The sun sets on another day and I look forward to sleep. Will I get to see you again? As the night sky fades from my vision I smile at the thought.
When my eyes open up the world is changed. The colors aren't quite as bright, like it is an old Hollywood picture; filmed in Technicolor, I suppose.
I'm dressed in a grey three-piece suit, wearing glasses and carrying a briefcase as I stroll down the street. I'm not sure where I'm heading off to, but I hope to see you there. I round a corner and...
...there you are. Your hair looks perfect, as always, and you're wearing a vintage stewardess outfit, navy blue. I like how you've accessorized with the white gloves. Very sheik.
We have both come to a stop and our faces light up as we just gaze at each other. And that is when time gets a little funny.
The world begins to change. Colors get more vivid. The styles of clothing change, and hairstyles,too. I see automobiles going through changes as well, and time has very clearly jumped ahead to the present, or something near it.
As we walk toward each other, prepared to embrace, each steps seems to take us farther away. Time begins to flux once again. It is as though time itself is what is keeping us apart.
Then I wake up.
My immediate feeling is sadness; I've lost you once again. But then a new thought comes to mind and I begin to smile.
It is only a matter of time before we meet again. A matter of time before I hold you close to me and kiss your sweet lips.
As the morning sun begins its ascent and brightens the new day I am filled with a sense of joy and calm. I am one day closer to spending the rest of my life with you. It is something to dream about. It is something worth waiting for.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Not the Real Ending
Author's note: I started writing this really late one night. While I do have plans to expand upon it and make an actual fairytale of this, the ending that I tacked on made me laugh. You'll see it coming from a mile away (or you could just look down, but that's cheating), but so what? Sometimes life just needs a little silliness.
*****
One morning in the Land of Fairy a boy woke up. While this would not seem terribly remarkable, it was, because we all know that the Land of Fairy doesn't exist. The boy knew this too, so you can imagine his astonishment.
Fairy is a bright, vivid land. The green grass, regardless of which side of the fence it is on, is greener. The sky is bluer, and the sun is brighter and shines with a warmth that feels like a hug from the person you love the most. This was how the boy knew it to be the Land of Fairy.
The boy squinted up at the sun. He had be laying in the grass near a tall old oak whose leaves were shining like emeralds. The grass felt cool and soft.
The boy stood up, taking in a breath of the freshest, cleanest air he had ever breathed. A warm smile spread across his face and he thought, "I wish I could stay here forever."
Then a dragon swooped down and gobbled him up, and the boy got his wish.
The End
*****
One morning in the Land of Fairy a boy woke up. While this would not seem terribly remarkable, it was, because we all know that the Land of Fairy doesn't exist. The boy knew this too, so you can imagine his astonishment.
Fairy is a bright, vivid land. The green grass, regardless of which side of the fence it is on, is greener. The sky is bluer, and the sun is brighter and shines with a warmth that feels like a hug from the person you love the most. This was how the boy knew it to be the Land of Fairy.
The boy squinted up at the sun. He had be laying in the grass near a tall old oak whose leaves were shining like emeralds. The grass felt cool and soft.
The boy stood up, taking in a breath of the freshest, cleanest air he had ever breathed. A warm smile spread across his face and he thought, "I wish I could stay here forever."
Then a dragon swooped down and gobbled him up, and the boy got his wish.
The End
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Bone and Blade
Author's note: I want to turn this into a short film. Just saying.
*****
The clash of steel echoed through the Valley of Souls. In the blazing afternoon sunlight a battle of two champions was being waged. A battle that would settle a feud between two ancient, royal houses. A feud so old that no one even remembered what it was about. And yet, still they battled.
Sir Alrec hammered another blow into the shield of his nemesis, Sir Kale. It jolted his arm but splintered the tower shield. His arm, numbed by the impact, gave his foe time to recover from the staggering strike.
Kale cast aside the pieces of his now useless shield. He gripped his bastard sword firmly with both hands. Swinging with all of the might he could summon he swept his blade horizontally toward his enemy's sword arm.
The blade tore through Sir Alrec's armor. It bit into his arm, slicing flesh and tendons. It smashed into the bone and...stopped.
Alrec threw down his sword and screamed in agony as Kale yanked on the stuck blade. The blade would not move.
"In the name of all holy things, man," yelled Alrec. "Pull the cursed thing out!"
Kale pulled again, but to no effect. "I'm trying," he shouted.
