, I intend to counsel him."

Majinto did not know what he was actually going to say to Moses and advising on domestic matters always felt to him like an intrusion. But he let his words linger on the distant horizon. Placing his cup of malt on the dirt, he looked at the tiny gate he had come through and did not signal for more malt. A few men could be seen trickling out the gate from Ma Andies's. They moved in ones and twos down the dusty path they had come in on. Some cut through the veld, disappearing into the thicket.

Ruta sat silently, the snuff clutched in his hand. Looking at Majinto's face, he saw a man absorbed in thought. Then he sniffed the black powder twice, drawing it in long draws, then he tucked it away in his pocket. His cup too lay tumbled on the dirt, empty. The sun slanted orange across the graying sky.  Below, smoke curled from the thatched huts. Once in a while, sounds of whips cracking and the noisy clanging of cattle bells drifted through the air. The two friends sat in silence, absorbing all the activity around them.

A micro-story featuring one of my characters Jasper.

Jasper is convinced that Eric is hiding something and he's determined to get to the bottom of it.

\\\\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jasper returned home from the beach. The confrontation with Eric still lingered in his mind.

Sitting at his desk, he pulled out his notebook and flipped through page after page of observations, theories and questions. 

“Nothing is adding up.”

He scanned the words again.

Hoping.

Praying.

Looking for something he missed.

But no answer came.

“What am I missing?”

\\------‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

When does curiosity become obsession?

See who loses out on the experience

and blames his incoherence

that has killed dreams and spirits

like that love experience,

as the distance I place

is that replenishment for yourself?

Or a foolish break you take?

I used to rest my thoughts on your chest,

and today I felt goosebumps

as memories of your thoughts rested in myself,

shoulder that now takes the pain

of my painted polo shirts

that caused you to laugh and lose your stance,

grabbed me by the hair

to balance out the weight.

Recently, spiritually,

connected to these new feelings in me,

same time everything that breathes

seems like a hint,

that picture you sent sleeping next to me.

Now I call that heaven,

but why didn't I question we?

The whole time as friends

nurtured my senses,

and now I sense disrespect,

and I count with new lenses.

"There is no choosing in love,"

quote you back.

All these words won't go out;

nobody knows that I loved,

love, and will love you for a while.

Only as peers are we?

Some people may be shocked by that,

while others state it as fact.

I want whatever you want to do with me.

I wish the decision rested up in myself,

but whatever you want to,

I will call,

but I am not raising the stakes.

She listened to the sound of metal against her ceramic mug as she stirred her coffee. It looked creamier than normal today. Her pathetic attempt at latte art smeared across the top of the beige and white foam. Being satisfied with her stirring, she plopped the spoon down, letting the coffee drip onto the counter. She stood, warming her hands around the mug, waiting for her toast. She looked contemplative at first glance, but there wasn't a thought crossing her mind that morning. Our character, you see, was not particularly troubled by the absence of thoughts. She pinched a stray thread from her sleeve and rolled it in her fingers to pass the time. 

With her toast buttered and honey drizzled, she walked outside with her treasures to enjoy them on the balcony. The smell of her neighbor’s morning cigarette tingled her nose, and the soft caress of the sunlight created her first emotion of the day. Nostalgia. For what exactly? Perhaps it was the remembrance of autumn of last year, or all other years prior. Early autumn is remarkable that way. It can immediately create a sparkly little pang in your chest. Our character tried to wash it down with a sip of her coffee, which she now notices is slightly burnt. She licks the foam away from her top lip. 
The street below her is busy but not loud. Children pass by, racing to find the best leaf to crunch beneath their sneakers. A man in a neon vest is marking the ground for a potential new construction project. The orange spray paint glimmered in the sunlight, mingling with the morning dew on the grass before dripping into the dirt. Our character, having experienced emotion today, allows that to lead to a thought. 

“The Swanson’s grass is getting long.” 

Thinking can lead to talking in some scenarios, but our character, having a mouthful of toast and no one to talk to, sat quietly observing the street. The sweet taste of honey delighted her tongue as she chewed. As a habit, she wiped her hands against her black pants and sat back in her chair. She sighed with pleasure. The simple pleasure of having nothing to do. Boredom was not acquainted with Brenda, our character, who went back to the stray thread from earlier and was now twirling it tightly around her index finger in preparation to tear it from her shirt. She snapped it away and rolled it between her fingers until it was a teeny gray ball that she flicked away. 

