Once upon a midnight dreary,
I read some Poe till my eyes grew bleary
While I like the rhyme and its style archaic
But to call it horror was a mis-taik
Now Stephen King can shiver my spine
A reading him alone – is best in daytime
So to choose between Edgar Allan and the King of Horror
Well sorry Poe, “Nevermore!”
Padre
Виктория Бородинова at Pixabay
Detective Kowalsky starred up from his backgammon board at the man who had just spoken to him. It wasn’t every day that he received visitors, and never unexpectedly like this.
“Yes, I’m Curtis Kowalsky,” he replied. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Lieutenant Bridges, and I’d like to ask you about one of your old cases, Detective.”
“Why? Someone trying to overturn a conviction or something?”
“No Sir, nothing like that. It’s about one of your ‘unsolveds.’ We have one that’s come up that’s similar,” Bridges replied.
“Which one?” the old detective queried.
“The Delano Case,” the younger policeman responded.
Kowalsky turned pale for a moment, then looked around the day room. Seeing a nurse he waved her over.
“Milly, be a dear and help me to my room, and don’t start to ramble on about rules, but this man is going to accompany us there. This is police business.”
Mr. Curt, you know . . . ”
“Not a word of it Milly. Please, just do what I ask.”
She relented and helped the aged detective into his walking frame, and then escorted him and Bridges to his room.
“A half hour, no more. Do you understand?” she said.
“Yes -yes an hour!” Kowalsky replied. “And shut the door behind you.”
Milly shook her head, started to say something, and then departed.
“That case,” Kowalsky said, when she had left. “That case ruined my life.”
“I’m sorry to have to bring it up then, Detective Kowalsky.” Bridges said apologetically. “It is important to though, I’m afraid.”
“Just call me Curt, and let’s get on with it,” the old man said drawing in a deep breath.
Padre
Pixabay
“Is the intelligence report ready, Lieutenant Zorg?”
“Yes Commander” the Vivivian replied.
“A brief synopsis, please,” the Commander instructed.
“Very good, Commander. The third planet has limited useful resources owing to over exploitation, but may well be a viable contact opportunity. Our analysis of the communications from the planet suggest that the two dominant species seem to be “Humanians” and “Covidians,” though we have only really been able to decipher the communications of the former. It seems that there is presently a conflict, and the Humanians are in disarray at recent offensive moves by the Covidians.”
“Interesting” the Commander said. “Continue.”
“As I have said, this is all from the Humanian perceptive and they are divided in their responses. The two biggest factions seem to be Maskers and Anti-Maskers.”
“Maskers?” the Commander queried.
“Ah yes – masks seem to be some sort of artificial barriers that are placed over the respiratory organs of these creatures.”
“Hmm,” the Commander said contemplatively.
“The whole thing seems to have led to unrest as well with many Humanians avoiding the hostilities by isolating themselves and maintaining a distance from others of their species of what we calculate to be 0.6 of a Xeih. Others, however seem to be calling for the “taking of a knee,” some sort of bending of one of their self-propulsion organs. This seems to be resisted by one of the three main species leaders, a um, yes that’s it, Trump.”
“So they have a divided command structure?”
“Yes Commander – the other world leaders seem to be a Fauci, and a Greta. That is all we have at the moment though.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I think we will wait for their hostilities to end before we land and offer them universal health and happiness. They don’t seem prepared for it yet.”
Padre
Pixabay
There was a long time ago,
In days of old, as you may know –
Fairies, and all kind of folk fey –
That we seldom see around us today.
Among these was – Princess Jacaranda – Royal,
Whose mother Queen Pandorea – did tend to spoil.
She was so accustomed to getting her way
That in the Blackberry Patch Kingdom –
She refused to stay.
So she did wander so far from home
That she found herself lost and quite alone.
Thus isolated in an unfamiliar land
With no one to guide her or give her a hand –
She succumbed to her fears
And she fell into tears –
Ultraviolet streaks down her face.
And if you go near –
Even today – you will hear –
Her sobs as you pass by the place.
Padre
Once Upon a Time – “you must use all four of the paint chip words, which are royal, jacaranda, ultraviolet, and blackberry. You can either include the angel card word or just allude to the concept of obedience (or disobedience, if you prefer).
