The Daschund

The little brown daschund barked into the night--at war with the wind. The lights around the neighborhood turned on and danced around this barking dog. His owners could not calm him, for no tasty snack could persuade him to stop. He yapped with a great superiority, as if he alone was there to defend his post. Oh, but he was quite incessant, making the city lights shake irritably as they tried to go back to sleep. He kept barking until finally the restless wind gave a low growl back. Taken aback, the little daschund whimpered in retreat and the wind continued on...


Daughter of a Rajah

In a hazy dream, she managed to walk herself toward the red cushioned ottoman and delicately laid herself down. Half expecting an Iya to appear, for she felt terribly ethnic in her harem pants, she waited and she waited only to find her mother passing by her, tickling her feet as she came. Giggling, she loses her balance, gasps, and falls off the ottoman, exhaling into a deep sleep as she did so.

(I'm not so sure about this.)


Cerulean Shadows Dancing on My Nightstand

"Oh, damn," she said to herself. Here she sat alone, in a room, forlorn by the mute walls which appeared to be run down as they themselves were taking a beating by the lonesome gloom. And the artifacts that lay about here and there and on the bed, a guitar pick, a hair brush, a fallen stuffed elephant seemed to stare at her in the most dreary appeal as if they themselves can understand the nature of an exhausted plea. The silence follows.



There was a little girl by the name of Ethel. She had an odd shaped head with hair of crimson and freckles all over her cheeks. When one day she asked her father: "Why must these specks appear as though they have been drawn on by the sun's rays, and why do they not wash?"
In regards to Ethel's inquiry, he father simply grinned and replied: "Oh, my dear Ethel. They are specks of gold, they are sunspots and--and they, they are very special, you see." In taking this in, she sighed with an expression of slight irritation, yet she could not get past what was so important about them. She knew her father had a tendency to make up fairy tales for her amusement, and though sometimes she grew tired of his nonsensical answers, she could not help but be captivated by his stories and so, she grew curious.

"Why, papa? Why are they special?" For a moment, her father began to question that himself since he only made it up just to please her. Her father looked off at a distance, trying to think of what to say next. He gazed around the room they were in. There were stacks of books covering the walls. Some looked as if they had been read in all sorts of occasions, for their bindings were worn and they had softer pages than the newer books. All around, this room was filled with the world. There were atlases from all sorts of map makers posted on the walls and artwork as well as trivial nick nacks aquired from past travels. It was heftily filled with foreign trinkets that if a passerby would walk into this room, he would feel nothing but lost in centuries of forgotten history; he would be mesmorized by how the world seemed to fit in this very room. But then his gaze stopped as he looked at a small figurine of a fairy. It was a small, frivilous little buy that was owned by his wife. It had porcelain skin with painted garb of blue and wings that looked almost frail. Maybe that is why it stays put, he thought, for the wings looked much too weak for flight. Then it came to him, the story for Ethel's inquistive heart, the story of the "sunspots".

To be continued...

Picture source unknown


And I am completely and utterly captivated by him.

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