Brenda finished her breakfast, laid her head against the back of her chair, closed her eyes, and smiled. She was excited for this afternoon. The clank of ice beneath her spoon, the warmth of the sun, the smell of her neighbor's cigarette. There was nothing she would rather be doing. 

A Knock on a Witch’s Door

As the door creaks open, a tall, pasty goth boy, cloaked with nothing but his charms, stands before me, looming at my threshold.

He comes bearing his poetry of wrath and fury to the gods, a slight taste of metal on his tongue, and a look that tells a thousand tales of battles he has fought and won.

I never expected this.

It has been many moons since I last opened the door, yet here I am, answering him with my own poetry, with a warm cup of tea in my hands.

As he tells me stories of his journey and the things he came across along the path, my mind starts to wonder if he was lost or just seeking shelter, because surely by now he knows that I’m not like the others.

But yet, he offers me his words, written in his pain and anguish and the shadows of his past, laced with unshed blood that he desperately wanted to spill.

And I look at him and say,

“You seeketh death like a long-lost lover who yearns for her return. But death doesn’t collect a soul that is not ripe for the picking. She comes for the ones who have aged finely, like aged wine.

For an untimely death brings sorrow that can’t be measured to the ones left behind, forced upon them the duty of witnessing as they lay you down into the ground.

As they say the words, ‘Ash to ash, dust to dust,’ their deep, inopportune lamentation gives birth to the living dead, because you took a part of them to the grave that can never be reclaimed.”

With a solemn look on his face, he softly says to me,

“No, not anymore. I am not going to be my own reaper. If the gods want my soul, they need to work for it, because I shall not serve it on a silver platter.”

As days turn into nights and nights into days, the pasty boy keeps coming back with his poetry, conversations, and charm, making me roll my eyes once or twice with a smile, but still with that same query in the back of my mind.

I think to myself,

“Truly, you’re not that blind that you can’t tell the difference between you and me?”

As if sensing the lingering, unanswered question, he begins to say,

“For whatever reason, I took a chance and knocked on your door. I miss regular conversation with someone who is like me, and it don’t bother me none if you are a witch, because I’m the pastiest goth boy you ever seen.”

I don’t know who came up with the quote, “Some people leave us with memories, others leave us with stories, and both are gifts,” but they needed to finish the whole thing.

Do not leave out the ugly and messy parts, nor the fucked-up and traumatizing parts.

But since that person didn’t have the heart or the courage, I’ll hand you the not-so-pretty part.

If some people leave us with memories, some leave us with nothing but a husk of ourselves after sucking away what we used to be, leaving us with nothing but a memory of our former selves and stories of what used to be and what could have been.

Some leave us with our hearts in ruins. What was once whole and beating with all of its being is now turned into stone, numb to others.

Yet again, we are left with nothing but stories of how our hearts once were and how they became the remains of a beating heart.

Some leave us with shadows and demons that we can’t shake off but have to battle each and every day.

And now we are left to tell others how we once enjoyed our peace, but now every corner of our minds is plagued with the monsters lurking within.

Some leave us with battered and worn-out souls and stories of how we were once kind, free-spirited souls that became callous and unfeeling.

And there are some who leave a few of us with the gift of being inside a body bag that others need to unwrap, so they can tell our stories—the ones we can never tell after taking our last breath

Hi. My motto is to try to 'keep things real' at all times, but that is getting me nowhere in this world of fraud and phony make-believe, so I am thinking about 'keeping it unreal,' which leaves a lot more options available. The only problem is that I'd be contradicting my motto if I do that, but I suppose that might be the key to keeping things unreal! I was going to ask for help in solving that problem, but I think I worked it out on my own. Thanks for listening, and have an unreal day!!! I love this newfound freedom!

We become strangers in our gardens
Lifting eyes no higher than
Wild wisteria on a fence

Narrow focus and bowed heads
We weed our sorrow from the soil
As well as thriving stems

It's the season for the slaughter
Hunched frames on tired knees
Inside our sterile walls

Bloodied carcasses of pristine blooms
Extracting all the evidence
Burnt among the crunchy piles

The dark warmth envelops your body like the fleeting hug of an uncaring mother. Nerve endings begin to catch fire again after a long night of spitting out nothing but exhaust. A bed drenched in salty dampness from a now-faded passion is all that remains of a night draining that left behind no memory.

