nfaulk6
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Writer. 'Nuff said. If you'd like to read more of my "stuff", https://nfaulk6.wixsite.com/nataliefaulk & https://nfaulk.wordpress.com.
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Write a humorous limerick.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Comedy

Defiance

I used to boast I was in mint condition,

Thanks to exercise and proper nutrition.

Until medical scrutiny,

My gall bladder mutiny,

Resulting in its surgical extradition.

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Write a humorous limerick.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Comedy
Defiance
I used to boast I was in mint condition,
Thanks to exercise and proper nutrition.
Until medical scrutiny,
My gall bladder mutiny,
Resulting in its surgical extradition.

5
2
3
Juice
59 reads
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Write a creative 'Roses are Red' poem. Change it up, make it funny, sad, romantic, scary, etc.! :)
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Gray

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Unless you're colorblind,

(Then I suppose you can only see one or the other.

But wait, that doesn't rhyme, so)

It must suck to be you.

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Write a creative 'Roses are Red' poem. Change it up, make it funny, sad, romantic, scary, etc.! :)
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Gray
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Unless you're colorblind,
(Then I suppose you can only see one or the other.
But wait, that doesn't rhyme, so)
It must suck to be you.



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Rhyming challenge! write a silly poem, rhyming one or all of the following words: hippopotamus, yeti, giraffe, capsule, abominable, frolicsome.
Written by nfaulk6

Splittsville

There once was a narcissistic giraffe,

Who was obsessed with his own photograph.

Until his girlfriend Betty,

(A quite beautiful Yeti,)

Had enough of him and moved to Flagstaff.

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Rhyming challenge! write a silly poem, rhyming one or all of the following words: hippopotamus, yeti, giraffe, capsule, abominable, frolicsome.
Written by nfaulk6
Splittsville
There once was a narcissistic giraffe,
Who was obsessed with his own photograph.
Until his girlfriend Betty,
(A quite beautiful Yeti,)
Had enough of him and moved to Flagstaff.


7
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I'm sorry
Written by nfaulk6

Unrepentant

Just because you say you're sorry,

Doesn't mean you won't do it again.

You have,

You will,

I don't buy it anymore.

So take your phony remorse and spurious regret

And shove it up your ass.

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I'm sorry
Written by nfaulk6
Unrepentant
Just because you say you're sorry,
Doesn't mean you won't do it again.
You have,
You will,
I don't buy it anymore.
So take your phony remorse and spurious regret
And shove it up your ass.
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Write about the most evil place you can think of.
Written by nfaulk6

Damnation

The most abject locale is hell on Earth,

Where pure souls suffer a poisoned rebirth.

A place most vile,

Where demons beguile,

Conquered by woe, overridden with dearth.

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Write about the most evil place you can think of.
Written by nfaulk6
Damnation
The most abject locale is hell on Earth,
Where pure souls suffer a poisoned rebirth.
A place most vile,
Where demons beguile,
Conquered by woe, overridden with dearth.


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1
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CotW #66: Write about the biggest lesson life has taught you.
Written by nfaulk6

I Love You - An Essay

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres ~ 1 Corinthians 13:

4-7.

I love you. It’s amazing how much promise, hope, joy, sorrow, pain, and ambivalence these three words elicit. Particularly in a day wherein people have become lazy, relying solely upon words to express a sentiment at the expense of actually demonstrating that they mean what they say, I love you has, to me, become nearly devoid of any true meaning. When I love I do it completely. I give my heart and soul unselfishly and, subsequently, place my relationships high on my priority list. I do not understand why others believe that it is simply enough to just say it without following through with actions.

I write this now because I am contemplating my romantic future several years after my divorce. My second divorce from my mistake marriage which is a long story in and of itself (and best left for another time). However, my last relationship—albeit rather short-lived—was an exercise in futility and a character-building experience. Insecurities, indecision, narcissism, and naiveté plagued any semblance of longevity or happiness.

Big mistake number one: he was “separated”—which really meant that he wanted to have a wife and a girlfriend. A girlfriend for the fun, novelty, and sex, and a wife waiting for him to come back that provided some odd stability in his mind.

Big mistake number two: I kept taking him back after every break-up. I have to admit I was acting like a stupid girl. I am most definitely not stupid. Nevertheless, the fear of being alone—something I now enjoy—affected my usually intelligent decision-making processes. And I got hurt. Several times. Each subsequent injury—whether intentional or not—created new wounds or opened old ones, and eventually added enough salt for a 50-gallon drum of margaritas to them all.