‘Cigar Bar Evening Lounge’ by Brent Lynch
Lush melodies drew her to the door of the lounge, the friendly smiles enticed her inside. Chardonnay hadn’t intended at stopping here, as was on the way to her usual haunts for a night of clubbing. There was something about this place that captured her imagination though, and just one drink wouldn’t take too long. But just in case, she typed Might be late onto her iPhone. Hmm, no signal she observed. That’s weird.
She glanced around the place, the ambiance was wild, almost like it belonged in a Mickey Spillane novel. She was a little self-conscious as she made her way to the bar, as her clothes didn’t exactly fit into her surroundings. But hey, a little black dress fits in anywhere, she reassured herself.
As she reached the bar, the barman cast a suspicious eye at her.
“Can I have a house white please?” she asked. This merely resulted in the barman’s expression changing to puzzlement.
“Make it a Manhattan, Louie,” a sharply dressed gentleman seated at the bar said. “And put it on my tab.”
“Um, okay,” Chardonnay said a little suspiciously. “Thank you.”
“So what’s your name Doll-face,” the rugged stranger asked.
“Chardonnay, like the wine,” she responded.
The man stared quizzically for a moment, and then said, “That’s an unusual name.”
“My mom, loves the stuff,” she replied with a shrug and a feigned giggle. “You know I have never been in a theme bar before,” she said.
The man gave another brief look of confusion and then said, “My name is Edgar, but everybody calls me Edge. What brings a girl like you into a place like this, Chardene?”
“Chardonnay,” she corrected. “I was on my way to The Galaxy,” she said, “but stopped here because of the music.”
“The Galaxy?” he queried. “That dive ain’t a place for a dame like you.”
“Um – thank you,” she said, again unsure of how to respond.
“You know the mob has their finger in that pie,” Edge said. “Though it’s a good place to find information sometimes, as long as I’m discrete.”
“Information?” Chardonnay asked.
“Yeah, I’m a P. I.. Maybe you’ve heard of me – Edge O’Malley.”
“Oh, that Edge,” she said with feigned admiration, in an attempt to play along with the establishment’s theme. This might be fun to do some night with Zoe and Cari, she thought. We could dress up and it would be a ball, playing make believe.
“Well Edge, thank you for the drink, but I need to get over to The Galaxy and meet some of the dames from the office,” she said.
This again drew an uncertain look from Edge, but he shook her hand and said, “You take care of yourself, Doll.”
Chardonnay then made her way across the lounge, and out into the streets of 1947 Los Angeles.
Padre
Pixabay
Petunia June had spent far to long at court. Yes, she had important functions, and had even been godmother to not just one, but three princesses; but she was tired. She was what her own godmother called bone-weary. But now she was going home. “Home,” the word sounded odd to her. Hadn’t the palace been her home twice as long as her little village in the glen had? As she topped a small rise, she caught sight of if for the first time in decades. There before her in all its splendor were the white towers, and red roofs of her memories and dreams. At long last, the Fairy Godmother was indeed “home.”
Padre
Pixabay
As Wilfred entered the flickering glow, he discovered that the passage was lined with an assortment of high quality, state of the art armour. There was no coherent pattern as far as he could detect. There seemed to be Nordlanic, Ralulee, and Kingdom styles, yet each bore the rearing dragon sigel of Hanon. As he slowly passed these, there was an occasional roar, as if a great burst of breath was being released. These bursts echoed through the cavern. Each of them was accompanied by a momentary increase in the brightness of the passage. At the last of these, he noted a bunk wedged in among the racks of armour and weapons. On the bunk rested the other sentry, a blindfold of sorts shielding his eyes from the periodic flashes of scarlet light, as he slumbered.
Wilfred wasted no time, but quickly repeated the procedure whereby he had captured the other guard. The man thus incapacitated, Wilfred rounded a bend in the tunnel towards the sound of the incessant metallic pounding.
What he discovered was a group of Dwarves working a huge set of bellows and working anvils on which they were affixing dragon crests to armour, or replicating weapons in the styles of those Wilfred had seen in racks.