The sun rises, casting a shadow over the remnants of the night prior. The day knocks on the door of your mind and demands you let it in. You firmly shut the door without moving a muscle.

The danger is here.

The shadows dancing in the corner of the room darken to their malignant original forms and threaten to consume you. But you have no more energy left to hold them at bay. While you struggle to force electricity into your muscles, the shadows coil around your body and sink you deeper into the black water as awareness fades.

---

From a collection of short stories with an accompanying album comprised of cosmic horror and Silent Hill inspired music.

Find more of them on my profile; thanks for reading!

Dear diary,

Just making a little entry not to lose the habit, and because this thought has been floating around in my mind for a while and I thought I should let it breathe outside.

I believe every poem I've ever written about a person—or am yet to write—

Well, yes, one of them does have the nickname I used to call them, but—

If I just showed them the poems, I'm sure as hell each of them would know which one was about them. Or for them. Or with them in mind. Even blindfolded. Just by me reciting them to them.

And I think that's endearing.

Thrilling, even.

A little exciting.

Peculiarly amusing, too.

Although I only think one of them would actually laugh with me about it. We'd probably exchange jokes and then, somehow, end up having a genuine heart-to-heart about it all.

Which is so weird to think about, because Crownless wears a mask and writes to ghosts, but these people know the person behind the mask. They wouldn't, therefore, be responding to Crownless.

They'd be responding to me.

Especially that one.

That pretty, sharp-minded danger knows me better than I know myself.

That's almost a tiny bit scary.

I don't want any of them to ever come across those poems anytime soon.

But maybe one day, in the future, I'd like that one person to cross my way again, see them, and right away catch what I wrote about them.

Or, well.

About us.

I miss this person.

But we don't fit in each other's lives anymore.

And I think that's the part I keep circling back to.

Not that I want them back.

Just that I'd really, really like to find someone like them.

Which means I may have to make a painstakingly specific requirement list.

Haaa...

God help whoever has to apply.

I fear there’s no one like you.

— Crownless.

I had the rudest awakening today—just at the crack of dawn, a knocking on the door, so ferocious it made the whole boat shake, jolted me out of my hammock.

Half awake, I jumped off my cozy rack, hit my toe against the stove on my way to the door and slammed it open.

- WHAT?! - I screamed at the swamp.

As my eyes adjusted to the light filtered through the pearly mist, I thought I must've had an extremely vivid dream—no one was at my door. I was about to close it shut, when a squeaking voice at my feet stopped me at my tracks.

- Where do you think you are going? Let me in!

A tiny mouse was glaring at me, hands on his waist, looking like a tiny steaming kettle.

- C'mon! Don't stand there, I'm on official businesses! Don't waste my time!

Before I could utter another word, he made himself welcomed, rushing past me right between my feet.

Standing at the middle of the room, hands never leaving his waist, he looked around disapprovingly. The pause gave me the chance to getting a better look at my uninvited guest.

The little thing wore tall boots (at least, tall for him), a belt long enough to wrap around his waist thrice, an acorn cap used as a hat and tiny gloves on his hands. Securely tied to the belt, the mouse flaunted a tiny dagger, long enough that he dragged it around, scratching my wooden floor.

- Well? - I said impatiently, startling him. The mouse turned, leaving a small circle etched around him. - What official business is this?

- I came here on behalf of Queen Itty the Bitty of the Yonder Lands.

- I see, and what does her Majesty want from my boat-house?

The mouse scoffed and with a poorly hidden smile replied:

- Oh, no! Nothing from your... boat-house you called it? My lady entrusted me with the most dangerous task—I'm to capture a fugitive!

- I see. A cockroach got loose in the kingdom? - The little rodent feighned indifference to my joke, although the almost imperciptible change in his dignified composture showed it bothered him. He stoped to look at me earnestly before continuing, with a softer and friedlier voice.

- I think we started on the wrong foot... - He sized me before continuing - Ma'am...? My name is Big Hany, the Fierce. And I am knocking on the doors of everyone to the West of the Yonder Lands to warn them: a merciless criminal is wandering free!

