Thanks for picking up the first edition of the Half Book. Inside you will find a scary collection of works from MCC students. Take it with you, bring it to class, tell people about it.
The writing club meets each Monday in the P Building, on Center Campus, from 12:45-2:00 p.m.
The Mystery of Fear
A compilation of fears by The MCC Writing Club
I’m afraid of monsters with dripping bits of brains,
Halloween, and trick or treating in the pouring rain
I’m afraid of driving; Metal Monster of Death
Crushing cars, bloody bodies, taking their last breath
I’m afraid of blood clots, heading for my lungs,
and of some Yakuza guy cutting off my tongue
My worst fear is the thought of being abandoned,
Or an idle brain, neglected and unchallenged
I’m afraid of drunk folk that come across my path
Almost as much as I fear taking basic math
I’m afraid of falling off a cliff that is so high,
It reaches up and grabs me: I wish that I could fly
I’m afraid my fear of death will ruin my joy of life,
And that I’ll never become a mother and a wife
Fear is a mystery; its roots run deep and wide
Its victims cannot run, or seek a place to hide.
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
by Cathy Plum
HOW DO YOU TELL A MOTHER
THAT HER SON HAS LOST HIS LIFE?
“FOR THE GREATER GOOD” IT’S SAID
IS THE REASON FOR HER STRIFE
IS IT FAIR TO THINK
THAT YOUR COUNTRY’S WORTH YOUR LIFE?
WHAT IF YOU’RE A DADDY
AND BACK HOME YOU HAVE A WIFE
ARE WE JUST COLLATERAL
IN THIS GAME CALLED LIFE?
AND IT’S HONOR FOR OUR COUNTRY
THAT CUTS US LIKE A KNIFE
WHAT IS THE PRICE OF FREEDOM?
DO YOU PAY IT WITH YOUR LIFE?
DANGER
by Nancy Washburn
It was a dark, cold Halloween night. We were at our high school football game. We cheered loudly, shaking our orange pompoms, wearing short orange skirts with black sweaters, and black cowboy boots. We won the game, and it was getting late. Some of my friends were dressed up in costumes. Billy was a scary werewolf, Bobby was Frankenstein, and Sherry was Elvira. Everyone was leaving the field. I decided to take the short-cut home through the woods, like I always did. I loved nature, and this was my very own beaten path. The wind got stronger and blew the branches lower, slapping my face.
Suddenly, I heard slow, pounding footsteps behind me. My heart was beating like a drum, and I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. The moon was glowing through the treetops. I quickly turned around, saw a tall man wearing a blue ski cap, and aiming a pair of big hedge trimmers at my head. He was laughing. I could hear the trimmers opening and closing. Snip! Snip! Cut! Cut! I could feel the tips of the huge scissor-like blades on my long, brown hair. I ran faster.
O God, please help me! I tried to scream, but no sound came out. We reached the end of the woods, where the long, red wooden fence began. I gained some speed. Where was everyone? If only I could spot a house. Why wouldn’t he stop? I caught a glimpse of his peering, green eyes. He retreated for a few seconds, and then got a second wind. Snip! Snip! Cut! Cut! Echoing in my head, the noise got louder and louder. I couldn’t run anymore. He kept missing me. I saw the silver trimmers next to my face. He grabbed me, and threw me on the ground. Thud! I tried to fight him off. Then I woke up, on the carpet in my bedroom, hugging my pillow.
***
A Cold, Hard Look
by Jenifer DeBellis
I woke up from a dead sleep to a drilling sound close to my face. My eyes snapped open to a room I didn’t recognize. Confusion flitted through my thoughts as I tried to sit up, only to discover my hands and legs were being held down. The foggy, umber hue engulfing the room made it impossible to make out the three figures repressing my body.
A shudder of fear ripped through me. I tried to form questions from immobile lips. What the heck was happening to me? I thought back to the hours before I went to sleep. Had I been in some sort of accident or something?
“You’re doing awesome, sweetie,” a familiar voice murmured near my ear. “Just a few more adjustments...”
From where did I know this man’s voice?
My face and chest were throbbing with pain. I was aware of a warm sensation cursing through my veins. Something, possibly blood or sweat, trickled down my cheek.
I felt a tug near my temple, followed by the snip of scissors. The hand, working feverishly upon my face, wiped the drip from my cheek. This gesture caused a shiver to run along my spine.
“Just a few more touches,” a feminine voice cooed above my head, “and you’re golden.”