I firmly believe that if one does not love oneself then he or she cannot love another. This, to me, is the primary law of love. Absent the capability of loving oneself it is impossible to extend such sentiment to others, yet people try repeatedly to love another, all the while devoid of the capacity to do so. They believe that mere utterance is analogous to actions. That saying those three little words is enough to get one’s point across, to make the other person believe in all the hopes and promises such words ought to convey. In reality, however, where too many people rest upon the laurels of said words, even more of them erroneously and habitually trust the speaker. I believe this is at the heart of the decline of society—that people believe words without deeds and that those who speak such meaningless utterances are taken at face value without actually having to put effort into realizing their true connotation or into making the other person feel said value.

I cannot fathom a statement that is more comprehensive, more descriptive, and more reflective of what love truly is. In my relationships I have been confronted with a dearth of such guidelines. Pridefulness, lack of protection and trust, malice, spite, selfishness, and the absence of kindness have been my experience and it seems as though I repeatedly become involved with individuals who do not adhere to the aforementioned words of wisdom. Am I listening to myself? I do not follow these words either. In such circumstances, smart women and men are reduced to stupid adolescents despite a plethora of experience which should guide them away from false beliefs and toward veracity and authenticity.

What, then, is love? Truly it is caring for another as much if not more than one cares for him- or herself. Putting another human being atop the priority list is, indeed, the best gift one can bestow upon another. To demonstrate such a level of nurturing and attention that transcends personal consideration is an unparalleled demonstration of the profundity of one’s heart. Yet of all the relationships in the world, I would imagine—as any apt cynic would—that the words are spoken far more than they are actually demonstrated. ‘Tis but a shame, really. Even more distressing—at least to me—is the number of those within these relationships who are perfectly content and comfortable with the status quo.

Not I, that’s for sure. I am one of the unfortunate minority who are not merely satisfied by actionless words. I have experienced far too many times the verbal sentiments of love with nonexistent actions. Or, even worse, the words followed by violence and pain. Ergo, to me, deedless protestations of love are simply words. Meaningless. Empty. Worthless.

So here I am; endeavoring into the dating world as one would dunk one’s toe into a scalding bathtub or freezing lake, with the oxymoronic combination of cynicism and hope. The former is a result of my experiences and the latter a reflection of my eternal Disney-esque belief in true love and happily ever after.

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CotW #66: Write about the biggest lesson life has taught you.
Written by nfaulk6
I Love You - An Essay
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres ~ 1 Corinthians 13:
4-7.

I love you. It’s amazing how much promise, hope, joy, sorrow, pain, and ambivalence these three words elicit. Particularly in a day wherein people have become lazy, relying solely upon words to express a sentiment at the expense of actually demonstrating that they mean what they say, I love you has, to me, become nearly devoid of any true meaning. When I love I do it completely. I give my heart and soul unselfishly and, subsequently, place my relationships high on my priority list. I do not understand why others believe that it is simply enough to just say it without following through with actions.

I write this now because I am contemplating my romantic future several years after my divorce. My second divorce from my mistake marriage which is a long story in and of itself (and best left for another time). However, my last relationship—albeit rather short-lived—was an exercise in futility and a character-building experience. Insecurities, indecision, narcissism, and naiveté plagued any semblance of longevity or happiness.

Big mistake number one: he was “separated”—which really meant that he wanted to have a wife and a girlfriend. A girlfriend for the fun, novelty, and sex, and a wife waiting for him to come back that provided some odd stability in his mind.

Big mistake number two: I kept taking him back after every break-up. I have to admit I was acting like a stupid girl. I am most definitely not stupid. Nevertheless, the fear of being alone—something I now enjoy—affected my usually intelligent decision-making processes. And I got hurt. Several times. Each subsequent injury—whether intentional or not—created new wounds or opened old ones, and eventually added enough salt for a 50-gallon drum of margaritas to them all.

I firmly believe that if one does not love oneself then he or she cannot love another. This, to me, is the primary law of love. Absent the capability of loving oneself it is impossible to extend such sentiment to others, yet people try repeatedly to love another, all the while devoid of the capacity to do so. They believe that mere utterance is analogous to actions. That saying those three little words is enough to get one’s point across, to make the other person believe in all the hopes and promises such words ought to convey. In reality, however, where too many people rest upon the laurels of said words, even more of them erroneously and habitually trust the speaker. I believe this is at the heart of the decline of society—that people believe words without deeds and that those who speak such meaningless utterances are taken at face value without actually having to put effort into realizing their true connotation or into making the other person feel said value.

