I had to. If you read yesterday's post, I had no choice

                The sun rose behind Stoneguild Mountain and cast long early morning shadows over the lush fields below. Magnus, leader of the powerful Pony Cats, felt the morning light rise on his furry body. He stretched out his long paws and rolled over onto his opposite side. He yawned and licked at his nose. He thought to himself, “I hate Mondays”, and arched his long back up toward the blue summer sky.

                The rest of the Pony Cats were milling about the fields, some were heading toward the Desert of Feces, and others were poking at some fish along the river’s edge, without actually getting into the water. Magnus wiped at his whiskers and looked over his pony cat troops. They were all a good bunch of pony cats.

                There was Stumperious, the attack Pony Cat, ferocious in battle, articulated armor crafted by the wizards of Callowillow. He was Magnus’ most trusted Pony Cat general. Magnus and Stumperious were pony kittens together after the great ape purge of 2784. They had feasted together for many cycles on the birds and beasts of Cheshire Kingdom. 

                Yellowdimperolon flashed by Magnus’ view as he chased after some small ground varmint. Yellowdimperolon was the lightening to Stumperious’ thunder. Yellowdimperolon was fast and sleek. He was so stealthy that even Magnus was surprised at his mysterious appearances, and always in the nick of time too. Magnus couldn’t count on one paw how many times Yellowdimperolon had arrived at the last unexpected second to save the day.

                The ground shook as Redmane the Blood Thirster leapt up and down at the Canary trees. He was a bit of a slow Pony Cat but he was vicious in his adoration of Magnus. Magnus had rescued Redmane the Blood Thirster from a terrible trap when he was just a Pony Kitty. Redmane the Blood Thirster became the most loyal body-guard Magnus could have hoped for, and he was a giant too.

                Minxelle brushed up against Magnus as he surveyed the Pony Cats starting their day. He’d hoped for some adventure, like dragons or other beasts, or perhaps a nap and sitting in the sun, or eating and then napping and then sitting in the sun.

                “You’re looking well my lord,” said Minxelle as she licked along Magnus’ nape.

                “Yes. I am. As are you my Queen,” said Magnus.

               

                Minxelle purred lightly and pushed up against Magnus, turning her large head over his shoulder.

                “I have news Sire,” said Minxelle.

                She always had news, she was the feline in the know and Magnus would be lost without her. She was cunning and sly. She was indispensable and yet Magnus had a slight mistrust of her. She was supple and seductive in her diamond saddle and tiara.

                “The Horse Lords will be migrating today. We might have a very good chance to pick them off as they drive through Briargulch,” purred Minxelle.

                “Ah, the annual Horse Lord days are upon us. Perhaps today is a good day to get drunk on their sweet catnip blood sacks,” said Magnus.

                Minxelle lay down next to Magnus as he rose to his full eight foot height. He mewed loudly and gathered the Pony Cats together in a loose semi-circle.

                “The Horse Lord Days are upon us again my dear friends. We will go to Briargulch and take as many as we can. We will then scout the lands on the Northern perimeter, even though we did that yesterday and the day before that. We will also take at least one Horse Lord and leave it at the base of Wizard Smoke’s lair. We all know how much that wizard appreciates the dead things we bring him,” said Magnus.

                The Pony Cats all sort of nodded in agreement. Stumperious was staring off toward the ridge-line. There was something up there but maybe it would just come down on its own, or maybe it wouldn’t, but maybe it was tasty.  Stumperious would ignore it for now.  There were Horse Lords to obtain and that would make for a glorious day before a nap and curling up on the sunlit prairie.

                Magnus turned toward the West.

                “PONY CATS, AWAY,” he commanded in his deep velvety voice.  He darted forward as the loyal troops fell in line behind him, unless they were distracted by that shiny thing near the river’s edge.

                Off they went into new and bold adventures.

Scenes From Inside my Head

“So, what are you going write about today,” asked Sami.

“I don’t really know yet. Any suggestions,” I said.

Sami leaned back in her chair and rubbed her little chin like she’d seen so many grown-ups do. She looked around the small hospital room, hoping for some inspiration.

“How about… um… giant fighting laser robots,” suggested Sami.

“I’m not really sure that’s the way I feel like going today. What else,” I asked.

Sami frowned a bit and continued swiveling in her chair. She spun around all the way, daintily scooching with her toes on the stark white tile floor.

“What about a swamp that’s filled with, like, radioactive hands that come to life at night and steal children from the swamp village,” she said.

“You’re really into the whole sci-fi thing today,” I said, “but I don’t know if writing about kidnapping would be all that appropriate.”

Sami nodded and nudged her chair closer to me.  She got up on her little knees in the seat and tucked them under her nightgown. The I.V. drip dangling loosely over the back of the chair.

“Can I tell you a secret,” asked Sami.