Whoever held my opposite side began to gently rub the inner part of my right arm.
Involuntary tremors ripped through my body; I was overcome with a quivering sensation. Maybe I was in shock, I reassured my frantic thoughts.
“There,” the familiar male voice announced.
I was released from my tri-fold stronghold. My body’s immediate response was an overwhelming desire to escape this scene. I didn’t waste another moment laying in the darkness.
With shaky steps, I felt my way towards the dim light on the opposite side of the gloomy room. My steps faltered and were clumsy. I walked slowly, longing to be in the promising light.
It was the assurance the light held that propelled my forward movement. This flicker of illumination filled me with hope; it was the only rational emotion running the circuit of my thoughts during this stumbling journey. Yet, the pain stabbing throughout my head and chest was crippling. This throbbing sensation competed with such fervor against my hopeful feelings; it was successful in drowning out all of my positive points of reflection.
At last I reached the cracked door, which led to my promised deliverance from this oppressive room. I flung it open with too much enthusiasm and stepped into the light. My eyes labored to adjust to the drastic change in exposure.
After blinking several times, my focus was drawn to a mirror spanning the entire length of the wall. It wasn’t until I rested my hand upon the counter that I noticed a reflection of movement. Upon this revelation, my eyes sought my face in the mirror.
I gasped at the foreigner looking back at me. My eyes bore into the eyes staring at me from the recesses of the mirror. Time stood still as I absorbed the image of this stranger’s face. Whom was this reflection looking back at me?
My focus was drawn back to the familiar eyes: a set I knew only too well. We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, neither one willing to break the trance.
We reached our hands toward one another. Upon contact, I was overwhelmed with a severe, cold sensation…
With a start, I shot up from my slumbered state.
***
A Load of Dirt
by Cathy Plum
I’d love to get a load of dirt
And pour it on a nice white shirt
I’d love to get a pair of pants
And fill them up with fire ants
I’d love to get a red Mustang
And drive it fast ‘til sirens rang
I’d love to get an old stray cat
And let him eat a nasty rat
I’d love to get a pretty flower
And drop it from the highest tower
I’d love to get a change of heart
And give myself a brand new start
Brunch for One
by Cathy Plum
It’s almost noon, September 11, 2001. The curtain opens and the main character, Anna, is preparing a brunch for Phillip, her boyfriend of five years. She is listening to Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons Pinchas Zukerman and the English Chamber Orchestra’s La Primavera Concerto in E Major, Op.8, No. 1, or for the laymen: Spring. Anna sets the table in the dining room near the window overlooking the meadow, as she anxiously awaits Phillip’s arrival. He would be returning home very soon; and she could hardly wait. Phillip works in New York City as a Bond Trader on the top floor of the World Trade Center. Anna and Phillip live together in a beautiful home in upstate New York. They have been planning a life together with children, but just haven’t found the time in their busy work schedules to squeeze in parenthood. Today is the day she will tell Phillip she is pregnant, albeit only 2 weeks, but pregnant nonetheless.
Phillip is late, and he’s never late, and Anna is beginning to worry. She telephones his office and the operator says, “All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.” That’s a first. How strange. She puts the phone down and it immediately rings. It’s Phillip, she thought, hopefully, on his way.
Anna is about to receive a phone call that will change her life forever. She answers and it is her mother calling from Savannah; she is hysterical. “Oh, Honey, I’m so glad you picked up. No work today?”
“No, Mom. I took the day off. I’m making brunch for Phillip, but he’s running late.”
“Oh dear … you haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?”
The music is the background that begins to drown out Anna as she receives the news about the Twin Towers. She drops the phone, and turns on the TV. The audience does not see the TV, only Anna as she hears an announcer stating that thousands of lives have been lost. The scenes of the towers, falling one by one, people bleeding in the streets, New York covered in ash. Anna falls to the ground searching for the phone. Anna’s mother’s voice is yelling “Hunny! Hunny! Are you there? Anna? Anna!”
The music gets louder and Anna’s cries are silenced by Vivaldi that plays for the rest of the scene. The solemn and fitful sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons continue as Anna hysterically speaks with her mother, simultaneously while she watches the unbelievable horror unfolding in front of her eyes. The sounds of Vivaldi echo the character’s pain and anguish, as the scene ends with Anna kneeling, sobbing, and praying to God that Phillip’s life has not been lost – just as a new life is beginning inside her.
