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Story DoodlesJust thinking to myself today, and happened on this thought.
All of those around us, seem to lack a growing plot.
The artists go and doodle fun, but writers left behind.
Why then can't we, the writers, be artistically inclined?
Enough of drabble bleak and dim, with out the sparkling flair.
Let writers go and doodle words, upon the open air.
Rain PoemSprinkle, sprinkle, lovely rain,
Dripping slowly down a chain.
Sprinkle rain, from up above,
Wet the world with drops of love.
A Cat and a CatastropheA pile of wood, moist and cold, sat precariously on the back porch. The frigid temperatures were enough to make ice crystals form on the damp bark, but each piece remained perfect for it's inevitable fate aflame in the stove to keep the resident of this home warm through the long hard winter nights.
Red fur fluffed up as the petite cat shivered. Doubt was definitely feeling the season this year, with a glance to the stove and seeing nothing but embers, he knew it was time to brave the cutting winds outside once more. Glancing out the sliding glass at the uneven piles of chopped logs on the porch, the cat sighed and grabbed his coat before opening the door to his frigid doom.
Cruising down the aged road at a weary 20mph, an officer of the law scanned the area outside his car windows. He'd been alerted to a series of recent thefts in the neighborhood, and was on his toes for any suspicious activities. As his car began to pass one of the homes on the outskirts of the residency, the police
The OwlI am an owl, wise and old. Eyes open wide, burning yet cold.
"What say ye, to the owl?" The owl asks the man.
"I say to thee, Owl, my life needs three."
"Three of what?" Asked the owl, a tilt to his head.
"Three to cherish, to love, to hold."
"What will ye give, to have such three?"
"I give ye my body, my heart, my soul."
"Why?" asks the owl with a grandfathers stare.
"My soul to cherish, my heart to love, and my body to hold." the man replied with a bow.
The owl gave a nod and spread his wings wide. "To you will have three, but none more then that. To gain, you must loose. And that is just that."
The owl flapped his wings and soared from the tree. Leaving the man alone with just three.
Three holes in his being only others can fill. Three others to find and make his mind one, one of heart, one of soul, one of body.
A lover, a soulmate, a friend.
Only room for three.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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