“Of course you can,” I said.

Sami looked around the room to make sure there were no other prying ears about.

“Sometimes I like your stories because they’re not so sad. Not like some of the poems. Your stories are pretty fun and, you know, don’t make me feel sad,” whispered Sami.

“Really? That’s very interesting Sami. I like to write those stories too because they are a lot of fun,” I said, “but sometimes you have to use your words to express the troubled feelings that are way down inside yourself. And sometimes those words are sad.”

Sami nodded and sat back in her chair. She straightened out an errant hair from her head and smoothed it back into her pony tail.

“I guess,” said Sami, “But are you sure you don’t feel like writing about big monsters or shadow people or cats? Maybe you could do a story about pony cats!”

                “Pony cats? What are pony cats,” I asked.

                Sami leaned closer to me and looked into my face. She seemed aghast that I didn’t know what pony cats were, even though she had just invented them mere seconds ago.

                “Pony Cats are big horse sized cats that solve mysteries and save princesses and fly and have battle armor and use science and are cuddly and are always ready to give you a ride to the doctor’s or to grandma’s,” said Sami.

                “Wow, they sound pretty amazing. But why don’t you write about them then. You seem to know so much about them,” I said.

                Sami put her little hand on mine and leaned her forehead against mine.

                “I’m not a writer. You are. So you should do it. Pony cats,” she whispered.

                “So I should write about pony cats today then,” I asked.

                “Yes and I will read it and I will love it. As long as you don’t make it depressing,” she said letting go of my hand and spinning her chair back around.

                “Okay, I will see if I can come up with a Pony Cats story,” I said.

                “Good,” said Sami as she started to yawn. 

                A nurse came into the room and shooed Sami back into her bed. There was a little protest from Sami about not being tired and she wanted to stay up but once back into her bed she was calmed and ready to sleep.  

                “Good night,” I said.

                “Good night,” said Sami.

                I left the hospital room and went down to the parking garage. I lit a cigarette in my car and started to cry.

Pearls

We’ve been cultured like

clams, in deep sea beds,

in the hopes we’ll make

pearls.

Prodded to produce,

pearls of joy, of wisdom,

and of perfection. It’s what

we’re conditioned to do.

We’re farmed, made to choke on

the sandy grains of annoyance and turn

them into some priceless bauble

someone else can claim.

The pearls vary in quality,

in value, in size and weight, in

color and shine. Yet all are collected

for someone else to profit.

Failure to produce a pearl of

joy makes you an outcast, as if

finding or creating joy is just so

very easy; just something we’re to do.

Not creating a pearl of wisdom,

makes you a dunce, a dolt, a dimwit

and the open target of scorn and derision,

to be tossed away with the bad clams.

No pearl of perfection? The hardest of all,

doesn’t come easy for anyone, hardly anyone

at all. Yet, it’s still expected, wanted and

dreamed of as a commodity.

Joy, wisdom, perfection: are the pearls

we’re told to have. We’re told it’s what makes us

desirable, useful and respected, otherwise

there’s no purpose to us at all, what good are we?

Writhing beds of clams, producing cultured

pearls, spitting out the same old market flooding

trinkets, with regularity, with speed, with

dedicated diligence. Clockwork and punch clock.

The natural pearl, unforced, un-coerced,

un-molested, are true rare beauties.

They can be joy, wisdom or

perfection, there’s no blue-print.

Only that they’re pretty, an amazing

paint stroke of nature, a nifty trick of unmeasured

time, growing on a schedule un-monitored

by any clock or eye.

Natural pearls are highly prized and worthy

of awe, it’s why we covet them so,

and force the creation of our own through

the rigors of control and expectation.

The culture of expectation, to be something,

to be something great, to be something greater

than what you started with, to be something greater

than you started with or else.

Maybe that’s why, when we see the

natural pearl, we are so impressed, rapt in

it’s simple beauty of it doing just what it

does, without pressure of expectation.

I get tired of the sea bed, I get tired of

making pearls for others, I get worn out by joy,

wisdom, perfection and time. I just

want to swim, and eventually make my own. 

Almost Always Sometimes

There are always burdens

to bare across your struggling

shoulders, always troubles

to furrow your brow.

There are always people that

will not like you for reasons

you can’t really fathom, maybe

they judge, maybe they’re jealous.

There are always things that pile

up, that stack themselves in places

you weren’t even aware of, in corners,

on tables, in hearts and minds.

There are always muddy traps to

slow you down, make you drag your

feet and strain to pull your heavy legs

forward.

There are always dissenters, liars,

mean hearts, bullish bullies, coarse

types, and those that cannot believe

you are anything more than you once were.

There are always beasts lying in wait,

hidden in plain sight, in the eyes of

lovers, family, friends, strangers and

the dreams of unrequited passion.

There are always deniers, the doubters,

the show me the crucifixion wounds,

the non-believers, the unmakers, the

wreckers and the breakers.

They’re always in the way, sometimes

outside, sometimes inside, in your head,

in your own heart, in your words, in the

places you don’t like to go.

And sometimes, they won’t let you

finish a poem on a positive note. 

Not the Haunting you were Expecting

                Steve stepped into the hallway off the bedroom. He yawned and scratched his right butt cheek as he walked. His bare foot stepped forward and slipped in a thick goo on the hardwood floor. Steve fell backwards and landed hard on his lower back in a puddle of greenish-yellow mucus.

                “Ah, what the hell,” he cried out.

                He carefully lifted himself up and turned on the hallway light. The floor was covered with a layer of thick disgusting snot-like slime.

                “What the…,” he said to himself.

                A strange laughter filled the house followed by what sounded like someone throwing up after a long party, which was then followed by more laughter, evil laughter.

                “Honey, are you okay,” asked Steve’s wife from the bedroom.

                “Don’t come out here babe. It’s ah….not…uh…safe…,” said Steve.

                Steve carefully stepped around the thick puddles and made his way downstairs. The living room and dining area were awash in greenish-yellow and brown smeared gunk. There were also empty bottles of beer and Steve’s tequila that he’d won at the bowling raffle two weeks ago was also open and empty. The cabinets were all open and there were Cheesy Snacks spilled all over the counters.

                “Oh Jesus,” said Steve as he moved toward the open kitchen door.  He slipped again in the mess on the floor but stayed on his feet.  He steadied himself in the doorway and blinked in disbelief. At the refrigerator, hovering in front of the open door was a ghost. A ghost right out of the cartoons, a ghost in a white sheet with two black holes for eyes, staggered backwards.

                “You’re… you’re outta, out of, the beer…dick,” slurred the Ghost and it vanished.

                Steve slid back against the kitchen doorframe to the floor. He made the sigh of the Cross across his chest and hugged himself. The relator told him this house had a strange past, but the price was so right he just didn’t even care. It was such a steal.

                “Holy Jesus,” shouted Steve’s wife, Miranda, from the hallway, “What is going on?”

               

                Steve stood up, steadied himself for his wife’s wrath, and went to the bottom of the stairs.

                “Honey, love of my life. I’m pretty sure our house is…haunted,” said Steve.

                “Haunted, haunted with what? This is just, just so much puke up here,” she said.

               

                Steve closed his eyes and shook his head. He remembered the Relator’s warning about the old Fraternity that used to rent the house. They got shut down when too many pledges and staff were dying from alcohol poisoning and some sort of hazing with goats. Steven rubbed his chin.

                “How are we going to clean this up, Steve,” shouted Miranda.

                “I’ll take care of it baby. You go ahead and get ready for work. I’ll… I’ll make a few calls,” said Steve.

                Miranda went to the bathroom and felt like she was in that completely illegal scene from Revenge of the Nerds when the Llamba’s broke into the girls dorm and illegally set up video cameras and started filming the female residents like some sort of deranged stalkers.  She couldn’t believe anyone in the 1980’s thought that was okay. It was such a violation of privacy. All those Nerds should have been arrested and sent to prison and then register as sex offenders when they finally were released. She cringed as she toweled off. She could swear she could hear a snicker from somewhere.

                She quickly dressed and headed back downstairs. Steve was trying to use a snow shovel to push the thick mucus off the kitchen floor.

                “I’ll be home by 7:00, all this,”  she pointed around the room “is gone when I come home or we’re leaving and never coming back.”

                “Yes my darling,” said Steve.

                Miranda left the house and couldn’t shake the creepiness of all those ghost eyes probably ogling her naked flesh. She shivered as she pulled the car out of the driveway and went on her way.

                Steve watched her pull away and he dropped the shovel. He got his cell phone and called his friend at the University.

                “It’s here Dave. Full phantasm activity… Yes… all over my damn house… it’s astounding. When can you come by because we only have until seven? Okay, okay…yeah…see you then.”

                Steve hung up the phone and went upstairs to get dressed and to rewind the home surveillance footage for Dave to watch.

                Dave rang the bell a half hour later and Steve jumped when the bell rang. He had been watching the footage of something stumble through his house, knocking things over, clumsily setting them back, throwing up on everything. He was astonished and he knew now for sure that there was an afterlife.

                “Dave, you’re not going to believe this,” said Steve as he brought him upstairs to watch the video.

                Dave pushed his glasses back on his nose as he watched the ghost. The ghost didn’t always have a form, but there was almost always a Pabst Blue Ribbon in its hand, or floating in the air, occasionally spilling a little. There was also footage of the fully formed ghost, just as Steve had seen in the kitchen, just stopping and staring off into nothing, then throwing up giant streams of puke all over.

                “This, we can’t go public with this,” said Dave.

                “What? Why not?!”

                Dave pointed at the screen as the Ghost bumped into an end table and then threw up on it.

                “I’m not attaching my name to the Vomit Ghost,” said Dave.

                “What?! C’mon man, this is definitive proof of life after death,” said Steve.

                “No, it’s proof of a dead frat boy, drunkenly vomiting on everything. That’s not exactly proof of anything other than drunken douche-bags turning into ghosts. Can you imagine the fraternities that would have ghost pledges if this video ever got out?”

                Steve sat back in his chair and thought about it. It was still proof life after death but, what kind of life was it. He looked up at the screen to see the Ghost attempting to light a cigarette on the stove, but then get dizzy, stumble backwards into the cabinet and throw up.

                “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the best proof of life after death,” said Steve.

                “Yeah, let’s just exorcise this joker and we’ll chalk it up to a creepy experience and forget about it,” said Dave.

                Steve nodded and followed Dave going room to room performing a blessing and the Exorcism rights.

                “NooooOOOooooOOO, BrooooOOoooOoo,” said a disembodied voice as they moved around the house.

                Dave and Steve ignored it and continued the blessings until every room was clear. The last they heard of the Vomit Ghost was a very faint, “You suuuuuUUuuuuuUUUccccKKKkkk BroooOOOooo….,” before completely training off and vanishing.  

                “I think Miranda will be happy,” said Dave.

                “Yeah, she might not turn me into a ghost now. So, I’ll see you Tuesday for our meeting,” asked Steve.

                “Yup, see you then,” said Dave.

                Dave left the house and Steve checked each room for any trace of the Vomit Ghost. He didn’t find any more puke puddles or hear any drunken stumbling.  He went to the couch and sat down. He turned on the TV and started watching a Ghost hunting show.

                “Pshht, lame,” said Steve.

                                                   HAPPY HALLOWEEN Dearest readers!

                                                                                

A Long Walk on a Dark Street

The screams on the wind

swirl through the darkened

neighborhood streets and

corridors of deceit.

Was it a cat?

Was it a cry?

Was it a woman?

Was it a guy?

The hair on your neck is

at attention, you shiver

and shake as you peek

into the moonless night.

Who is there?

Who could it be?

What do you want?

What do you need?

Nothing there, but the

cold wind, rustling the

leaves in the trees, a dying

chorus of awful applause.

Such a noise.

Such a sound.

Such a night.

Such a fright.

A raging wind, angry

with panic, carries more

moans and cries, more

sorrows and pains.

Oh my.

Oh Dear.

Oh heavens.

Oh no.

A pulled up collar and a

bundled coat are no defense

for the chilling, echoing

terrors of a Halloween night. 

Halloween House Guide

A Jack O’Lantern’s face,

carved with a terrible

sneering leer, quivers

and shimmies from the

backlit flicker of a candle’s

flame.

The steps are damp with

the autumn leaf harvest

and a light chilling misty rain

falls. The plastic black cat, locked

in a perpetual scowling hunch,

is the warning.

A skeleton, hung on the door,

hollowed eyes staring vacantly

at the approaching ghouls and

goblins, a toothy yet goofy,

grin on  its bony skull, but

ready to chomp on the cowardly few.

The orange lights, strung about,

casting a golden hue of Fall on the

small cowboys and ballerinas,

minions and monsters, Elsas and

robots.  Each one ready, through their

fear, to shout a familiar phrase said every year.

Night comes quickly and goes

too fast for the seekers of sweets

on All Hallows Eve. Each house is a

challenge, a fright or a bore,

depending on, who comes to the door.

A mommy, a mummy, a monster or Dad,

or no one at all, and that seems bad.

Some houses are scarier than

most, there’s something about them,

that’s evil and morose. Parents avoid them

and babies cry passing by, it’s that

house with the crazies or the one lonely

guy.

No tricks, no treats, no decorations to

speak of, just dark and unholy, melancholy

and dismal. It’s broken and tired and left so

alone. But one night a year it fits just right,

as the creepy house on the corner, that’s

somehow always empty but always lit.

Hideous ghosts of the past lurk in

there, creaking the floorboards,

and slamming the doors, they are

envious of your flesh and want it

for their snack. So if I were you,

I’d stay back.

Stick with the carved pumpkin faces,

the jolly psychos and smiling zombies,

the well-lit porches and bowls of candy,

stay clear of the dark house, the one

with the frown, it might swallow you

whole and drag you down.

If you’re brave though, and think it’s all

a fake, there’s nothing to fear, no vampires

to stake. Then by all means go up those

steps, ring the bell and tempt Hell.

You might be the trick, and the treat,

for what dwells inside collecting souls to eat.