Sunday Writing Prompt “Secret Admirer”

Dear DM,

I experienced “love” for the first time when I was 6 years old. I used to go door to door collecting stories from my grandmother’s neighbors. I met an elderly couple sitting together on their porch. It was a beautiful morning, one of those shockingly beautiful Saturday mornings that is quintessential to youth. The man was willing to indulge my curiosity. His wife, he explained, had had a series of strokes and a heart attack. She was paralyzed. They spent their mornings on the porch, weather permitting, every day. He talked. She listened. The way this couple looked at one another is beyond description, beyond love. Their love had a presence, a visible aura. It sounds silly to say but they were radiant. Even many years later I still get emotional thinking about them. I have seen couples in love since. I see it all the time. Beautiful. Adorable. Fiery. Crazy love. Love that should be cherished. The couple I met that day were undoubtedly twinflames. That is just a label. It is inadequate but I have to call it something to distinguish it. That day was the day that I believed in love. That belief gave me hope and that hope turned into a love of life in general. My love of  life has gotten me through some very difficult/dark times. It was a chance encounter that ended up saving my life. I thought ‘I can live in a world where such love is possible because a world that is capable of such depth of love is a world worth living in.’ I didn’t actually use those exact words but the sentiment was there. I knew deep down that I would someday love someone in that way and that I would endure anything for the chance to love someone that way.

My whole life I have had this feeling that I would meet someone that I could literally walk into. I know, it is crazy, I think so too. Every time that image pops into my mind/this notion of home/of shared souls, I question my sanity. I just had this sense, you know, that I was a part of someone else. Not because I am incomplete but because I feel/sense/know that I am not alone/that I am a part of someone. There is something I was meant to do, something that dwarfs my accomplishments to-date. When I saw you for the first time (in a photograph) I knew that you were important. I felt that we had something very important to do together, a mission I guess. I felt looking at your photograph that you were me. I told myself that I was crazy and yet here I am dreaming about you night after night. Intense. Beautiful. Vivid. Impossible Dreams. I told myself I was mistaken and yet here I am thinking about you day after day with your thoughts/feelings inside of me. We have only spoken briefly online and I sobbed through most of our conversation. Not because you had hurt me in any way. Not because of anything that was or wasn’t said. Not for any reason I could fathom in that moment. It was just as if everything I had ever felt/ever could feel came pouring out inexplicably all at once. I felt more in a brief space of time then I have ever felt in my whole life and all I could think to ask was “How are you?”. It scares me sometimes, feeling this much, feeling you inside of me. At the same I have never seen/felt a soul more beautiful than yours. Fear or not I am committed to this journey. I know you are the one inside of me/I recognize you and whether or not you wish to go on this journey together (I respect either decision) I will go on feeling to the very depths of my being this love which is beyond love.

With everything that I am your DF

PS) I am enclosing a song.

 

Gorecki- Lamb

If I should die this very moment

I wouldn’t fear

For I’ve never known completeness

Like being here

Wrapped in the warmth of you

Loving every breath of you

Still my heart this moment

Oh it might burst

Could we stay right here

Till the end of time until the earth stops turning

Wanna love you until the seas run dry

I’ve found the one I’ve waited for

All this time I’ve loved you

And never known your face

All this time I’ve missed you

And searched this human race

Here is true peace

Here my heart knows calm

Safe in your soul

Bathed in your sighs

Wanna stay right here

Till the end of time

Till the earth stops turning

Gonna love you until the seas run dry

I’ve found the one I’ve waited for

The one I’ve waited for

All I’ve known

All I’ve done

All I’ve felt was leading to this…

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Sunday Writing Prompt “Uncontrollable Nonsense”

Wearing nothing
but sunshine
and a fistful
of cygne feathers
I pour rainbows
into ten golden cups
and if you are
thirsty you have only
to drink of me.

I am bleeding
into your arms,
wrap me tighter.
I am wounded
by your wounds,
by your endless knowing,
by your polite denial.
We open into each other
like bodies of water.
When you are lying awake
I scatter my prayers
across your pillow.
The thunder in my head
a chorus of hallelujahs.
Love me in your dreams
at least.

Wearing nothing
but moonlight
and a paper mache halo
I am sewing sleeves
into the shadows
and if you like
you can hide out
for a little while.
I will wait
even if it takes
a lifetime.