***
Full Circle
by Jen DeBellis & Kathy Smythe
Mommy, mommy, come quick
there's a monster under my bed
Sweetheart, please calm down
these monsters are all in your head
Daddy, daddy, come and see
He’s using my blankie as a bedspread
Sweetie, how bad can that monster be?
Go ask your mother for help instead
The Ghost of You (can leave now)
by Tracy Stapleton
The ghost in my bed
really lives in my head
but his boxes are in my hamper.
He still hogs the covers,
the last of my lovers,
and I think he just farted on me.
This Fear of Failure…
by Jenifer DeBellis
My words flow out freely;
these pieces of me in thoughts.
Too much to contain in one mind,
Poured out; crafted into form.
Never a fret or regret
on my way to the alter.
No thought of flee
or flight in bed of labor…
Now completely filled with fear,
trepidation, and intimidation
at the mere mentioning
of sending my words for review
Where is the bravery, or brass
of confidence and security?
Which manifests itself in
all other aspects of living breath?
Clouds of doubt, like a raging storm
shadow all judgment and reason;
torrent winds sweep through head,
lashing and licking hopes until dead.
Whirlwind of soul’s oppression
Wind and wrap around; suffocating
Spirit now flaccid; unraveling.
I dance around pit of depression.
A Story About Barney … Now that’s Scary
by Cathy Plum
What comes up at the break of day?
Brightly shines while we sing and play
And in the evening it goes away
It’s the SUN, SUN, SUN!
“Huh, huh! Hey kids! What does the Weather Bear say today?” Barney yells with great enthusiasm.
“IT’S SUNNY!” the preschool kids yell with glee.
It’s January, 1993, and I’ve invested in my one-year old son’s well-being by purchasing every Barney VHS tape I can get my hands on. Mitchy loves Barney. My mom sews up Barney crib sheets for his new big boy bed; and Barney pillow cases and shams, fuzzy blankets, a comforter with rickrack, and official stuffed Barneys in two sizes; one for traveling in the car. The years pass, and Mitchell grows out of Barney and into even more aggravating things like Pokemon.
Fast-forward a few years to 1996. My second son, Nathan, was a product of society and soon became a Barney-basher, although he did love Blue’s Clues and the Teletubbies. (At least it wasn’t the modern-day version of the Teletubbies that look like huge boobs with oversized nipples!)
The VHS collection, full of positive reinforcement, and plenty of Barney songs, was eventually passed on to my friend, Kim, who owned and operated a daycare in her home. The tapes were passed on again, when Kim hung up her baby booties, and now they are safe in the hands of my friend, Suzie. Now I watch them at Suzie’s. Each time I volunteer, it is 1993 all over again. I’m, singing, “I wish there was school everyday” with Tina, as I dance around like Barney the freakin’ dinosaur. I amaze the daycare kids with my accuracy to detail and well-planned choreography. For years, I have been teaching kids these Barney songs, and they love it … and so do I.
What comes up at the break of day?
Brightly shines while we sing and play
And in the evening it goes away
It’s the SUN, SUN, SUN!
***
Trump Building - Chicago, Illinois Photograph by Elise Cygan
Excerpt from 30 Days
by Ize Spielman
“Let’s listen to some music or something.” Aunt Christie says in that infuriating always cheery voice of hers.
My hand shoots for the radio but she gets there first and turns on only God knows what. “See, isn’t that better?”
Only if your idea of “better” is some 1950’s Broadway musical. “Look,” I pretend to care and look where my Aunts pointing. It’s at the city she lives in whose name I don’t, nor care, to know. “We’re almost there.”
The radio squeals and becomes static before turning off. Oh thank God for that…
The car stops. It doesn’t stall or sputter; it simply turns itself off. In all of an instant the engine ceases, the air conditioning halts, even the little lights on the dashboard blink out. Before I have time to really register what is going on, I get a face full of dashboard as my aunt panics and slams on the breaks, getting the car to come to a stop where the interstate splits, one side going straight and the other turning off into a tunnel. She unbuckles her seatbelt and steps out, gesturing to me to stay in the car - like she really thinks I’m going to get out. She walks over and begins talking to some old guy, occasionally looking back towards me. I look around and notice not a single car on the interstate is working. Somehow my trip just found a way to get worse.