He braced his foot onto Alrec's leg, gripped the sword with both hands and pulled. His teeth clenched, muscles strained. Finally he went flying and crashed to the ground.
"Ah ha! I..." Sir Kale looked at the empty gauntlets, then looked to Sir Alrec. He stood there still, the sword lodged firmly in his arm.
Alrec flipped up his visor with his good hand. He stood, hands on hips, the sword following his movements like it was part of him. He looked quite angry.
"Get this blade out of my arm, Kale," he growled.
Kale shrugged his shoulders. "I'm trying," he whined. "This has never happened before."
"Well it would take an idiot like you to manage it," said Alrec. He swung the arm up and down. "I mean, just look at this! I'd rather lose the whole arm than have your stupid blade lodged in it! I mean honestly, who taught you how to fight?"
"It was Sir..."
"Sir Swings Like a Sissy," Alrec interrupted.
Kale fumed. "Don't talk about my teacher like that. Sir Tristan was a great man."
"Ha," spat Alrec. "Great at teaching you how to be an awful knight. If I'd have known you were so inept I would never have agreed to this duel. I can't afford to walk around with a sword stuck in my arm! What will the ladies say?"
"I'm sorry." Kale held up his hands in a gesture of calm. He stepped back toward Alrec. "Here, let me try again," he said, reaching for the sword.
"Curse it, man," said Alrec. "Your gauntlets and chain gloves."
"What of them," asked Kale, looking them over.
Alrec rolled his eyes. "Take them off, you dolt. So you can get a proper grip!"
"Oh," said Kale sheepishly. With hanging head, he slowly pulled off the gauntlets and gloves. He felt like a scolded child.
He braced his foot onto Alrec's thigh once again. Alrec firmed his footing. "Pull, you pansy!"
Pushing with his leg, Kale once again tried to extract the sword. He groaned with the exertion. Sweat beaded upon his brow. Still, the sword would not move.
"You're pathetic," spat Alrec. "You're a weakling."
Kale stayed silent but stepped forward and placed his other foot onto the man's thigh. With both legs and arms he strained to pull out the sword.
"This is ridiculous," Alrec scolded. "It should have cut through the bloody bone by now."
Kale hopped off of his foe's leg, panting. "I'm...sorry," he said, resting his hands on his shaking thighs. "It may...have been a bit...dull."
"DULL!" Alrec was positively roaring now. "What kind of knight goes into a duel with a dull sword? You are the most useless, incompetent fool of a knight I have ever met. It's a wonder your house is still in existence!"
Alrec shoved Sir Kale with the bloody sword arm. He stumbled and fell. Standing over is prostrate form, Alrec continued to hurl insults.
"You're lower than a worm. You manure sucking slime!"
Kale slowly got to his feet. He'd had enough of this. Striding forward he reached out to Alrec, who continued his tirade.
"A dull blade, he says! No self respecting knight goes into battle with a dull..."
His words were cut off by the hand wrapped tightly around his jaw. He looked on, bewildered, into Sir Kale's blank face.
"I'm sorry about the sword," said Kale, calmly. "But you'll be pleased to know that I keep my dagger quite sharp."
With that he plunged the blade, up to the hilt, in Sir Alrec's forehead. The knight's eyes crossed as he looked up at the blade. He tried to say something, then toppled backwards to the ground. The fall sent the sword flopping out of Alrec's arm.
"Ah," said Kale. He picked up the sword and placed it in its scabbard. "I must have loosened it up."
He then reached down and took hold of the dagger. It didn't budge.
Sir Kale groaned. "Oh, hells."
*****
The clash of steel echoed through the Valley of Souls. In the blazing afternoon sunlight a battle of two champions was being waged. A battle that would settle a feud between two ancient, royal houses. A feud so old that no one even remembered what it was about. And yet, still they battled.
Sir Alrec hammered another blow into the shield of his nemesis, Sir Kale. It jolted his arm but splintered the tower shield. His arm, numbed by the impact, gave his foe time to recover from the staggering strike.
Kale cast aside the pieces of his now useless shield. He gripped his bastard sword firmly with both hands. Swinging with all of the might he could summon he swept his blade horizontally toward his enemy's sword arm.
The blade tore through Sir Alrec's armor. It bit into his arm, slicing flesh and tendons. It smashed into the bone and...stopped.
Alrec threw down his sword and screamed in agony as Kale yanked on the stuck blade. The blade would not move.
"In the name of all holy things, man," yelled Alrec. "Pull the cursed thing out!"