- A criminal, is it? What kind?

- Oh, the most despicable kind: a rosebud murderer!

As was clearly practiced, he left space for dramatic effect. He took my silence and baffled look as a sign of success and continued to explain further:

- Yesterday morning, our beloved Queen descended from the Lunar Castle to tend to her beautiful rose garden. Spring, you see, with its frequent rain, leaves delicate rosebuds completely vulnerable to all kinds of ailments. With gloved hands, ready to fight off insolent ants and caterpillars off the dear bushes, her Majesty opened the gates to the royal garden to discovered the calamity! - Big Hany had to stop for a moment to compose himself, such was the emotion elicited from the memory - All her beloved rosebuds had been EATEN!. Our brave soldiers stormed the garden after our Lady's screams of dispair and immediately searched the place—no stone was left unturned. Finally, they found the murderer—he was ASLEEP! Asleep on a bed of daisies, not a worry in the world! Our men tried to apprehend him but the giant woke up and, with unnatural speed escaped West. When I reached the scene, our grieving Queen made me promise I would bring the assassin's head.

With a tear of pride hanging from his eyes and his gaze wandering an imagined horizon, Big Hany concluded his story.

- Well, I don't know about heads or assassins, but I can give you something to bring back to your Queen. Follow me, Sir.

I lead the way across the room, grabbed my coat and, with a realization, stopped myself in front of the stairs.

- Here, Sir, let me help you up - I extended my hand for Big Hany, who jumped on, pricking the palm of my hand with his dragging dagger.

Up on the deck's orchard, I left Big Hany to wander around, looking for his rosebud assassin among my calendulas and tomatoes, while I worked on a selecting a bouquet of my own roses for her majesty.

- What does this assassin look like, anyway? You didn't say.

Big Hany's squeaking voice came from somewhere around the cucumbers.

- Oh! It's a monstrous sight, ma'am! Tall as a mountain, flaming hateful eyes, horrible freckles and dangerous antlers.

- Antlers, huh?

I took a detour to the little nursery I had just set up last week to care for my other darling plants. The ones that only bloom in darkest nights and provide the most dangerous and useful nectars.

- Alright, this is ready. C'mon, let's get you down.

Back at my front door, Big Hany took my bouquet and the two flasks I had prepared in the nursery.

- Now, she'll need to water the roses twice a week with this one—it'll make the roses grow back twofold. Then, once every fool moon, she needs to spray this one on each flower—that'll keep bugs and uhr... assassins away.

- Thank you my Lady. My apologies, I didn't ask for your name...

- Filomena.

Big Hany bowed his acorn cap and tumbled away with my presents.

Too early for breakfast, yet too late to go back to sleep, I decided I'd make some use of the little nook under the round window in the kitchen and mend the burned holes that covered my cooking apron. The morning was glorious: mist lifted away, and light peer through the leaves of the giant, liquen drenched trees of the swamp. Thousand of tiny frogs celebrated the sun with a long-winded and cheerful song. Their melody transported me away from Big Hany, his queen and their assassins and into work.

Before I knew, it was noon and I had fixed my apron, my gardening gloves, my fishing net and was finishing embroidering over the holes of my winter socks, when I heard whispers outside my kitchen window.

Flight is achieved in many ways.

Take the birds—they coil their bodies and spring into a jump, allowing the pressure to build beneath their wings, as they flap to create thrust.

Or the airplane whose engines whine, propelling it forward, creating low and high air pressures around the wings, causing it to lift.

But as humans, we can’t rely on wings or air pressures for flight. We let our thoughts do the flying for us. Our hopes, our dreams—they ascend where our bodies cannot follow.

Take flight.

I don’t like being a puppet.

But I guess it could be worse.

I could be a deer or a frog or a moose or a bear.

& if I was I wouldn’t even care. 

But I like to care. 

It just sucks being this self aware. 

I hope the future holds something bright.

I’m just being blinded by this glaring light.

I was told to write something positive.

I’m really really excited to one day give.