Heads turn toward the cityscape and people point at the sky, while others start running as fast as they can away from the city. I’m trying to unbuckle my seat belt while outside people are screaming and scrambling for cover under their vehicles. A furious light that burns all it touches overtakes everything. My hands leave the seat belt buckle to try to shield my eyes from the light-brought pain. It’s still burning! I curl into a ball, now attempting to shield my face with crossed arms. It’s still burning! A roar that could be born from only the depths of hell itself surrounds me. Please God, help me. Some unseen force lifts my car and flings it as a raving young child throws a toy. Soft flesh slams into mechanical parts. For a brief, almost unperceivable moment I’m free of the bonds of gravity, but gravity, having been scorned, brings my car back into its clutches and drives it into the pavement, and I can feel myself bouncing and rolling end over end. My head hits the dashboard again and reality seems to fade for a fraction of a moment. I can’t feel anything but pain. My car rolls into the tunnel. Stop, please stop…
Pulsing waves of dry heat envelop everything and I can hear my own screaming over the roar. An impish crackle joins the cacophony as tongues of flame spring to life and dance on materials that succumb to the heat’s influence. There’s nothing but my own screams and the evil banshee wail of twisting metal. The heat seems to burn the air away. I can’t breathe! The roaring, the heat, the light are all rising, rising, rising, building to an unholy crescendo. Then, as abruptly as they came, the heat and the roaring and the light all vanish. I feel air rush into my lungs. I can hear unconsciousness call to me. And I am glad to answer.
***
My Pantoum: Lost
by Cathy Plum
I am lost
Where’s my Mom?
I’m so scared
I’m only four
This store’s so big
I am lost
I’ll hide in here
I’m so scared
Will she find me?
This store’s so big
Behind the clothes
I’ll hide in here
Here she comes
Will she find me?
I’m safe now
Behind the clothes
Where’s my Mom?
Here she comes
I’m only four
I’m safe now
CREEPY HALLOWEEN
by Nancy Washburn
“TRICK OR TREAT,” yelled the little blond girl dressed like Cinderella, as she knocked on the black door, full of cobwebs. It was dark and drizzly that night, but her dress sparkled by the shadow of the moon. A tall ghostlike figure answered, and whispered, “Happy Halloween, cutie. Here is a big, warm chocolate chip cookie just for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, and started to put it in her pumpkin-shaped tote bag.
“Oh, No! Eat it now, to make sure it is sweet enough, just like you,” he laughed.
“Okay,” she said, “I am getting hungry after all this walking. My daddy is down the block,” as she pointed towards a neighbor’s house. Suzie, a smart, innocent five-year old was not suspicious at all. So she ate the whole cookie and went on her way.
A couple hours later, when she got home, she excitedly dropped all the Tootsie Rolls, Milky Ways, and bubble gum on the table. They were all surprised to see a couple dollar bills and a few quarters in the pile. Her mom and dad were smiling to see her so happy. Suddenly, Suzie fell backwards, and hit her head on the edge of the chair. She vomited, and blacked out. Her mom screamed, and called 911.The ambulance came, and rushed her to the nearest hospital.
The doctors frantically pumped her stomach, and she went to sleep. They discovered she was poisoned. Her mom and dad had the remaining candy checked at the hospital, but nothing was tainted. When Suzie woke up, she told them about the man in the ghost costume who gave her a huge cookie. They drove over to the house the next morning, and Suzie pointed at the house. Her parents walked up the crooked steps… no black door…no cobwebs…no ghost…just an empty house.
***
Undoing
by Jenifer DeBellis
Pulling the threads from my heart,
a
single
thread
at
a
time
Your finger, still looped on the end,
flaccid edges, so frayed, left behind.
My fear: The unraveling,
the coming undone
will dawn a dark day –
there’ll be no stitches to pluck from
Yet I let you keep hold
of my heart’s undoing…
Let you have your tailor ways.
Soul open wide… while knowing
Love, placed in your artful hand
shared with you… like no other.
Yet you pull, and pluck, and unravel
what should be held together.
You must see my heart’s beating,
how it’s slowly fading away –
as the fibers outstretch from their muse,
once so intricate; now wasted, they lay.
What shall be left
once the last stitch is pulled?
The Uninvited Guests at Bill Brown’s
by Cathy Plum
In the basement of Bill Brown’s, there were the usual things one would find in a basement. A stack of old newspapers, an old radio, a box of miscellaneous items like Christmas lights, some striped wallpaper, and the broken lunchmeat drawer from the frig. The rug that Bill’s wife rolled up every Thursday night, so she could clean the kitchen floor on Friday morning, was perched in the corner, right next to her ONE ice skate that she put on once a year. She insisted on having one shoe for balance when she ice skated. When she lifted the shoed foot, she drifted across the ice with such grace, such poise, that no one noticed she was wearing only one skate.