I am but a penny
in the sea of you.
Do you wish for me
as I wish for you?
Do you remember
when I threaded my soul
through your oblong gaze?
If it lessens your fear
I will paint windows
into the stone-grey sky
so you can come and go
as you will,
so you can steal me
like a voyeur
into the hungry night.

Fingertips touching
we dance to the sound
of our hearts breaking apart.
Wearing nothing
but your beautiful,
upturned mouth
I am speaking in tongues.
Everything translates to you.
Everything translates to fire.

Wordle #184

She sat down in his lap
distributing her weight
evenly across his thighs.
She kissed him first.
Switchblade grin.
Moderate pressure.
A succession
of lingering open-mouthed kisses
deepening with each application.
She would later blush at her initiative.
Modesty rendered gaunt in hindsight.
He stood up with her body
twisted around his torso,
his hands on her buttocks.
Still kissing.
He laid down with her on top of him.
He could feel the pulse
in her jugular vein
when he moved to suck her neck.
He felt it pass into him.
Felt the rhythm of her blood sinking lower,
filling him to capacity.
He threw her wavy hair back
and took hold of her face with both hands.
Scraps of personalia ingested
with every breath that he pried
from her searching mouth.
Her soul was chartreuse.
His soul Robin’s Egg blue.
A dream to surround them both.
A dream poignant enough
to cut the world wide open.
He would wake tasting her.
She would wake marked
with his arousing scent.

Sunday Writing Prompt “Limbo”

You might really be the one to break me.

Why should I be impelled to follow my heart
when she is so often mistaken?

Perhaps she is not my heart at all
but the heart of another equally misguided.

The one I carry now is surely an impostor.
She listens patiently as I reveal my dreams
and then dismantles them, indifferent to my cries.

My heart is more thread than flesh.
If ever I were to exhale she would unravel
and if I were less a coward I would let her.

If my heart were a sheet of paper
then I could be certain that she understood
because words make more sense than feelings.

Words are sharp and clean
like a scalpel, whatever they cut
opens without tearing.
Feelings tear.

I am tired of juggling my feelings.
My feelings have teeth
my feelings chew through my soul
like fruit and then spit out the seeds.

I don’t think I have much potential anyway.
I am not incurably old and already I want to die.
Well not die so much as sleep.
I have become dreadfully boring.

The me that exists in dreams feels real.
She knows what she wants precisely
and pursues it with a sense of wonder.
She is full of passion and pathos.

She is full and she knows it.
The me that greets each morning
is a tangle of nerves
and stale, overplayed anecdotes.
She is determined to hurt me.

I have forgotten how to be a person.
All day I wander around
opening and closing windows,
peeling off congeries of wallpaper,
screaming quietly into brown paper bags.

I am never quite sure what to do with myself
and I am always, always in the way.
It breaks my heart to see a sky with no stars in it,
to see a sky full of cobwebs.
A sky which accommodates nothing but shade.

How many planets must I shift
before I can roll down a hill head first?
I try to coax myself out of my shell
with jaunty aphorisms but I am,
heaven help me, the worst kind of cynic.

I believe everything
so long as everything does not include me.
When it comes to myself I am inconceivable.
I question every word, every thought, every action
until all propulsion ceases.

Sunday Writing Prompt “Monster”

Must you distort my intentions
to suit your moods?
What a monster I must seem
with your face laid on top
and your words rammed
down my throat.

I can think of a million things
I’d rather swallow
most of which are contained
within your multitudes.

The air is so heavy
that I cannot lift my tongue
to speak.

What good are these feelings
if I cannot dream?
Must you criticize
what you do not understand?

My bones are scarcely
worth their weight.
I’ve been dragging them
around this room all day
and they’ve yet
to prove their substance.

Loving you consumes
my heart wholly.
I’ve hardly the time left
to cry.

I’m tired of crying anyways.
I’ve made up my mind
to be a new kind of beautiful
the kind of beautiful that doesn’t
ostracize strangeness.

–

On a side note I have an Instagram account. I will still mostly be centering around poetry. So there will be short poems, quotes, some poetry readings.

https://www.instagram.com/yves_k_morrow/

Inner Beauty

If I were to say that outward appearance doesn’t play a role in how attractive I find a person you would never believe me. Even I wouldn’t believe me because like everyone else I can be taken in by external beauty. What I find beautiful and what society generally accepts as beautiful don’t always overlap. Sometimes I can see that a person tics the usual boxes but they are simply not my type and sometimes my type is absolutely mystifying to other people. But like many girls who grew up in the 90s I thought Johnny Depp was cute. Actually I rather liked Skeet Ulrich a bit more, especially in Touch (the movie about the Stigmata). Yet when it gets down to it I can’t connect with someone that doesn’t make me laugh, that I don’t find interesting, that isn’t, at heart, a decent human being. In high school I dated a guy briefly that was generally classified as smoking hot. When I broke up with him because he was jealous and a little scary my female classmates thought I had lost my damn mind. I mean I wasn’t exactly gorgeous (far from it). I was and still am a rather weird looking person. Only now I don’t have the benefit of being young. I admit I often favor unorthodox looks even when taking a surface glance. I just don’t like faces that are too perfect. I also don’t think I am alone in this but once you get to know a person you perceive them differently even aesthetically. A delightful person with an average face can transform outwardly into someone truly breathtaking. The opposite is also true. In some ways having difficulty with my vision/spatial awareness might make it easier for me because I am naturally suspicious of what my eyes perceive. I operate more on intuition and my sense of smell. Pheromones probably play a huge role in my decision-making process! I have changed with age. I wish I had the luminous skin of my teens! My husband has also changed since we met. I think he is gorgeous, I have always thought so. He makes me laugh. He gives the best most generous hugs. His listens. He is curious. He is intelligent. He makes me think. He challenges me. He can hold his ground against my unbelievable stubbornness and not get run over. He cooks! He has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. I don’t get sick of him. As a loner type I have a hard time being around people for extended periods. This is not so with my husband. I want him in my space. I enjoy being near him. I would literally look at the man all day long if he’d let me. Speaking of which I love that he gets embarrassed when watching movies and hides under a blanket. I love that he thinks I am beautiful even when I don’t see it at all. He smells AMAZING. I could keep going. The point is I would never trade all that for material wealth, fame, or for a spell that would grant me eternal life and beauty or for some run of the mill Casanova. They say beauty fades with age but when you love someone it never does because you see beneath the surface to the soul underneath.

 

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/09/01/sunday-writing-prompt-inner-beauty/

Sunday Writing Prompt- “Choose an Antique”

Decided to add on to the story this is Daniel’s version.

I’d spent every summer from the age of four with my cousin Osmond, Oz for short. He was one of my best friends and the only one I could consult on family secrets of which there weren’t half as many as we used to imagine. His disappearance was the first genuinely tragic thing that had ever happened to me. I lied when I told my parents that I hadn’t heard him leave the house that night. I lied when they asked me if I had any idea about his whereabouts (though in my defense I didn’t actually know his whereabouts currently). I knew only that we’d been standing side by side when he’d disappeared. We were close enough to touch when the darkness entered and swallowed him whole. Can a child really defeat something as ubiquitous as darkness? I am not sure but given the same circumstances I’d like to think I would have fought harder.

The day that Oz vanished life as I knew it ceased. I went through the motions for my parent’s sake but I was devastated beyond reconciliation. Devastated by my own impotence. Devastated by a never ending parade of conditionals.

I had really planned to kill myself when I took my father’s pistol. I wrote a note and everything. It was around 1 am when I arrived at Suicide House. I made my way to the classroom. Everything was as I remembered it from the first visit except that I was alone. I took a seat in an old wooden desk and pulled out my father’s pistol which I proceeded to load with the help of a Youtube tutorial.

The sound of a bike bell caught my attention. I left everything on the desk and stood up. I saw nothing in the room that could account for the noise. The bell pinged again louder this time. I swung around wildly in search of the sound and that’s when I saw it, the rift into which Oz had vanished or one very much like it. Without thinking I hurled myself forward, right shoulder first as if it were a door that needed knocking down.

I fell hard sidelong onto a patch of burnt grass. The classroom was gone. Rotted fields stretched out on either side of a desolate dirt road. The sky overhead was ashen and empty like a tarp stretched taunt. I hurried to my feet shaking bits of earth from my clothing. My breath was white and audible. I rubbed my hands together vigorously to extinguish the chill and headed toward the road. I thought it best to keep moving and to find shelter if I could.

As soon as my converse hit the road I heard the bell again, this time from behind. What happened after is something of a blur. I jumped backwards narrowly avoiding a collision. I stumbled on the incline and fell ass first into a ditch. The vehicle swerved to a stop (I’d never seen a penny farthing before so from my perspective it was just a bike with funny wheels) and its solitary occupant dismounted.

Arius was only a child then or at least he appeared to me as such. His skin was as white as chalk. His hair was also white but with a luster like polished silver. His eyes were like two haunted, red gems. His white eyelashes were so long and dense that I wondered if he might not have applied them the way my mother did when she wanted to look especially pretty. I don’t think he looked at me once even when extending a bony hand in support. He was wearing a long silver and red dress (well technically it was some kind of robe but at that time I thought it was a dress) and a pair of black Chinese slippers and I wondered absently how he’d managed to ride a bike in such an awkward getup. I forgot to mention that he had a pair of white silver horns perched on top of his head and pointy ears. He was pretty but he didn’t look all that much like a girl. He introduced himself as Arius and I remembered his voice sounding very manly and very grownup which struck me as a little odd at the time. Arius took me home with him. His house was a ruin. There were holes in the roof big enough to pass a person throw and cracks in the foundations from where the house had sunk down a little on the left side. The wood was grey and weathered to splinters. The wrap around porch was full of leaves and occupied cobwebs. From the outside it was a perfect replica of Suicide House. The inside was much bigger than the outside and decorated in a style that suited the houses age. My room had pretty damask wallpaper, gas lamps, and a huge canopied bed. I think it was a girl’s room on account of the large doll house in the corner and the rows and rows of dresses in the closet but I never saw a girl, not once anywhere.

At first I looked for Oz. I figured he would have found his way to the house just as I had. Arius gave me free reign to explore but after nearly 2 decades of searching I have come to understand that this house is as infinite as my imagination. Arius answered my questions and with time I came to accept the possibility that he had never met Oz. Slowly but surely I began to turn my attention to my peculiar host.

There isn’t much to say about those early years. We were children and as children we spent a lot of time playing games, playing and searching for my missing cousin. He taught me lots of things. He taught me how to find fresh food and water, he taught me how to sew my own robes, he taught me how to ride a penny farthing, he taught me the rules of the world of which there were many that still remain inscrutable. I was never that far from his side but truth be known I did most of the talking. I was lonely and I missed my family.

As soon as I was a teenager he started to disappear for days at a time. I was left to my own devices and I am a little embarrassed to admit but I went on living the life he created for me as if it really did belong to me. You can adapt to any situation given enough time.

When I was 16 I ran away. He’d told me that it was dangerous to go outside at night. He told me that there was a creature that lived somewhere in the woods outside of our house. He never expressly told me what I could and could not do but I came to believe that he was using fear to control me and so I crept out of the house one night while he slept (which he did standing in Zhang Zhong).

I went to the woods with my kerosene lantern and my biggest hunting knife. There was a creature in those woods though it had no physical form as such. It was darkness itself, shadows stitched together by malice. It overtook me before the scream could exit my throat. My lungs clamped shut. My head filled with static. I lost consciousness. When I woke I was in my bed. Arius was standing over my weakened body pulling black strings out of my chest. The strings must have fastened to my very soul but the sensation is nothing that I can relate in words. The exorcism took three days. Three days of irrationally high fevers and chills. Three days of projectile vomiting. Three days of incapacitating convulsions and pain. Three days without sleep because if I’d slept for even an instant the creature would have eaten my soul. My ordeal wasn’t over after the exorcism either every time I dreamed of the creature afterwards Arius would perform a cleansing. At one point I was receiving cleansings on a daily basis. Cleansings weren’t as bad as exorcisms but they imposed their own sort of strain.

Suffice to say I never ran away again. After the incident I begged Arius to take me home but how could he take me somewhere that he could not follow? How could he leave me to my curse? How could he unleash the monster on my world? As he explained it I had become a conduit for this malevolence and the cleansings were needed to keep the door closed. After the incident Arius was no longer at liberty to leave me alone overnight.

TBC maybe….

–

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/04/21/sunday-writing-prompt-choose-an-antique-2/

Sunday Writing Prompt- “Choose an Antique”

The house at the end of my street had earned a reputation for being haunted. The kids at school dubbed it “Suicide House” and every so often a group of local idiots would show up in the dead of night for an unauthorized tour of the dilapidated Victorian. When I was 9 my best friend Daniel and I dared each other to go inside. I remember helping my friend through the broken casement. I remember forgetting how and when to breathe and the pallor on my friend’s face when he let out that first gut-wrenching scream. I don’t remember the sprint home or how I managed to sleep that night or anything that I might have witnessed when inside the house. I didn’t want to be relieved of my amnesia and on the subject I was silent.

I don’t know the exact moment we stopped being friends in the active sense but I do remember watching from the sidelines as Daniel struggled helplessly and ultimately ineffectually against an ever growing tide of despair. The explanation I received from my parents was a watered down version of a half truth. Daniel had taken his own life. One of his cousins had gone missing. His grief had led to night terrors and depression. There had been a note but the body was still missing along with his father’s pistol. His parents thought there might be a connection between their son’s disappearance and their nephew’s disappearance. They searched frantically for a real life predator on whom they could justly empty their rage. Accusations were made and at one point there was even a trial but there was never enough evidence for a conviction.

All through junior high I lived as if on borrowed time. The house had been responsible for Daniel’s death and I was next. My parents insisted on counseling, on family dinners, and game nights. They were cautious and conscientious. Their love made me miserable but it also kept me grounded.

Gradually I came to accept that his death, though no less horrific, probably wasn’t supernatural in origin. I moved on with my life. Not all at once. Not without the occasional relapse but in my own clumsy and imperfect way. I made friends. I wasted time pleasantly. I slept with the lights off (most nights). Life became progressively more tolerable and I progressively more tolerant. Until that night some friends suggested we visit Suicide House. I refused staunchly. They called me a chicken. I wavered. They argued safety in numbers. I countered with some argument about a curse. They called me lame. I went home feeling sick to my stomach. The next evening I caved. I was too old to be afraid of curses.

I was the third person to enter the house that night. Everything of value had been scavenged. The floor was littered with food wrappers, drug paraphernalia, and years of premeditated decay. The crumbling walls ran with graffiti. My friends were clearly underwhelmed by what they saw and to amuse themselves they began to kick out the remnants of windows and mirrors. Someone suggested a full out demolition and they all promised to meet up the following night with sledge hammers. Someone pulled out a pack of cigarettes they’d stolen from their mother’s purse. Another person lamented about the lack of beer and bragged about his fake ID and how he’d purchased a 6-pack at the gas station just last week. He didn’t have his wallet on him currently but he assured everyone that he was good for the booze. Until that moment I had always thought him to look more adult than the rest of us but looking at him there in the dusky glow of twilight, two distinct dimples framing his smile, I doubted that he could even pass for 17.

While the others smoked nosily in the background I began to search the house for objects of interest. I stepped into what might have passed as a child’s bedroom at the turn of the century and felt the blood go out of my face and hands. My heart clamped shut and the air went out of my lungs in one long, eerie string of syllables. My friends came rushing in one after the other desperate for a storyline. They followed my gaze to the open closet. A panel at the back had been pushed out of the way and there were signs of another room beyond. Our leader offered to check it out on his own but he wouldn’t be out done by his leftenant and in the end they both entered pushing and shoving for the coveted position. The rest of us held our stations. I remained as silent as hyperventilation permitted me while my companions speculated animatedly about the room’s contents.

After several agonizing minutes our leader returned holding a slate board on which the words “By your own design…” were scribbled. No one knew what the message meant but everyone’s mood plummeted on reading it. The air was tactile and heavy and I thought that if were to run my fingers through it the ripples might actually be visible. For a long time no one said anything. We all stood solemn in our own reflections until a loud crash sent us spiraling back to reality. It was in that moment that we realized that the leftenant had not returned. We shouted to him without effect. Then one by one we burst into the room. In the middle of the floor a wooden chair lie on its side. Above the chair hung a neatly tied noose. The noose swung dolefully from side to side and the rafters complained as if burdened. There was no sign of the leftenant and no window through which he could have passed unseen. There had been 3 of us the first time I’d entered the house: Daniel, his cousin, and me. My friends’ frantic cries seemed only to seal my limbs into place. I was insensible, inconsolable, inaccessible from every angle.

I remember the way the darkness tasted like water from a copper ladle. I remember every last pang articulated by my drowning heart. I remember the coldness of the room in terms of physical pain and the sorrowful sound of a violin insulating my sobs. I don’t know what transpired during my hypnosis. I don’t know what became of the minutes, hours, days that followed but I remember vividly the deaths that followed.

–

This is influenced by a story I wrote when I was 12. I don’t have the original manuscript but I can tell you that this version is heavier than the first one. This one also includes things about drinking and smoking that I would not have included in a school paper. The kids in the story are about 14.

–

As a kid I was very insecure about my writing. So insecure that I actually avoided writing whenever possible! In my 6^th grade math class we were asked to write a spooky story for Halloween. The story was just for fun so there were no grades on the line and we didn’t even have to sign our names to our work. I hated math class and so to me the assignment was a welcome distraction. I wrote my story and turned it in without signing my name. The next day after the teacher decided to read my story out loud along with a few others. My classmates actually enjoyed the story and voted it the scariest. I adapted it to include the prompt.

–

For

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/04/07/sunday-writing-prompt-choose-an-antique/

Sunday Writing Prompt “Boogie Man”

I wasn’t a child the first time I saw the Boogie Man. I was 19 and stone cold sober. I was headed back to my dorm after a long and trying confrontation with my soon-to-be ex. It was that time of night which technically constitutes morning and I was wide awake and in a difficult mood. An earlier rain shower had driven any would-be stragglers indoors. It was quiet save for my footfalls and an intermittent breeze that rearranged the evening’s leftovers at random intervals. He was tall and willowy. His erect posture suggested professor, his cowled, bulbous head something altogether unknown. I was struck first by the manner in which he moved without any discernible staccato. He drifted from one end of the parking lot to the other as if suspended by some invisible force. His feet were tilted down and motionless. I followed him driven by something between curiosity and anticipation. We remained approximately the same distance apart for the better part of half a mile and this despite my attempts to gain ground and his consistent pace. Such was my preoccupation that I didn’t even notice the change in location or the time it took to reach our destination.

He stopped suddenly and I, for whatever reason, continued until there was only 5 feet between us. He turned to me in the half-light. His face was featureless but not without structure. His striking jawline confirmed a suspected masculinity and his brooding aura gave the impression of awareness. I held my breath as he slid back the cowl obscuring his misshapen head. His long bony fingers weaponized by pointed black talons. The skull, it turned out, was not deformed at all. He had, in fact, two sets of horns. One set sprouted from the top of his head, the other following the line of his temples. The first set twisted upwards, the second set curled forwards as if in mid gesture. His ears were long and tapered at the ends and I couldn’t decide if they looked elvish or zoological. His skin was periwinkle, a color not quite consistent with animation but not wholly absent of life. His hair was shaved short at the sides and worn long in the middle. I wondered if he usually sported a mohawk and thought, with his bone structure, that it would suit him. His hair was enviably thick and in a shade of purple not at all unlike an aubergine.

My mouth opened in exclamation. He laid one placating hand on my shoulder while the other dipped into the dark folds of his robe. From his vestments he took a small golden pyramid that he affixed to the air above his open palm. The pyramid began to spin followed by a flash of light so bright that I was forced, momentarily, to recoil. His face, when at last arranged, was strange but handsome. His eyes were predatory, jade with flecks and gradations indicative of depth. They gave away nothing of his content but spoke of a steady, insatiate hunger. The sclera of his eye was totally black. His mouth was ambivalent, a straight, unaffected line in a color richer and deeper than his skin tone. His lips appeared soft but the pointed canines behind them gave me pause.

“I am….” His name was not a word but a sensation in the back of the skull, that was simultaneously soothing and shuddersome. I slapped the back of my neck vigorously trying to dislodge it. He sighed.

“What do you want?!” I interrupted hoping to avoid a repetition of that dreadful and disorienting appellation. “I’ll start with your name.” His voice was too deep, excavated from some unspeakable abyss either internal or external I knew not which. He seemed more perplexed by my apparent stupidity than angry. “I’m Anonymous.” I answered abrasively wondering if he’d catch the deception. “Anonymous huh?” His tone was just sarcastic enough to suggest that he understood my slight. “In that case you may call me Incognito.” I nearly choked on my own spit. Was he trying to make a joke? I looked at his mouth but the tilt of his lips was subtle at best.

“To answer your question Anon. I am here for you.”

For

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/04/14/sunday-writing-prompt-boogie-man/