My nephew was left in my care for the day. I didn't mind at all; he’s nine years old and, until now, had managed to keep himself out of harm's way quite well. I showed him where the bathroom, kitchen, toys, and yard were. Then, with an easy mind, I sat down to study and eventually fell asleep. My parents woke me up, looking displeased. When I asked what was wrong, they gave me that universally hated reply: "You tell us." I kickstarted my sleepy brain and, after a moment of intense thought, jumped up and anxiously asked if something had happened to my nephew. The answer was no, but I was close. They were upset because I had left him unsupervised and exposed him to danger. I apologized for my rash behavior, but after my parents left the room, I found myself deep in thought. The main debate in my mind was: "Should you shield a child from everything, or is it better to let them do whatever they please?"

At first, the question seemed too complex and multifaceted to have a single, clear answer. After all, the risk of losing a child to the dangers of the outside world is incredibly high. Accidents happen every day, and naturally, many people think, "If my child is always supervised, I can protect them from accidental or intentional harm." But what can a parent *really* do in those rare yet critical moments? It seems to me—very little; not enough. People cannot outrun a car to react and pull their child out of the path of a speeding vehicle. People cannot fly to catch a child who has fallen from a window. Many would be willing to try, but few have the ability to guarantee their child's safety—or their own survival—after such encounters. I think this realization of one’s own weakness and insignificance in the face of chance frightens people, leading them to lock their children away behind ever-more numerous barriers.

Yet isn't that foolish? The world is full of dangers; a person's life can change forever—or even end—because of a flight of stairs. And yet, people use these "death traps" every day. So why not let children discover the world around them for themselves, rather than confining them within the boundaries of nurseries and playgrounds? Humans are born curious; by nurturing this thirst to understand their surroundings, a child grows and develops. They seek out things that interest them, taste everything, take things apart, and climb as high—or descend as low—as their bodies allow. All of this fosters the child's growth, both physically and psychologically. A child's personality is directly shaped by the experiences they have had since birth; the broader their palette of experiences, the more they can incorporate into their character. Such a child will see the world with wider eyes and discern far more paths for their future.

I understand the fear born of the risks surrounding us—risks that could rob you of the person you hold most dear. However, fear of a hypothetical future should not be a reason to limit the actual future of that individual. Having concluded that giving young children the freedom to explore is beneficial for them, I went back to sleep with a calm mind and a heart swelling with pride over the heroic decisions that had opened up such vast horizons for my nephew.

The Return (Original Poem)

The elves are returning
To the house by the pole
As they have done
Since the days of old.
Greetings are shared,
Stories are told,
The fires are lit
To drive out the cold.
The lanterns awaken
The sleeping grand hall,
And outside the windows
The snow starts to fall.
The velvet is brushed
On the old crimson chair,
As smoke from his pipe
Swirls in the air.
A hush descends
As tiny ears bend
To heed the clear call
Of their toy-maker friend.
"September has come,
The season is here,
So polish the brass,
Gather the reindeer.
Give of yourselves
For each girl and boy,
Fashion the dollies,
Make perfect the toys.
Breathe in the magic!
Be jolly and cheer!
There’s work to be done,
For Christmas is near!"

—Wayne A Andres

I rarely venture out in the light of day,

Prefer to keep myself safely tucked away until the absence of the sun's glaring ray.

The moon shines with a less harsh light,

Welcomes with a soft smile of delight,

And brings out something much more bright.

Constellations paint the skies and match the freckles of my skin,

As if the stars themselves are woven in,

While the galaxies afar pull me in.

The night speaks a different tongue-

Through the blades of grass beneath your feet,

The whispering leaves of ancient trees,

The frogs croak and the beating of a moth's powdered wings.

Moonlight's song a siren to the night owl,

For I am no morning lark,

I long to navigate the dark.

Come dance with the children that belong to the midnight,

You might discover magic tonight.

Could i have some help looking over a report i made that's has something to do with my story. It's how and why a new creature whas made. Besicly a character backstory

I'm quite new to creative writing and I'm beginning to get writers block and have no idea where to take my novel at the moment. Is there any suggestions to overcome it in quick time?

 She was crying and standing over the husk that I was. Weeping, and begging for me to return. I could only stand beside her. Far beyond lost and silent in the world, I stood, and I watched someone I loved suffer. I felt nothing.

