There is a story in your head
the Devil told the Writer
in her garden
” 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
The Writer reached out and touched the Devil’s horns
” I know you ”
the Writer whispered into the dark.
And the darkness whispered back
” I know you do.”
I think that when the monsters come
with their jaws wide opened
I think that I will see
are broken, jagged shards of mirrors.
I think that when the monsters come for me
I have considered upon reflection
I will dare them
Previous Parts HERE
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?”
The porch light
at the Writer’s house
has been on for days and days.
The grass is a little longer
the cat in her window looks lonely,
but it does look well fed.
Should we knock upon her door?
Do we dare? What will we find?
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.
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
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.