My name is ____ I am going to be an Artist, clogger, and a doctor, and a singer oh yaa and a drumer. This is my song: ding dong sing a song do dau liy do I love you and I hope that you will sing with me though I have too go dansing I'l see you in spring summersolting. I hope you liked my song. Good-bye.


This is a poem about this flower:

Flower is sow nice

As sweet as ice, sow I smele

I't we'ne ever I can. and

I named it San and I

Ran Oh San hade got a sun

Tan. oh She needed some

Water So I went to get

Her some water. but

Then I frgot her oh no!


And the dinosor fell in the tar and the

And the mammoth fell in the tar. And the dinosor was hungary and he tried to eat the mammoth but he got stuck to. And the human was smart and bonced on there backs to make them mad and tried out. But he got stuck to! And they all died.


Hallways branched off at random intervals from the main hall and doors were scattered profusely along the walls. Michael had yet to see anyone who may know the way to room 182, for the numbering of the rooms had to have been done by a madman. Room number 1A faced room 42 across the hall which sat next to room X and was two doors down from room 203, up hallway Q. Water stained tile of the distinctly off-white variety lined every hall and the low ceilings were aged yellow along with the ragged wall paper on each side.


In fact, I was rather hungry, but I was also uneasy. They're going to buy our house, the thought flitted through my mind like an unwelcome raven of promise.


A skreech and whine of rusted metal announced Delta's enterance, followed by the soft clicks and occaisonal thump made by the single-legged skeleton crossing the threshold on crutches. Delta screamed to a stop, leaving an orange trail of oxygenated metal in the wake of its brittle wheels. Rotating its orbish head, which resembled a large globe resting on the garbage can on wheels that was Delta's body, the stumpy robot scanned the cafe for two empty seats.


Despite the man's obvious handicap of his mind vacationing in Mexico, he managed to glide through the day without mishap. At first, after the unexpected thought of being a farmer, the man struggled to remember just what a 'farmer' did. "Cows," he thought - but post-cow-search he found none. "Fields, machines" - but this time, the man's search turned up a field. A decrepit field, bare of cows, but a field still - with a small tool shed tangent to it, even.


This platuea erupted from the speck that was Earth below. Storms and hurricanes swept past below its face. It was topped in glowing summer grass that stretched to the very cliff's edge. Centered on the plane was an odd outline: straight white lines intersecting other white lines in a vaguely square pattern. The plateau's core shivered. The pattern ejeted itself from the green plane, stretching beneath it hazy walls of, more or less, the consistincy of water sprayed from a hose in the summer when rainbows skip between droplets, minus the water. Rooms grew and burst in sprays of light, the outer walls shivered and hardened, a roof of filmy, fogged light spread itself over the rooms and didn't bother to harden.

The grass, of course, new nothing of, or even cared about why their fellows had been inexplicably made a meal of by a lovely summer cottage.


The hunt was over so quickly the Prince could hardly stammer. No matter how hard he had rode, the stranger had galloped faster without any apparent effort. He dodged trees, leaped ravines, and always remained in the lead. Once he had looked back at the dogged Prince, and the man swore he saw a flash of blue light from impossibly large eyes before the dark stranger turned back, night winds tugging wildly at his cloak.

Unexpectedly, the stag made a sharp turn and came barreling back at the Prince. And when he was still stringing his bow, the stranger let his arrow loose with a dead whistle and a sickening tear of shredding flesh. The Prince glanced up to see the stranger stringing his bow again.


Bitter antiseptic struck Michael's sinuses, skipping over the raw, red muscele and sweeping over his brain. The buzz hum of patients and staff throbbed, making the vein behind his eye swell and pound. He bent, head between knees. Sniffed.

It was the slick, oddly shiny stain by his foot. It smelled like - Michael moaned - he really did not want to know.


"I told them I couldn't take care of those kids. I told them I don't know the first thing about this stuff. And they're crazy, seriously, are all kids like this or did I just get stuck with th-" he broke off, twisting his mouth, "God. It's not their fault. It's their parents'. I mean, family's family but they were seriously screwed up. All those weirdo books all over the place, couldn't even move in that place. I mean," he began to wave his hands, pointing around the kitchen, "under the sink, on all the freaking chairs, whole rooms totally lined with the things. And they'd just sit there. The whole family perched on whatever they can find, never talking or anything. Didn't even look like they were breathing most of the time. And those twins - they've got some kind of freaky sci-fi thing going on, don't even talk to eachother, just give eachother weird looks and they know. There's something seriously screwed up with this family!"


Perhaps He notices, perhaps one of the hulking men behind him whispers something in his ear, but He spins and advances on me, spluttering. A thug, all noir suit and opaque glasses, grips me by the shoulders and swings me up.

He yells at me, too.

I just blink at him. Someone once told me I have "grave eyes, pools of ponderings and philosophy". This someone was a nice kind of person, until he went away one day gibbering about vitreous humor and how it really isn't funny at all.

[Perspective, in Tagged]


He cringes, eyes squinching at the corners. He thinks I'm nasty. He's talking and waving over beyond the trees so the camera around his neck thumps in his chest. His tie's a technicolor print of Spiderman, all reds and blacks, so it looks like the camera's beating the hero around the head.


The needle whipped cleanly through the wound in the book's side, the thread drawing up the new pages in stiff tugs. Occassionally a paper would rasp with the sound of breath under anesthetic. Sean's fingers worked expertly over the flayed spine, pinching and pressing alternately as he revived the book.

[NCTE entry]


The frayed light scatters over the ceiling, little lost threads from God's sewing box. I pluck the fibers from my mittens, pulling the thumbs together again, and wait for God to start darning up the world.

[NCTE entry, impromptu]


"It seems familiar, is all I'm saying."

I shook my head, unable to speak for the layers of toast shale tumbling in my mouth. She always managed to burn the toast. Said it gave it a "flavorful character". I still say the phrase is "structural integrity."

"Really, now," she turned the screen to better suit my angle, "look at that. Tell me you haven't seen that before."

I looked. I shrugged. I examined the pores of my toast. "Sorry, but you lost me."

The End

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