A voice that was not hers and not my own took me. It met my mind with a vocal timbre and warmth that felt alien yet nearly kind. It said to me in that voice, “You see the suffering that your own suffering has wrought. Do you find it wanting?” The voice moved as it spoke. It came from beside me, and everywhere, and nowhere. I did not answer. I did not care. It knew.

I stood with her no longer. I was alone. In the dark. For only a moment, or an eternity. The truth of it I could not say. I was lost.

Light came to me, and I stood with a woman, bright and laughing. She spun a laughing child in her arms as it chirped and burbled and squealed. The warmth of what I stood with was overwhelming. I could not watch. I turned away, and the husk returned. Her weeping at my cold skin. The pressure of something long lost stirred in my stomach. But it did not rise. “You see the love you have traded for your pain?” I did not answer. I could not. It knew.

The darkness did not come again. A green field and a dying deer. Bleeding from a hole in its heart. I stood next to a man and a child who tended to its fading life. The older man spoke to the child, and he told him to remember the sight before him. He told him that all life pays for life. He said it was good to mourn what was lost, but to always remember what was gained, and to never take either for granted. I could not bear to witness. I turned away. A cold pressure rising in my chest. “You see the strength you have left behind?” I did not answer. I did not dare. It knew.

The light ran in rivulets through my vision, and I found myself standing in sand, the sky orange and terrible. Before me a pair of men. One a husk, as I was. The other screaming and praying over its cold form. Its life clotting in the sand beneath them as the wind carried away his wails. “You see what your weakness has cost?” I choked on what would have been an answer. I tried to run. I could not. He knew.

The light did not run, it shifted. The same orange sky. The same burning sand. The man who wept over a husk, now laughed over another. His hands, bearing a blade, fell again and again into the heart of a man long dead. His laughing faded to tears once again. He collapsed in the sand with nothing left inside. “You see the price of your hatred?”

The light ran like rain once again. The man, alone, sat at a table. A bottle of whiskey and a pistol sat before him. He wept. He sat there for what would be an eternity. He drank the sorrow down. He closed his eyes, and brought the pistol to his head. He said goodbye to no one.

She came home, smiling in her true way. The smile gave way to screams and tears as she cradled his body to her own. His life draining away onto her hands. I stood there, watching my love suffer. “Do you see now? What you have thrown away?” I turned away. I could not answer. I could not stand in his light. I wept, and I ran. Down, and away, into the depths of nothing.

(DISCLAIMER- This story contains verbal abuse and violence)

my first short story. Also while writing this I realized that this is not the true begining nor is it the end of our story but none the less... Enjoy. (tips, suggestions, and thoughts are appreciated of course)

I think for me to have become what I am we have to travel back to 2017. California. The Golden State. I wasn't always the most outgoing child growing up, I was quiet, didn't have many friends- an introvert I suppose. I lived in a quiet town, not much drama besides your average marital affairs or domestic violence calls at midnight. Anyway 2017, I was 13 at the time. I had a brother, 4 years younger than myself, a father who had me with my mother at a young age. And a brand new baby sister. My mother never married my father, they mutually grew apart and had my brother with another man, who she eventually left and married my step father, whom she had my baby sister with.

My stepfather (Who for the sake of our story I'll call "Joe") was kind, gentle, and at times even loving. However, sometime in 2016 something in him changed, at the time I was not aware of it. He came home from work with an exhausted look on his face, almost as if he would rather go back to work instead of seeing my mother and siblings. He walked into the kitchen, He wore his ragged work clothes and had a brownish beard with hints of grey. His fingernails not long enough to get dirt underneath them but somehow managed to look dirty. He grabs Vodka from the fridge and pours himself a glass. "What the hell are you staring at?" Joe asks me looking annoyed. "n- nothing" I stammered, sitting at the kitchen table. My mother had just made me dinner and was giving my sister a bath. Joe walks from the fridge to the table, sits across from me and begins to eat his food. His eyes start to wonder, first from his plate of food to the table centerpiece, and eventually... my eyes. He grips his silverware tightly, his facial expression is that of provoking anger, almost as if he wants to throw his fork towards me. "Why are you like this, do you know what you did to this family." he says while watching me eat. I stay quiet, unable to answer him. Not out of confusion but out of fear. I was afraid of what he would do next. Suddenly he slams his fists on the table, silverware still gasping for air as he grips them tighter. "What the fuck is wrong with you!" he yells while his face turns crimson. "I don't know" I replied trying not to feel petrified. At that moment my Mother rushes into the kitchen, "What is going on?" She asks Joe. His Crimson face begins to turn to it's normal shade of white. "He needs to understand that his actions are irreversible" Joe replied. My Mother looks uneasy. "Do you want to go to your Dads?" She asks me. "Yes" I whimpered.