Situated just at the bottom of the stairs was a small wooden door that lead to the plumbing access for the basement bathroom Bill had put in last summer. The door was hardly size enough to accommodate Bill, or any adult person, so it was an aesthetic addition to the basement, more than anything.
One sunny Friday morning, Bill descended into the basement to get the rug, to put back into kitchen, since Mrs. Brown had finished cleaning the kitchen floor early. On the third step from the bottom, Bill stopped mid-step. “His heart was pounding. He was sure he had seen the doorknob turn.”[1] He stood in silence for what seemed to be forever.
When forever passed, the knob turned again, but this time the door opened slightly. Bill blinked his eyes. Once; twice; hoping that with each succeeding blink, the door would close again. Instead, much to Bill’s dismay and horror, the door opened. One by one, three red balls rolled out and bumped into the bottom step.
After the three red balls, came three blue balls of light, floating about six inches above the ground at first. The light from the sun shining in from the egress paled in comparison. Each circular glowing form, independent from the other, traveled up and down and all around the basement at an alarming speed. All at once, the three spheres raced toward Bill. Terrified, he lost his footing on the steps, but before his ass hit the deck, he was lifted from harm and set at the foot of the stairs, on the bottom step.
The first circle of light came to him. Inside the glowing blue orb was a man’s face. The second and third entity also came to Bill. They, too, had some semblance of men in their core. They stared at Bill, and Bill stared back – for a long time.
“Bill! Where’s my rug?” shouted Bill’s better half.
The blue balls moved toward the rug. Without conscious effort, or hands, the trio of light picked up the rug and carried it through the air, and placed it on the landing so Bill’s ball-n-chain would think he had lovingly placed it there, immediately, at his old lady’s first beckoning.
“Thank you, dear. You’re a charm,” said Bill’s woman.
Bill and the round, colorful men had much in common, Bill thought.
***
[1] Quote by Chris VanAllsburg
Waking Dream
Dedicated to the art of John Henry Fuseli
by Stella Rothe
A young woman awoke to sunbeams streaming into her eyes. Rising tentatively from her warm blankets, she shivered as the cool morning air caressed her skin. The floor felt awkward after a long night's rest, as if she should still be sleeping and not standing upon it. A wave of dizziness engulfed her and she swayed, catching her balance by throwing her arms out to steady her body: long, bony arms; today they felt like wings.
And she could fly.
She rose up on the pads of her feet, thrust one leg out, and closed her eyes: yes, she could fly. Catch your balance, her mind screamed. Catch the wind! she corrected herself, and she took wing.
Her flight took her up a swirling staircase and into a dim room. Her eyes still closed, she felt around in the air and shuddered. Without opening her eyes, she knew what lay in the room: shadows. Shadows crawled across the floor, across the walls, up over the ceiling, and around her body: deep, thick shadows which seemed to move like smoke, engulfing her and filling her lungs. She choked. Don't lose your balance now, don't open your eyes! she willed herself, and she remained in the air: not flying now, but floating. Hovering upon a sea of smoky shadows, like an ocean of darkness, she allowed her mind to grow blank. Now she could only feel and not think, and the room held many tangible secrets.
With her fingers, the girl felt around in the dense atmosphere. She pulled strands of what seemed to be cobwebs from the ceiling to her breast, not certain whether she felt repulsed or strangely curious. She pulled more of the threads onto her bosom, allowing them to drift around her in soft, mysterious coils. Gradually, the threads began to change. Instead of silken fibers, they were fire-like in temperature and heavy in their weight. They started to entwine around the girl, twisting and pulling until her entire body was bound. Helpless to free herself she lay aloft, forced to float in the room with its dancing demons: for she was certain that demons were at work here, billowing about like smoke and binding her with spider-silk. They danced about her, first brushing seductively past her face, then flitting quickly around her feet, and finally slamming brusquely into her side with an intensity that stole her breath. A weight fell on her belly and sat there like a malevolent beast waiting for her to fall asleep so he could pull her apart. Suddenly, a freezing chill filled the room and, for a split second, everything went numb; the girl felt submerged in ice and her mind froze in terror. She felt a rush of cold air blow through the room, exiting with a deafening swoosh of sound.
