See the frightening of the child,
I think he's angry at the wild.
He finds it hard to see the queen,
Overshadowed by the creepy murine.
Who is that stinging near the zombie?
I think she'd like to eat the combi.
She is but a creepy musician,
Admired as she sits upon a commission.
Her textbook car is just a ghost,
It needs no gas, it runs on military post.
She's not alone she brings a pepper,
a pet wolf, and lots of colpepper.
The wolf likes to chase an animal,
Especially one that's in the anomal.
The child shudders at the hyperactive zebra
He want to leave but she wants the libra.Start writing...
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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