Kale pulled again, but to no effect. "I'm trying," he shouted.
He braced his foot onto Alrec's leg, gripped the sword with both hands and pulled. His teeth clenched, muscles strained. Finally he went flying and crashed to the ground.
"Ah ha! I..." Sir Kale looked at the empty gauntlets, then looked to Sir Alrec. He stood there still, the sword lodged firmly in his arm.
Alrec flipped up his visor with his good hand. He stood, hands on hips, the sword following his movements like it was part of him. He looked quite angry.
"Get this blade out of my arm, Kale," he growled.
Kale shrugged his shoulders. "I'm trying," he whined. "This has never happened before."
"Well it would take an idiot like you to manage it," said Alrec. He swung the arm up and down. "I mean, just look at this! I'd rather lose the whole arm than have your stupid blade lodged in it! I mean honestly, who taught you how to fight?"
"It was Sir..."
"Sir Swings Like a Sissy," Alrec interrupted.
Kale fumed. "Don't talk about my teacher like that. Sir Tristan was a great man."
"Ha," spat Alrec. "Great at teaching you how to be an awful knight. If I'd have known you were so inept I would never have agreed to this duel. I can't afford to walk around with a sword stuck in my arm! What will the ladies say?"
"I'm sorry." Kale held up his hands in a gesture of calm. He stepped back toward Alrec. "Here, let me try again," he said, reaching for the sword.
"Curse it, man," said Alrec. "Your gauntlets and chain gloves."
"What of them," asked Kale, looking them over.
Alrec rolled his eyes. "Take them off, you dolt. So you can get a proper grip!"
"Oh," said Kale sheepishly. With hanging head, he slowly pulled off the gauntlets and gloves. He felt like a scolded child.
He braced his foot onto Alrec's thigh once again. Alrec firmed his footing. "Pull, you pansy!"
Pushing with his leg, Kale once again tried to extract the sword. He groaned with the exertion. Sweat beaded upon his brow. Still, the sword would not move.
"You're pathetic," spat Alrec. "You're a weakling."
Kale stayed silent but stepped forward and placed his other foot onto the man's thigh. With both legs and arms he strained to pull out the sword.
"This is ridiculous," Alrec scolded. "It should have cut through the bloody bone by now."
Kale hopped off of his foe's leg, panting. "I'm...sorry," he said, resting his hands on his shaking thighs. "It may...have been a bit...dull."
"DULL!" Alrec was positively roaring now. "What kind of knight goes into a duel with a dull sword? You are the most useless, incompetent fool of a knight I have ever met. It's a wonder your house is still in existence!"
Alrec shoved Sir Kale with the bloody sword arm. He stumbled and fell. Standing over is prostrate form, Alrec continued to hurl insults.
"You're lower than a worm. You manure sucking slime!"
Kale slowly got to his feet. He'd had enough of this. Striding forward he reached out to Alrec, who continued his tirade.
"A dull blade, he says! No self respecting knight goes into battle with a dull..."
His words were cut off by the hand wrapped tightly around his jaw. He looked on, bewildered, into Sir Kale's blank face.
"I'm sorry about the sword," said Kale, calmly. "But you'll be pleased to know that I keep my dagger quite sharp."
With that he plunged the blade, up to the hilt, in Sir Alrec's forehead. The knight's eyes crossed as he looked up at the blade. He tried to say something, then toppled backwards to the ground. The fall sent the sword flopping out of Alrec's arm.
"Ah," said Kale. He picked up the sword and placed it in its scabbard. "I must have loosened it up."
He then reached down and took hold of the dagger. It didn't budge.
Sir Kale groaned. "Oh, hells."
The Trespassers
Author's note: Geez. I sure can be mopey sometimes. This story started out as me being a grump and turned into something different because I made the conscious decision to change it. While I may not always be able to pull it off, I think this just goes to show that writing is great therapy too, and we all have a choice about what we feel.
I think that it's important to allow yourself to feel whatever it is you need to feel. Just don't let it control/consume you like I occasionally do. I almost did with the first paragraph, then said "Okay. I'm feeling this thing, I'm allowing it to wash over me and I accept it. Now, enough is enough."
Oh, the story is still a downer, but at least it isn't another one of my whine fests. Enjoy.
*****
Writing in the lantern light, under the shadow of my own hand, my mind is filled with thoughts of other dark things. Things darker than mere shadow, dark as night. Thoughts that will haunt me until...
It was a beautiful, crisp fall evening. The moon cast its pale glow across the yard, aided by a million stars. I could see well enough and it may have saved my life, or at least prolonged it. Thank God for the moon.
I could just make them out, their slow, stumbling gait made me imagine a group of drunks. But something about the stiffness in their walk kept me from calling out to them. Drunks don't move like that.
I suppose I was fortunate to be sitting on my deck, enjoying a beer, when they first appeared. The vantage point gave me the ability to get a quick count. But the rustling I heard near my garden told me that the four I saw were definitely not alone. And as those four closed the distance I was just starting to see the others.
I couldn't count them fast enough. Ducking off of my chair I made my way to the door and slowly eased it open. It slid quietly on its rails, a small blessing. I closed it and made sure it was locked.
Standing up again I quickly made my way through the house, checked to see that all of the doors were locked, then went to my gun safe. I had a twenty-two rifle and pistol, which I used for target shooting, and I had plenty of rounds to go with them.
The twenty-two may not seem like the best weapon to have. It IS relatively weak and has almost no stopping power. However, my rifle and pistol fire straight and the hollow point rounds would do sufficient damage to the trespassers outside. Top that off with the fact that I could easily hold close to a hundred rounds in my pockets alone and even the average joe might start to see this particular caliber's merits.
Try carrying that many 30-06 or 50-cal rounds - they're totally pointless if a head shot will do, and you'd be lucky to get a dozen rounds in your pockets. (Sorry for the rant. You put yourself in my shoes and you'll understand why I might be a bit high strung right now.)
Anyhow, the rotten things started their moaning and banging. While I appreciated their politeness, they could knock all they wanted. I wasn't letting them in.
I heard the sound of shattering glass at my front door and I knew that my house was surrounded. I loaded up all of my rifle and pistol clips, threw some extra ammo in a small backpack, and grabbed my old camping hatchet as well. I needed to decide where my fall back room would be.
The garage attic seemed like the obvious choice. It had a pull-down staircase, was ventilated, and had a small store of food and water that I had placed there just in case. If your dad talks about societal collapse as much as mine did, you'd have some stores of food and water, too. I figured I'd have enough for a couple weeks; hopefully this mess would be cleaned up by then.
I quickly stalked through the house. I pulled open the garage door and was immediately greeted by a moaning, rotted visage. I picked tonight, of all nights, to forget to close the darn garage. The shambler reached out for me.
At the time my immediate reaction was to smash the walking corpse in the face with the butt of my rifle. It stumbled back and fell over. I immediately closed and locked the door.
Thinking on it now, the way the creature moved was almost beautiful, haunting. It made me think of a lover reaching out for a kiss. The yearning, longing look in its eyes was heart breaking. In part this was because I could imagine the creature as it once was. I wondered if there might be some flicker of humanity still locked away inside - like someone that is paralyzed, could the former host still see what was happening and do nothing to control it?
To be truthful, it was also haunting for the obvious fact that the darn thing was hoping to make a meal of me. Spark of humanity or not, I wasn't about to let anything snack on me. I don't imagine I would taste all that good anyway.
A pounding on the garage door told me that getting its face smashed hadn't slowed the walker down. That or one of its buddies had taken its place. Whatever the case, my plans were changed for me. I made my way to the bedroom instead.
As I walked past the front door the wooden frame finally gave out and the whole thing fell in. Four of them got wedged in what was left of the doorway. I immediately raised my rifle and sent their souls back to rest. They were replaced so fast that I probably shouldn't have even bothered. These next few were courteous enough to take turns invading my home. I was nice enough to put them down.
They kept coming though, so I kept shooting. On the plus side, their bodies were beginning to block up the door, which would buy me some time. Then I heard the shatter of glass from the doors and windows downstairs. I popped off a few more shots into the various faces, then made a dash for the bedroom.
Locking the door behind me, I then did a quick scan of the room. They hadn't smashed in the window yet, but it would only be a matter of time. The sound of the shamblers making their way through the hall was getting closer.
Grabbing my dresser seemed a good idea and I slid it in front of the door. For squirts and ha-has I decided to push the bed in front, too. It might not stop them, but would slow them down.
I pulled open my closet door and assessed the contents. There wasn't much: clothes, some favorite books, my old Magic the Gathering collection, some board games (maybe I should have tried to stump them with a game of chess). There was also my old camp lantern which would come in handy given my plans.
You see, there is a small access hole in the ceiling of my closet. I don't really have an actual attic there, so I don't know entirely why it's there. It came with the house, and at the moment I was thankful for that.
I gave a shove to the small hatch and slid it to the side. Given my recent luck I half expected to be eyeballing a rotter again. But once again today, fortune seemed to favor me.
Giving a quick check to my lantern, which was about half-full, I gently placed it up into the hole and slid it to the side. Then I reached out, took hold of the lip and pulled myself up, just as the door splintered. I gave one last glance and saw a rotted arm reaching through the doorway. Then I slid the hatch back in place.
I wish I knew how long ago that was. Maybe a day or so. All I know for sure is that I'm hungry and thirsty now. I feel claustrophobic and I might try to break a hole in the roof so I can get some air.
I hope they go away soon. I can still hear them shuffling around down there. They're bumping into things, breaking my stuff. Every now and then one of them scrapes its splintering nail along the hatch. They claw at it for awhile then go on about their business. And I'm just stuck here.
I have plenty of ammo, but what difference does it make? There are too many of them. No way I could fight my way out. No way I could shoot or reload that quickly.
I'm going to die up here.
They're clawing again, this time much harder. Maybe they can smell me or hear the scratch of my pen. My lantern is getting dim. Flickering now.
I'm going to die up here.
I think that it's important to allow yourself to feel whatever it is you need to feel. Just don't let it control/consume you like I occasionally do. I almost did with the first paragraph, then said "Okay. I'm feeling this thing, I'm allowing it to wash over me and I accept it. Now, enough is enough."
Oh, the story is still a downer, but at least it isn't another one of my whine fests. Enjoy.
*****
Writing in the lantern light, under the shadow of my own hand, my mind is filled with thoughts of other dark things. Things darker than mere shadow, dark as night. Thoughts that will haunt me until...
It was a beautiful, crisp fall evening. The moon cast its pale glow across the yard, aided by a million stars. I could see well enough and it may have saved my life, or at least prolonged it. Thank God for the moon.
I could just make them out, their slow, stumbling gait made me imagine a group of drunks. But something about the stiffness in their walk kept me from calling out to them. Drunks don't move like that.
I suppose I was fortunate to be sitting on my deck, enjoying a beer, when they first appeared. The vantage point gave me the ability to get a quick count. But the rustling I heard near my garden told me that the four I saw were definitely not alone. And as those four closed the distance I was just starting to see the others.
I couldn't count them fast enough. Ducking off of my chair I made my way to the door and slowly eased it open. It slid quietly on its rails, a small blessing. I closed it and made sure it was locked.
Standing up again I quickly made my way through the house, checked to see that all of the doors were locked, then went to my gun safe. I had a twenty-two rifle and pistol, which I used for target shooting, and I had plenty of rounds to go with them.
The twenty-two may not seem like the best weapon to have. It IS relatively weak and has almost no stopping power. However, my rifle and pistol fire straight and the hollow point rounds would do sufficient damage to the trespassers outside. Top that off with the fact that I could easily hold close to a hundred rounds in my pockets alone and even the average joe might start to see this particular caliber's merits.
Try carrying that many 30-06 or 50-cal rounds - they're totally pointless if a head shot will do, and you'd be lucky to get a dozen rounds in your pockets. (Sorry for the rant. You put yourself in my shoes and you'll understand why I might be a bit high strung right now.)
Anyhow, the rotten things started their moaning and banging. While I appreciated their politeness, they could knock all they wanted. I wasn't letting them in.
I heard the sound of shattering glass at my front door and I knew that my house was surrounded. I loaded up all of my rifle and pistol clips, threw some extra ammo in a small backpack, and grabbed my old camping hatchet as well. I needed to decide where my fall back room would be.
The garage attic seemed like the obvious choice. It had a pull-down staircase, was ventilated, and had a small store of food and water that I had placed there just in case. If your dad talks about societal collapse as much as mine did, you'd have some stores of food and water, too. I figured I'd have enough for a couple weeks; hopefully this mess would be cleaned up by then.
I quickly stalked through the house. I pulled open the garage door and was immediately greeted by a moaning, rotted visage. I picked tonight, of all nights, to forget to close the darn garage. The shambler reached out for me.
At the time my immediate reaction was to smash the walking corpse in the face with the butt of my rifle. It stumbled back and fell over. I immediately closed and locked the door.
Thinking on it now, the way the creature moved was almost beautiful, haunting. It made me think of a lover reaching out for a kiss. The yearning, longing look in its eyes was heart breaking. In part this was because I could imagine the creature as it once was. I wondered if there might be some flicker of humanity still locked away inside - like someone that is paralyzed, could the former host still see what was happening and do nothing to control it?
To be truthful, it was also haunting for the obvious fact that the darn thing was hoping to make a meal of me. Spark of humanity or not, I wasn't about to let anything snack on me. I don't imagine I would taste all that good anyway.
A pounding on the garage door told me that getting its face smashed hadn't slowed the walker down. That or one of its buddies had taken its place. Whatever the case, my plans were changed for me. I made my way to the bedroom instead.
As I walked past the front door the wooden frame finally gave out and the whole thing fell in. Four of them got wedged in what was left of the doorway. I immediately raised my rifle and sent their souls back to rest. They were replaced so fast that I probably shouldn't have even bothered. These next few were courteous enough to take turns invading my home. I was nice enough to put them down.
They kept coming though, so I kept shooting. On the plus side, their bodies were beginning to block up the door, which would buy me some time. Then I heard the shatter of glass from the doors and windows downstairs. I popped off a few more shots into the various faces, then made a dash for the bedroom.
Locking the door behind me, I then did a quick scan of the room. They hadn't smashed in the window yet, but it would only be a matter of time. The sound of the shamblers making their way through the hall was getting closer.
Grabbing my dresser seemed a good idea and I slid it in front of the door. For squirts and ha-has I decided to push the bed in front, too. It might not stop them, but would slow them down.
I pulled open my closet door and assessed the contents. There wasn't much: clothes, some favorite books, my old Magic the Gathering collection, some board games (maybe I should have tried to stump them with a game of chess). There was also my old camp lantern which would come in handy given my plans.
You see, there is a small access hole in the ceiling of my closet. I don't really have an actual attic there, so I don't know entirely why it's there. It came with the house, and at the moment I was thankful for that.
I gave a shove to the small hatch and slid it to the side. Given my recent luck I half expected to be eyeballing a rotter again. But once again today, fortune seemed to favor me.
Giving a quick check to my lantern, which was about half-full, I gently placed it up into the hole and slid it to the side. Then I reached out, took hold of the lip and pulled myself up, just as the door splintered. I gave one last glance and saw a rotted arm reaching through the doorway. Then I slid the hatch back in place.
I wish I knew how long ago that was. Maybe a day or so. All I know for sure is that I'm hungry and thirsty now. I feel claustrophobic and I might try to break a hole in the roof so I can get some air.
I hope they go away soon. I can still hear them shuffling around down there. They're bumping into things, breaking my stuff. Every now and then one of them scrapes its splintering nail along the hatch. They claw at it for awhile then go on about their business. And I'm just stuck here.
I have plenty of ammo, but what difference does it make? There are too many of them. No way I could fight my way out. No way I could shoot or reload that quickly.
I'm going to die up here.
They're clawing again, this time much harder. Maybe they can smell me or hear the scratch of my pen. My lantern is getting dim. Flickering now.
I'm going to die up here.
A Princess Poem
Once a princess who lived in a castle
met a goblin in the woods.
They talked of life and joys and sorrows;
then fell in love and it was good.
But fate it had another purpose
for the meeting of the two.
She was meant to learn, grow stronger
from all that he would put her through.
Goblins, you see, can be quite nasty,
it's in their nature to be grumpy at times.
To placate him she tried to love,
to cook nice dinners and feed him limes.
Nothing seemed to work for the princess
though she did her very best
She couldn't seem to make things better,
could not find her happiness.
So at last she went away
for it was all that could be done.
The goblin realized his folly
and with hanging head chased the setting sun.
Others tried to love the goblin
but didn't even register
"I had my princess," he'd quietly say.
"And no one else compares to her."
met a goblin in the woods.
They talked of life and joys and sorrows;
then fell in love and it was good.
But fate it had another purpose
for the meeting of the two.
She was meant to learn, grow stronger
from all that he would put her through.
Goblins, you see, can be quite nasty,
it's in their nature to be grumpy at times.
To placate him she tried to love,
to cook nice dinners and feed him limes.
Nothing seemed to work for the princess
though she did her very best
She couldn't seem to make things better,
could not find her happiness.
So at last she went away
for it was all that could be done.
The goblin realized his folly
and with hanging head chased the setting sun.
Others tried to love the goblin
but didn't even register
"I had my princess," he'd quietly say.
"And no one else compares to her."
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