“Who are you, Boy?” one burly Dwarf snapped, “and where are the guards?”
“Guards?” Wilfred repeated. It was only then that he noticed that the Dwarves were shackled. “I – I um – tied them up.”
“Well then what are you wait’n for?” the lead Dwarf challenged. “Come and unlock us.”
“But, I don’t have a key,” Wilfred replied. “Why don’t you just use your tools to break out?”
“Why don’t you just use your tools?” the Dwarf mocked. “Why didn’t we think a-that? Becuz the chains is bleed’n magic ain’t they?” the Dwarf spat. “Why don’t you go and fetch the bloody key?” the Dwarf said coldly.
Wilfred hurried back to the bunk, and there on a hook was a key with mysterious runes on it. He went back to the Dwarves, and held it up.
“Yes -yes. That’s it,” the lead Dwarf said, “So get on with it.”
“First, tell me where the dragon is,” Wilfred insisted.
“There ain’t no bleed’n dragon, you dunce,” the Dwarf responded. “It’s all a ruze. A ploy. Them Hannies made up the bloom’n dragon caper so they could steal the armour and weapons to equip their army. This place ain’t got no iron to speak of, and no good smitties that’s for certain. So they lure heroes ‘ere and ambush ’em. That’s how they got me and the lads as well. But they kept us alive to do their dirty work. The rest they strip, then toss in the furnace – just long enough to char them – mind. Then they take the bodies back to the border to build up their dragon yarn. Now, about the bloom’n key.”
“I will let you go, but I need you to do something for me first,” Wilfred said.
“And what might that be?” the lead Dwarf asked with a huff.
“I want you to make me a dragon’s head.”
Padre
CCC #88
It had long been believed that the extinction of the dinosaurs had been the direct result of a meteor strike in the Caribbean. Though no one at NASA or NOAA had ever acknowledged the fact, a deep ocean scan in the 1960s had discovered that rather than a large meteor, the object that struck was in fact a large spacecraft which hit at a much lower velocity that originally believed. This craft had been examined by a joint American and French team with recovery operations led by Jacque Cousteau. Much had been learned, but the cause of the crash had never been adequately explained until an amateur photographer in the English county of Norfolk happened onto a huge nut, of an unidentified alloy, along the coastline. The mystery had been solved. Official explanations for her discovery, however, have been covered up under the Official Secrets Act, and buried within a series of photo-prompted sketches on a popular blogging site.
Padre
Tatyana-Sanina at DeviantArt.com
Miranda awoke in a dark corner of the subway passage. She knew she had drank too much last night, but that wasn’t unusual for a Friday night. But she had never not managed to get home before, or at least to her friend Caren’s.
Okay, what could she remember? Caren went off with that stock-broker type. And then – and then there was the hot guy with the wavy hair. Bryan – no Ryan, that was it. They drank, and danced, and then drank. Wait, he got that third round from the bar by himself. Had he drugged her? she wondered. She instinctively reached down to check her panties. Well that was a relief. Her neck was a bit sore though. Was he that juvenile to give her a hickey love bite? Anyway, she would look at it in the mirror when she got home.
As she headed to the stairway, she had a instinctive terror. She stopped unable to step any closed to the sunlight streaming down the stairs. What was going on? Why did she “know” she couldn’t step into the light?
Padre
image: Wikipedia
I have recently come across a YouTube channel called Epic Rap Battles of History. I love the use of verbal play and cadence, and how it is employed to teach history and literature on this site. I cannot personally rap for beans, but I do like the form. Please check out the links below the poem, there is a lot to explore for those of you unfamiliar with it.
I’m no battler. I lack the flow.
I can’t drop bars; cuz I’m much to slow.
A sonnet or cinquain, their my thing
But I can’t rap – for anything
And it’s like Weird Al, cuz I’m White and nerdy
I am nonetheless a fan of all things wordy
No, it’s more like – a personal thing
Just look at Yahzick, that “nerd” can sing
Padre
Epic Rap Battle – Literature:
Epic Rap Battle – History (A bit rude):
Epic Rap Battle – Philosophy (Warning contains a lot of swearing):
Weird Al:
Yahzick:
Padre's Ramblings 