The Goomba Lurp

Chesnie was a little girl just about your age

Snatched up by a Goomba Lurp and locked up in a cage!

A very pretty girl she was with manners kind and sweet.

The perfect kind of little girl that Goomba's love to eat.

Walking through the flower garden, Chesnie had no clue

That waiting quietly in the pond was a Goomba colored blue.

All the frogs croaked out load to scare Chesnie away

But the little girl giggled instead thinking they wished to play.

She bent down close and turned her head to listen all the more

To the frogs who croaked so much that their throats were very sore.

The Goomba Lurp spread his toes with webs between each one

Then he drove right in without a noise-of splashes there were none.

He swam and slithered like a snake with horns all down his tail

Baring teeth of an awful green and as sharp as a wire nail.

Two bulging eyes glared at the girl, who pulled back her hair

To keep her locks from getting wet, she took extra care.

The Goomba Lurp saw his chance and grabbed the little girl

But just before he dragged her down, she was spotted by a squirrel.

Flicking his tail in wild fear, the squirrel ran up the tree

Chirping to friends, to birds and deer, and even to the bees.

While the animals scampered above, Chesnie was pulled below

Held on tight by the Goobma Lurp who's hunger started to grow.

Into the cage he threw the girl, then locked it with a key

Given to him as a birthday gift from the Loch Ness of the sea.

It was fire-proof and unbreakable, impossible to undo

Swallowed by the Goomba Lurp and he didn't even chew.

An evil laugh escaped his gut and shook poor Chesnie's cage

So she shrilly shrieked in his ear, causing a red hot rage.

“Quiet you! I'll eat you up! Just you wait and see,”

“I'll have you with some filleted fish, or maybe even brie!”

Another laugh burst out loud as he cackled at his joke.

He laughed so hard, he couldn't breath and began to choke.

Chesnie looked away from him, unable to hide her woe

But not far off in the pond, were fifty fish in a row!

Priest (The Beginning)

Priest was his name as inappropriate as that was since it couldn't possibly be his profession keeping in mind that he was, in fact, a cat, but his mannerisms were in accord with the black suit and white collar that he had donned every day since his coming into the world. His sleek black coat didn't have a single flaw; nor did his love for his master excepting one minor glitch. He was a cat, and in so being, his life span was regrettably short while his master endured a miserably long existence. At the cursed age of thirteen, Troy came across a kitten in a most peculiar way although for some bizarre reason, it didn't seem all that odd to Troy to see a small kitten, as black as turf bar the white splotch on its throat, curled under the warm insulation of its adopted mother hen. He found it somewhat admirable that a young cat should surrender its bestial instincts to the coziness of a hen's maternal protection. When the hen moved, so too did the kitten, and hence it was apparent to Troy that the kitten had developed a loving attachment to something as unattractive as a hen. It was a hard won battle to steal Priest away from the hen, but once the kitten felt the enveloping warmth of Troy's jacket, he was pleased enough with having a master. It was from that moment that the friendship was established, and happily so, as Troy was haunted by a perpetual demon that seemed to tortuously mutilate anything that he felt love for.

His parents were the only exception to the string of deaths since they abandoned Troy after dropping him at an orphanage. He had resided with multiple foster families, but each and every one of the houses had crumbled under some kind of misfortune that forced them to return Troy to the orphanage. The carers at the institute initially made a malicious joke out of Troy's seemingly inevitable solidarity, but the joke lost it's flavor after the boy's appearance took a disturbing turn for the worse. Eating had come to a halt, refusal to exercise melted his muscles down to skin and bone, and the absence of sleep had darkened and deepened his eyes. His hair was forever disheveled as were his shrunken clothes, and his skin was so extremely pallid that the color had absolutely drained from every inch of his body. This grotesque look startled and even frightened the workers and other children, and as there is always one child who takes it upon themselves to make matters worse, a rumor started that he was a living, walking corpse. As time went on, Troy limited himself to his chamber, and when new children came in waves to the orphanage, the rumor lingered and seeped into their ears, their chambers, and even their dreams. Poor Troy became a kind of a ghost, wandering around the the orphanage that had, through an extended rumor, transmogrified into his purgatory after he had committed suicide some years ago, and if one should wait up past three in the morning, they might just see the form of a weeping boy in the corner of the sitting room. There was no saving him. He was a lost soul.