Just as suddenly as the demons had arrived, they fled, and the girl was released from her torment. Slowly, the webs that encased her unwound, drifting away to she knew not where. She longed to open her eyes, but some invisible force held them shut as if a large hand was clamped across them. The weightlessness that had held the girl hostage disappeared, and she found herself able to fly once more. Should I go on? she wondered. She must.
Drifting into a second room, she sniffed. The scent of must, mold, and dampness filled her nose with an odor that was akin to death. It was as if the room itself had died and rotted away. Perhaps it had. Flying blindly, the girl had no sense of place except that she was someplace: not far from where she had just been, and not far from her bed in the basement below. Whether or not this place had solid walls and floors was a mystery. From the red light that filled her closed eyelids, and the cool, uneasy breeze that sifted through her hair, the girl guessed that there were either many open windows, or that the walls were crumbling into dust and exposing sunlight. Yes, that must be it, she thought, dust. Rot. The slow decay of wood and carpet. Her mind grew restless in this diseased room, and she longed to fly elsewhere. Yet somehow, the sad odors of this forlorn room made her feel pity for its existence. Did rooms remember conversations of past inhabitants? Did walls see faces and floors feel footprints? Was that how ghosts were created and entities given life? The girl could sense bodies below her, but she had the distinct feeling that they were only blighted pieces of furniture. Why, then, did their presence feel so real, so heavy and sorrow-filled? Did furniture absorb a bit of energy every time someone sat upon or touched it? The girl rested her arm upon what seemed to be the most tortured body of all, and felt nothing but velvet, old and grainy. The wretched body was nothing but an old sofa. Who had suffered on this sofa to infuse it with so strong an energy? The girl squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could manage. At the back of her mind, she could hear a woman screaming. Men were shouting and a dog was barking. The odor of mildew turned to the odor of sweat and blood, of human skin and salty tears. The woman's screams faded away and were replaced by the wails of a newborn infant. A man began sobbing and called out a female name, and in that instant it was clear that the wailing infant's mother was dead. Trembling, the girl flung her hand off of the decaying sofa. It was time to leave this room, with its ghosts of time and memory. Raising her arms above her head, she soared out of the oppressive chamber and into a narrow hallway.
The girl knew that the hallway was narrow because she immediately flew into a wall. Almost falling, she flew to the left and her shoulder slammed into yet another wall. Was the ceiling as low as this hall was narrow? Stretching her arms as far as they could go, she lifted her body upwards and soared up, up, up. At last her hands touched a surface of wood and steel-cold hardware. An attic door? A portal to heaven? There was only one way to find out. Feeling around in the blind darkness, the girl's hand touched a looped door-handle and tugged it until it dropped open. She felt a gust of air and flew forward, arriving in a room where candlelight flickered, creating shadow-dances under her closed eyelids. Here was a room she should not have entered, she quickly understood, as drops of warm liquid fell onto her head, dripping onto her shoulders and face, and sliding into her mouth. The salty iron taste was blood, and it began to pour over her until she was so heavy with it that she could barely stay afloat. Who suffered here? she screamed inside her mind, raising her arms to the heavens. Strong hands grasped her throat and clutched it until she was almost forced to open her eyes. “Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes!” A voice close to her ears whispered. All around her head, a stabbing pain emerged, as if thorns were digging into her skull. Her head, her eyes, her body, every fiber of her being was in mortal agony. The vice-grip around her neck and head tightened. Images of angels, devils, minor deities, and hellish creatures spun around and around until a bright light broke through. She had to open her eyes. Don't open your eyes. She had to open her eyes.
The girl's eyes flew open, her arms went awry, and she fell off balance, landing in a soft heap on her bed. Sitting up, her arms sore and her legs throbbing, she smiled. Her flight of fancy was over; the tour through her haunted house was no more than a waking dream through her own haunted mind.
***
Scared Yet?
by Cathy Plum
I guess I’m scared of some THING, some THING really bad,
But thinking all about it only makes me sad.
It’s not the dark, I’ve changed my mind, I don’t mind high up places,
I like the dark AND stormy nights, and don’t mind burnt up faces.
I worked for A-hole bosses, and in the double D,
And now that I am big, those things just don’t scare me.
I don’t like doctors or hospitals, so I just stay away,
The things that used to scare me – don’t scare me now today.
Thank you for taking the time to view our collection of writings. We hope you enjoyed them.
