The Writer Has The Devil For Tea

There is a story in your head

the Devil told the Writer

in her garden


over tea

” The Characters are determined, engaging, energetic and fun-

they are also homicidal, devious, really quite lovable each and everyone.”

The Writer finished her tea and she sat back in her chair.

She savored the scent of ripening apples that filled the air.

” They’ve asked  me to free them, turn them loose on the world, they offered me

you eyes and I’m sure they’ll offer more.”

The Devil put down his cup and leaned forward in his chair, ” I’m inclined to accept. ” he said as he savored each word.

The Writer stood up, she asked if The Devil would like more tea and then she said weighing each word carefully.

” They are in Hell and in Hell they will stay. Join them if you’d like, I dare you. Join them inside of my head for just one day.”

The Devil looked into the Writer’s eyes and when he saw himself reflected there


saw himself


The Writer reached out and touched the Devil’s horns




Part 9


Photo by Lennart kcotsttiw on


There is a nightmare under the Writer’s  bed

and I think it has teeth.

There is a nightmare hiding in her closet

and I think it has teeth.


Very long, very jagged, razor sharp teeth.


What does it feel like

when a nightmare bites you

with jagged, razor sharp teeth?


Tonight just before she falls asleep

I think her closet door’s hinges will

whisper to the Nightmares with teeth

” Is she dreaming about us?”




Photo by Lennart kcotsttiw on


The house on the corner used to be yellow

then it was pink and then it was blue and one day it was painted gray.


There were cherry trees out front and a holly tree out back

and a little grave by a fountain full of frogs.


The Writer who lives there never comes out

of the house that is now painted red.


There are curtains in the windows that are always closed

and the swing on the porch creaks when it rocks

like bones carefully finding their way

on worn wooden steps

up from the basement

of  a house

that used to be yellow

and is now painted red.





Photo by Lennart kcotsttiw on


There was a story  that haunted the house

that I’ve built inside of my head.


It was all about monsters and curses and gardener

named Erasmus

who always sings when he digs.


There is an abandoned fire

burning  on  a cold hearth

in the house

where my shadows used to live.