The Reaping of the Sea

A violent chattering of his teeth awoke him. He swept his hand across a hardened brow and brushed off bits of icy drops bejeweling his fur-edged hood. This rude awakening was followed by an irritated carping from his father who's voice was as rough as his wind-burned skin. The nagging continued until he sat up half way despite the strong gravitational pull of every fiber in his body to the soft, warm comfort of his sleeping bag. He had felt so wonderfully cocooned in his insulated bag that he had momentarily enjoyed a very deep slumber, unconscious of the horrible reality that his shelter was constructed of a mere teepee shaped hut and the ground below him was nothing but stiff ice that was unsettled only a few yards away from him. It was shifting as the spring equinox tide shrank slowly back into the sea, leaving caves and crevices in the abandoned ice. Within those caves was a treasure worth more than his own life. It was more valuable and desired in the Inuit community of Kangiqsujuaq than gold or rubies, and all he had to do in order to gather this treasure was crawl through the crevices, drop down into the tunnels of the caves, and snatch it up from the ground. Mustering as much optimism as he could, he dared not think in too much depth of the reality of the task, or more mind-consuming, the ultimate consequence that was simply impossible to push aside. Although he closed his eyes and focused on the brighter side of a successful day of mussel hunting, there was just no ignoring the intimidating thought of what could happen, and in fact, has happened to past harvesters. Nevertheless, the treasure, the multitude of glimmering mussels with their rich source of food and life preserving powers, was worth more than his one extra mouth to feed in the community. Should he steal a decent amount of mussels from within the ice caves before the tide returned thirty minutes later, he would feel a wholesome satisfaction of having supplied not just for his blood family, but for his communal family as well. There was great honor in returning with mounds of mussels, but there was also a throbbing internal relief in simply returning. The latter feeling, he always thought, should be kept within but secretly shared with all. 

Dearest Mae

Dearest Mae,

How long is it since I've been deprived of your existence in my life? How bizarre is it that despite our one and only meeting that proved to be as brief and precious as the life of a mayfly, my thoughts are always with you? For all I know, you are a very prosperous woman, gallivanting the world and building life where it was once abandoned. I hope you don't think me too whimsical in imaging you as a fierce, yet incredibly real heroine who bides her time by rescuing all the ailing children in the streets and improving their conditions so drastically that they are forever in your debt. Perhaps the last bit of your illustration is not too humbling, so I will alter it by saying that these children, now successful adults, will forever hold you in their hearts as a mother, a very dear friend, or even a saint. Yes, that seems to brighten the shining glow surrounding your grotto within my mind. It may be too much to hope, but whenever you come frolicking into my mind, I cross my fingers and entertain the thought that you are thinking of me as well. You know they tell me that we are identical. Imagine that! Well, for once, I can't imagine it; which is ironic enough because if I ever wanted to see you, I should be satisfied by my own reflection, but the woman who smiles back is always me, and never you. It simply isn't the same. Therefore I had a team of researchers tracing you. Honestly, that last phrase makes you sound like a hardened criminal, but you've escaped me for so long that I should think you a thief. You are my sister, so your heart is bound to mine, and if that be true, then you have run off with a good portion of myself, and I would be much obliged should you return to me.

As We Forgive Those

Hidden, like the washed out stars in the lunar light, she wept. Bitterly. No one knew but me. No one cared as much as me. Behind the cracking white paint of her attic door, she stifled her sobs and choked on her melancholy. But like those forgotten stars, she still shined with a blazing light. I can even recall,though I doubt my memory at times, a carpet of light stretching out from under the thick oak door. Whether it was the setting sun or the glow of her  suffusing halo, the point of the matter is that the light was a ruddy red that imbrued the weathered planks of the floor, and it warmed them so much so that the planks eased into submission. As strange as that sounds, I swear to this day that the wood beneath my bare feet softened from its hard protest against my bodily weight. Although the warmth was inviting, I could never muster up the courage to enter her sanctuary. The closest I ever got to condoling her was flattening the palm of my hand upon the chipping paint and crying silently with her. At that time, I was ten years old and the word abortion was foreign to me. It was an insignificant word that tumbled out from my grandmother's mouth, but whatever it was, it brought about an agonizing, unforgiving, and relentless path for my mother to stumble and collapse onto. She had always been a beam of light in my short four years of life, but after her traumatic experience, which I had known nothing about at the time, the only light I ever enjoyed was that soft radiance creeping out from under the attic door. As little children do, I made up stories in my mind about the light. I invented millions of them to satisfy my hungry need to know why she hid herself from me, but my favorite idea was that her love and beauty was so powerful that she had to barricade herself behind the attic door in order to keep her bursting beams of light from harming me in some overwhelming way.

Love Letter (beginning)

Love letters have a way of greatly effecting the heart, for better or worse. And because of this, mine has been wrenched from my chest and thrust into the blistering embers of a dying fire. Firstly, to have received a letter written by her own hand, so delicately looped with the soft lines of her penmanship, raised my hope to the highest it could possibly expect to ascend. My name had been thought up in her mind before being formed by her hand, looked adoringly upon by her eyes, and spoken aloud by her mouth. Flutters of excitement burst within me before I had even unfolded the precise flaps of her disappointingly short letter. I was expecting the lines of the paper to be filled with loving words purging from a shamed heart after having hidden such feelings from me for so long. Alas, my eyes devoured the words on the page, and sooner would I have endeavored to forget the skill of reading than to have read her letter. Although it was a monumental encouragement for my own heart to speak out, it nevertheless revealed itself as a unforgivable folly soon enough. For only two days had passed after having received the letter before I discovered that my beloved Leona had hastened to resigned herself to the silence of death. My darling, beautiful, cherub confessed her love for me and stamped its stifling passion with her own blood as evidence of its domination over her. What she hadn't considered, to my eternal despair, is that I, too, had withheld my true feelings for her, and having done so, I have murdered, most mercilessly, my dear Leona. Her letter read as thus: