Blue boy

Hi, I'm sorry. I have a huge project due frighteningly soon, but im here anyways. Comments are officially down, so I apologize to anyone who has tried to comment and failed. I'm working on it, and I will get back to you. Without further ado (because who likes ado?) perhaps though hast read it incorrectly.  WARNING: This one wound up way sadder than I meant. I'm sorry guys!

    The boy was so cold. It seemed to surround him, leaving him empty, hollowed out by the icy wind. His fingertips were already tinged blue and his breath came in white gusts. He shivered inside the hay stack, his horn beside him. Why had he run away from home? Only a crook would employ a kid like him, and a crook definitly had. He worked for hours with spiteful sheep who butted him and stole his sparse food when he called. The only thing that soothed these savage beasts was a blast on a mouldering trumpet given to him on his first day. He didn't like to think about who had used it last.
     He couldn't focus his thoughts any longer. The cold surrounded him, clutching him in a deadly embrace. His muscles tensed against it , but relaxed. He felt warm, truly warm for the first time since the weather had turned. He relaxed, and allowed it to flow through his muscles. He gave in at long last to a sudden desire for sleep, and for freedom.

Beary unhappy

     So, hi guys. I introduce you to our guest blogger Lyric Robbins AKA queen of the Fangirls. Sorry about the time, but Lyric and I have been emailing each other trying to figure this out for weeks. Finally, despite the lack of comments, we have a new voice. I present, Miss Lyric Robbins.
     Hi. My name is Lyric Robbins and I did this as a favour to my friend Emma. I realize it's a little late, but time differences you know. Anyway, please go check out my blog. I'm not as good as Emma with keeping up to date with schedules, but I have been known to be funny at times. So yeah check it out. http://bitsandpiecesfromafangirlsbrain.blogspot.ca/?m=1 (Note: this is the mobile version. To reach the computer version, delete everything after .ca)
    Teddy bear teddy bear do this, do that. The only words he'd ever heard. Show your shoe, say your prayers, go to bed. Commands, hidden as a rhyme. He'd never disobeyed them. Why, he never knew. He always wondered what would happen, but he never tried anything because that voice would come back and he would have to start following orders again. The what purpose, he never knew. But it's not like he cared to.

It's raining

 Hi. I said I wouldn't post, but I've changed the settings. Commenting should be easier now, so please do. The guest blogger is coming, but she's still working on her post. She's really cool, although I've never really met her in person. This post was my attempt to make you cry, or at least feel sad. Did it work? Either way, you read this one wrong I think.

   The old man knew that his time was a time gone by. He had grown old, and the world had moved on without him. He had fought for what he thought was right. He had fought for freedom and the people he saw had already forgotten. They lived their lives and often wasted their lives without remembering the cost. 

    As the rain poured down outside the large house he couldn't bring himself to sell, the tired veteran climbed slowly up the steep stairs. He didn't stop, ignoring the pain from ancient wounds until he reached the top of the staircase. He winced once, limping to the bathroom. With shaking hands he downed pills for memory, for strong bones, for pain, and prepared himself for bed. 

     "He didn't go in pain."

     "He'll never be forgotten."

     "At least he's with Evelyn now."

     "I'm sorry."

    

Happy Halloween!

Hello! Happy (late) Halloween! This is my 13th post, ironically enough. I'm doing pretty well for views but my muse needs fuel. I need comments, suggestions! Even a blow by blow of how terrible my blog is would be helpful. COMMENT or no guest blogger. No post at all next week.
Now, I'm not avtually sure there's aright way to read this one.
  The gingerbread witch had one holiday she hated worse than all others. Now that she didn't eat children, she had chosen a more suburban neighborhood. Close to the "organic" market and with full broom service, it was the ideal location. Except for one thing. Halloween. 

    The children swarmed her house, yanking off whatever their fat little hands could carry. They shoved their bags full of her house, and then had the nerve to knock on her desiccated door and ask for more candy. Next year though, she would turn their rhyme back on them. She would full their noses with a scent so foul their candy would taste like feet for a month. She would fill their room with a waterfall so large their beds would slosh. And then she would hand them a lollipop and say "Happy Halloween!"

Overcome Odour

  So, I have a really good excuse for not posting until so late where I am, but you probably don't care. Cool news, I may be having a guest blogger soon. No details yet, but she's pretty awesome. For that to happen anytime soon, I would need at least one review from somebody who hasn't yet. Please? Halloween is coming soon, so that post should be fun. Anyways, here is what all have you waiting been for. Wait, did you just read that wrong?
    Vivian Galosh truly was grateful. After Stanley's death, she had a very small income and no way to pay Boy Blue's  enormous rent. What the giant had done was incredible, since she had so many children and no way to feed them. The home was incredible, but would it have killed him to spray it first? It stank. Badly. Mrs. Galosh's children exactly filled the lace holes, leaving her in the very smelly bottom.

     She had tried everything. Her shower was inside the shoe, so as soon as she got out she smelled again. Her friends at sewing circle and book club suddenly started to forget her invitations after she started testing various perfumes. She even lit incense until she began to feel vaguely light headed and hungry. The solution seemed non existent and Vivian despaired for her social life. She needed to get out of this house! 

    Patty, her youngest, was the eventual savior. She was the one who discovered brand X drier sheets. 

Let's give thanks this isn't us

Hi. I'm so sorry about last week. It was Canadian thanksgiving on Monday so I had to help get ready for all my relatives. I'm back though with my thanksgiving post. I know it's late, but I couldn't resist. Go scour mother goose readers, because you probably read it wrong.

   Thanksgiving dinner that year was rather awkward. The entire family had come together but Peters seat was noticeably empty. His wife had come but was sitting alone off to the side, still unused to people after her solitary confinement. Needless to say, they served Apple pie rather than pumpkin. There were so many children running around that tea cups smashed and shattered this way and the teapot whistled all night long. Poor Vivian Galosh sat, abandoned in the corner thanks to the pervading odor of feet that surrounded her. Finally, grandmother Hubbard called them all to the table. Her basset hound lurked in the corner, gnawing on a  milk bone(he had no teeth anymore, much like grandmother herself).
   At the children's table, miss Muffet fed the baby mush on a spoon while all the little Galoshes squabbled over who had to sit next to her. Jack and Jill sat at the adult table to accommodate casts and bandages. The prayer was said and the vegetables were brought out first. They were passed around, casually skipping the man rocking back and forth humming 'The Wheels on the Bus'. Finally, the goose was brought out. Jack burst out crying to see it, crying for his mother. Or possibly calling the goose mother? They blamed his head injury and finished the meal amicably, if stiffly. Finally, everyone was thrilled to realize that it was eight'oclock and they had a whole two moths until they had to do this again.
 

A rather predictable tumble

Everyone knew this would happen. For once, you may have read it right. 

    The unnamed social worker stood in the middle of a crowd of cops clutching a small bundle. The crime scene tape was up, the evidence labelled. It looked like the scene of a twisted case on CSI. The only difference? There was no body. They were lucky. 

    The small bundle she was clutching hiccuped once and began to cry softly. She was alarmed to see that the pale blue of the baby's cheeks had barely faded. Steeling her nerves, she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. The commissioner of police stood in front of her, caterpillar mustache and all, glaring. 

    "Just where do you think you're going with our biggest lead?"

    " To my car. Unless we get some heat and formula your 'biggest lead' will develop hypothermia." 

    Grudgingly, they let her pass under the tape. Ignoring the mob of reporters surrounding her, she hid the infants face and dashed to the car. Inside, with the heat blaring and the baby nestled under layers of blankets, she allowed herself to remember what had happened that night. 

    It had been a druggie to find the baby, nestled in a small wooden cradle. He called the cops about a ufo crashed into a tree. The dispatcher sent out one car, to arrest him and bust whatever party he was coming from. It wasn't anything special. There was no caravan of cop cars. Just two caffeine fueled cops on the graveyard shift. 

    They arrived just in time. The small wooden vessel had begun to rock gently in a sudden breeze. It grew harsher, and faster and the cops could hear a baby screaming inside. Suddenly, it fell. The nearest cop stretched his arms out and caught the baby just before it hit the ground. The cradle was smashed in an eerie preview of what could have happened. 

    She shook her head in disgust that somebody would leave a newborn baby alone like this, up a tree in the middle of October. It must have been somebody with a sick sense of humour though, because the gentle rocking would have soothed the baby at first. But when the bow broke, the cradle would fall and down would come baby, cradle and all.