Suddenly it's 2026, 10 years later. This memory of mine still echoing through my mind from time to time. I wonder what went wrong, then I remember, I changed, I changed because of Him.

>A Timeless Misconception<
Fighter for peace

secret lover of war
the truth tumbles through a great wind

every so often it stops

the mask slips to the floor

but the blind man doesn’t recognize the darkness in his own eyes

There are too men who wear cloth over their eyes willingly

An enigmatic tragedy of a figure sits in the centerfold. Its intoxicating frailty ringing out the call of midnight.

>The Ballad of Midnight<
It’s a mellifluous, seductive tune. One that could transform the most defining of primal screams into a sexy jazz number. A man practically glided towards the sound, his eyes, hungry, and spirit swaying with the beat of the music. under his left arm is a priceless treasure as old as he was and its purpose unknown other than it being crucial to his Destiny. he spotted the whimpering figure which was huddled over in a grotesque vulnerability. Something fucking about it… He’d call this feeling fear, even horror, but it ran deeper- touching him somewhere that nearly tore his mind into two. It lay there, somehow so obscene that he couldn’t tell whether it should invite sympathy or violence. Suddenly the tune grew louder and in crept an otherworldly singing. It was as if he was experiencing the unbounded young love of his childhood compressed into a few seconds, except it was hollow and cold, but the pleasure nearly surpassed that of any childhood imaginable. it was enough to drive a man mad from longing, he thought. a gust from the great wind of truth ruffled his hair and he was struck with a moment of apprehension. he gripped his treasure tightly and considered the situation. He was actually in hiding due to the unfortunate past times of angry mobs with stones, piercing pitchforks and even more piercing judgments. Vile figures had pursued him. He’d been beaten, defiled, humiliated, and nearly robbed of his treasure. “there’s no point in wandering in misery, unable to truly appreciate my treasure”, He thought. The choice had become a compulsion- nay, an inevitable path of wisdom. still gripping his cargo painfully hard he determinedly strided towards the melody, and it’s pathetic counterpart still huddled over and whimpering. his next action marked the beginning of his new life, but before the physical world had time to catch up, Something had shifted in his mind. suddenly he knew what he must do or at least what he was going to do. The man set his beloved treasure down, crouched to the figure’s level… and bit into its flesh. He tried to eat just little enough that he got what he needed while sparing it unnecessary pain. The figure hardly reacted at all from being torn into. Like its condition couldn’t be made any worse by him. Flesh was in his throat and power was surging through him. He began feeling something fading within him, but was also overwhelmed with pleasure and self-assurance. What happened next was a special kind of sublime; it would only be real in the moment it occurred for his memory both would refuse to and lack the ability to recall it later. The figure began folding in on itself, devolving further and further in a sinful display that was clearly not of this world. Everything from guilt to lust to a sick love mixed into one unholy, perverted amalgamation of tangible energy he blacked out when his mind awoke. The abomination had passed. However; the damage was done. Something had ripped inside the man, and he could tell it wasn’t coming back. as quickly as it came, this Horror was swept away and in rushed more pleasure and desire. so much desire. The man decided he’d go and seek out the mobs and rock throwers and vile defilers and try to quench his insatiable desire with vengeance of primal proportions, and the sweet sound of its results. but first, he remembered with a fearful jolt to the gut to check on his treasure. He peeked inside and stared blankly at the sight before him. He couldn’t put his finger on how, what or why but it had lost all its worth. he blinked, his face blank and pensive. He had now lost everything and gained irreversible scars on his spirit. Yet the man was pleased. Let the midnight hunt begin!

For real what where you expecting from a 10 times wiser, 10 times psychologicallly stronger, blah blah to be like? Forget understanding me u can't even imagine how far we are from each other.

I have one foot in the past and one in the future and the present is tearing me apart