The trees reached up to tickle the sky, and the clouds giggled and squirmed out of reach. Green met blue in a whirlwind dance of leaves, the branches grasping at the air and the oceans chasing the runaway breeze. Land and Sky loved to play, nudging little birds along as they flew in the space between, in the overlap of heavy soil and light winds.
Sometimes she just wanted to get away from it all. And so, she did.
About a mushroom witch and her toad familiar, Klulo.
I was five months old when I first met Death. I was in a stroller, kicking my little legs around while my mom pushed me along the sidewalk. I had a teething toy grasped in my chubby fingers, and I was gnawing on it, getting saliva all over my skirt. Then my mom gasped.
I jolt awake, sitting up and breathing heavily. My back is covered in sweat, and my arms shake. I stay like that, my head bowed and fists clenched, unable to get rid of my uneasiness. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them wide. The darkness pushes at my pupils, an unwelcome guest. I slowly sink back into the mattress, pulse thrumming in my veins. There’s a faint glow in my peripheral vision, angry and unyielding. I ignore it. No need to fuel the nightmares.
You look ridiculous with that plasma gun in your hand. You were always better with a sword. It’s a shame really, that swords are so outdated, so unfit for a royal. You were always so confident, strong and assured when you were wielding one. You with a gun is just wrong. Unsettling. Especially when it’s pointed at me.
The drill whirrs, making holes in the wall. Then the screws are twisted in, but Dad’s hand slips. The drill chips some paint off the wall. It leaves a white mark where blue should be. He slides the floating wall shelf in place. I walk backwards to inspect it. It’s not straight.
“Don’t go out too far.” Alice’s mother warned. “There are monsters in the forest.”
Alice may be a child, but she knew that monsters didn’t exist. Monsters were for fairytales and scary sleepover stories. She reassured her mother anyway. “I won’t!” she promised.
Poor cat, drowned by the fishes.
A poem about greed.
A few seconds passed, and there was another loud rumble and boom. She shook herself out of the world of black ink and spreadsheets, and the sharp scent of rain permeated the air from the open window. It promised a night of cold embrace and harmonious symphony.