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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| The old house reeked with the musty milieu that comes from neglect. Dust clouds and cobwebs greeted us as we mounted the front steps to the porch. For some reason, my grandfather Abaddon Webster had bequeathed the old place to me in his will when he finally succumbed after spending the last years of his life in a nursing home. My new bride Monique and I decided that refurbishing the two-story New England structure with quaint gables and a wrap-around front porch would be a better investment than pouring rent money into an apartment. Since the place was obviously without electric power, we had purchased some nonperishable provisions and lanterns to tide us over until we could get the place straightened out and have the power restored. When we entered the main room, we were relieved to find protective coverings spread over most of the furniture. We made our way to the kitchen and deposited the bags of supplies on the table. Then we set about exploring the remainder of the house. Removing the coverings from the furniture in the den, we found rich upholstered chairs and sofas adorned with strange embroidered glyphs in gold and silver on a burgundy background. The walls were covered with shelves full of all manner of tomes, ranging from tales of high adventure to strange writing in alien gibberish. “The Testimony of the Mad Arab” proclaimed “The wolves carry my name in their midnight speeches, and that voice summons me from afar with unholy impatience,” and warned of horrors that stalk about and lurk in wait at the door of every man. “The Book of the Dead” told of profound secrets handed down from generation to generation by worshippers of the Ancient Ones. “The Maklu Text” cautioned that incantations shown therein “must not be shown to any but the properly instructed, and when used, the markings must be burned utterly, and the ashes buried in safe ground where none may find them.” Needless to say, these writings were a bit disquieting and dampened our enthusiasm for the refurbishment project. Thinking a good night’s sleep would refresh our resolve, we fixed some savory strawberry jam sandwiches to eat and then retired to the bedroom on the second floor. I removed the dusty old bed coverings, and Monique spread fresh satin sheets with a lavender fragrance over the mattress. In the security of each other’s arms, we extinguished the lantern and went to sleep. Somewhere in the night, Monique nudged me and asked, “Did you just hear something in the attic?” |
| Hallowe'en, a night for waking dead folks, crammed full of creepy cuisine. "Trick or treat!" kiddies shout in unison in pursuit of something sweet. Children scream when skeletons suddenly jump up in frightening scheme. Party starts with Frankensteins frolicking and ends with some tasty tarts. Ghastly scene, which we all love and cherish, becomes happy Hallowe'en. Notes on the Treochair form of Irish poetry ▼ |
| Remember the brave and all that they gave to stop the tidal wave of brutal tyranny. Remember the cost in precious lives lost when opposing paths crossed on beach at Normandy. Remember the gore when so many more never saw the war past that bloody shore-- a day of agony. Remember their names etched on that wall. They answered the call and gave their all so we can be free. |
| TXTNG cryptography befuddles me. It's not EZ 2 C value in such cultural debris. It's so cheesy. My GF K8 has such an obsession, she falls into a ST8 of depression if she can't TXT. She's so perplexed, I think she needs an intercession. Notes on Fabliau ▼ |
| Before rooster crows, bugle blows, "You gotta get up! You gotta get up! You gotta get up in the morning!" and recruits hit the deck a-running, while drill sergeant barks commands, and thus begins career of military regimen and selfless service to nation's purest values, career of distant duty, maintaining vigil to keep enemy at bay and ensure the flame of freedom keeps burning for all to see. |
“Every moment is a fresh beginning.” ~ T.S Eliot The past is gone and out of sight in life's complex motif, as present time has taken flight without a sign of grief. Today, my life begins anew with fresh ingredients in Mother Nature's potluck stew, including ripe suspense. Notes on the Hymnal Stanza form of poetry ▼ Let the creativity flow from your soul!  Dave "The Poet's Place "  |
| One fine day, as I was searchin' for my Muse, the Storymaster wrote some code that he could use to build a sanctuary for writers, so we could tarry and pull all-nighters, trying to light the creative fuse. May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration. May the witches brew a ton of titillation in the cauldron of your imagination. The folks at Writer's Cramp will test our wits, and Stormy Lady's words will give us fits, but kansaspoet's ghost still lingers here to make it absolutely clear that quality counts in a poetry blitz. May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration. May the witches brew a ton of titillation in the cauldron of your imagination. While the werewolves are howling at the moon and graveyard residents moan their gruesome tune, we'll write it all for posterity, each and every monstrosity, thanks to Storymaster's creative boon. May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration. May the witches brew a ton of titillation in the cauldron of your imagination. Notes ▼ |
| Brian Booker was going bonkers. At work as a customer service clerk for a shipping company, he was constantly besieged by disgruntled customers complaining about misrouted shipments, misquoted rates, delayed deliveries, and all the other factors that applied under Murphy's Law. At home, his wife was always harping about the "to do" list, which never seemed to get any shorter no matter how hard he worked. In between those two harried worlds of persecution was the hassle of log-jammed traffic--bumper to bumper on the way to work, bumper to bumper on the way home, noise, pollution, impatient people, frayed nerves. He needed a break. One day, as he was creeping along in traffic on the way home, inspiration struck him like a bolt of lightning. He saw a huge balloon depicting a dinosaur floating over a used car lot with a banner which proclaimed: MONSTER SALE FISHING CARS DIRT CHEAP A few days alone at a fishing camp on the lake were exactly what he needed. He had vacation time coming at work, and his wife was going to visit her sister for a week. Why not? He flipped on his turn blinker and pulled over into the car lot, where he was greeted immediately by a salesman wearing a flashy Hawaiian shirt, straw hat, and Bermuda shorts, presenting exactly the kind of casual image that Brian intended for himself. After checking out several cars under the enthusiastic guidance of the boisterous salesman, Brian finally settled on an old sedan selling for $500.00. The door panels were rusty, and there were a couple of holes in the floorboard. But the engine seemed to be in pretty good shape. Good enough to get from here to there. He wrote a check, and the salesman gave him a bill of sale. After filling out the paperwork to apply for a new title, registration, and insurance, Brian called a neighbor to help him get the car home. On Saturday morning, as he was preparing for his fishing getaway, Brian popped the trunk on the sedan to stow his fishing gear. There, lying in the trunk, he discovered a man's body and two suitcases. From recent news coverage, he recognized the body as that of a notorious drug kingpin who had disappeared about a month ago. Opening the suitcases, he found one with bags of white powder and the other full of cash. He called the police, and they came out to retrieve the body and the suitcase full of dope. That night, he went to an old dive that he remembered from his bachelor days and found an old acquaintance of questionable repute, from whom he procured a new driver's license and passport. First thing next morning, he went to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to the Cayman Islands. 470 words |
| Through my lens, a soldier's life is portrayed, along with all the sacrifices made. I see such vile atrocities unfold, recording them for others to behold. Sensor captures barbaric carnival, preserved in powerful pictorial. My photographic memory retains the gruesome scenes with battle's bloody stains. When hero's flag-draped casket is conveyed down ramp from C-17 cargo hold in solemn military ritual, I document family's grieving pains. Notes ▼ |
| The ghosts of Hemingway and Poe abide here and cavort with folks like Bonnie and Clyde here. Habitat for adventurous spirits, Huckleberry Finn meets Sally Ride here. Across the ages, tongues of many scholars speak their piece and become amplified here. Their voices echo down fertile valleys from the mountain of books sanctified here. Insatiable curiosities try to have their inquiries satisfied here. History, opinion, and fantasy are washed in the literary tide here. Fantasy writers take eager readers along for a remarkable ride here. These stacks of books form a mystic labyrinth, which will lead you to the truth inside here. Among the congregating kindred souls, Granddaddy met his lovely bride here. Notes on the Ghazal form of poetry ▼ |
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