I cannot fathom a statement that is more comprehensive, more descriptive, and more reflective of what love truly is. In my relationships I have been confronted with a dearth of such guidelines. Pridefulness, lack of protection and trust, malice, spite, selfishness, and the absence of kindness have been my experience and it seems as though I repeatedly become involved with individuals who do not adhere to the aforementioned words of wisdom. Am I listening to myself? I do not follow these words either. In such circumstances, smart women and men are reduced to stupid adolescents despite a plethora of experience which should guide them away from false beliefs and toward veracity and authenticity.

What, then, is love? Truly it is caring for another as much if not more than one cares for him- or herself. Putting another human being atop the priority list is, indeed, the best gift one can bestow upon another. To demonstrate such a level of nurturing and attention that transcends personal consideration is an unparalleled demonstration of the profundity of one’s heart. Yet of all the relationships in the world, I would imagine—as any apt cynic would—that the words are spoken far more than they are actually demonstrated. ‘Tis but a shame, really. Even more distressing—at least to me—is the number of those within these relationships who are perfectly content and comfortable with the status quo.

Not I, that’s for sure. I am one of the unfortunate minority who are not merely satisfied by actionless words. I have experienced far too many times the verbal sentiments of love with nonexistent actions. Or, even worse, the words followed by violence and pain. Ergo, to me, deedless protestations of love are simply words. Meaningless. Empty. Worthless.

So here I am; endeavoring into the dating world as one would dunk one’s toe into a scalding bathtub or freezing lake, with the oxymoronic combination of cynicism and hope. The former is a result of my experiences and the latter a reflection of my eternal Disney-esque belief in true love and happily ever after.
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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Fiction

Din

The knocking woke me up.

What the hell, I thought.

I sat up and stretched.

There it was again, louder.

I began to shake uncontrollably.

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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Fiction
Din
The knocking woke me up.
What the hell, I thought.
I sat up and stretched.
There it was again, louder.
I began to shake uncontrollably.

10
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Juice
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Simon & Schuster

Chapters 1 and 2 of "Impasse"

One

Abby Kent was a blast.

Funny, outgoing, smart – the kind of person everyone wanted for a friend. Up for adventure, ready to lend a hand, easy to talk to, she excelled in the majority of her endeavors.

A casual writer herself, she worked as a freelance proofreader, enjoying the prospect of losing herself in her clients’ imaginations while reaping the benefits of being self-employed. She was a perpetual night owl; hard to awaken in the mornings, but once energized was alert until the late evening hours. Abby lived to read, loved to escape into different worlds, eras, cultures—appreciating the opportunity to live vicariously through other people’s words.

Perhaps it was her less-than-ideal childhood that paved the way for her zest for reading. An only child, oftentimes lonely, parents working most of the time, she learned to cope by reading. In those fantastic places of classical literature she was accepted, loved, nurtured, and free. She voraciously read books by the dozen, visiting the library as often as possible, losing herself, finding herself.

Nobody was surprised that Abby graduated college with honors, majoring in English and journalism, paying her way with scholarships and part-time tutoring jobs, as well as writing the occasional term paper for desperate college students. Her parents’ attention toward her dwindled as she got older and more self-sufficient, ostensibly oblivious to the fact that she longed desperately to have parents who loved and noticed her.

Also not surprisingly, she moved away shortly after college, from Laramie, Wyoming to Colorado Springs, primarily to embark upon her writing career and to escape from her familial indifference. She worked for the Gazette as a sometime-feature writer and copyeditor for a few years.

She also adopted Jinx while in Colorado. Jinx was a three-year-old black male cat with four white paws and a white spot above his right eye. He was a stray, found by a couple of kids walking home one day. Since their mother was allergic, they begrudgingly took him to the humane society. He was only there two days before Abby found him. He was definitely a sweetheart—her leading man, Abby would say. He was rarely more than five feet away from her at any given time and had his own pillow atop her bed. She did have to teach him to not shred the tulle canopy. It only took about two weeks—and three canopies—before he got the hint and has been a perfect gentleman since.

So, at the age of 28—and already stressing about turning 30—Abby decided to leave the snow for a different climate.

There was no rhyme or reason why Abby chose California. She had only been there once when she was seven and her parents took her to Disneyland for her birthday. It was, sadly, one of only a few happy childhood memories.

She found a cute and rather affordable little one-bedroom house to rent in a quiet Mission Beach neighborhood with a large bay window displaying a beautiful view of the ocean. A great place for my desk! Very inspirational, she mused. Jinx immediately made himself at home on the windowsill, purring contentedly as the sun shone down upon him.

Abby rubbed his belly, “This was a good idea, wasn’t it?” she asked him. Jinx meowed in agreement.

She found a job with the Union-Tribune as a copywriter but after only three weeks of California commuting traffic, she opted to pursue the freelance proofreader route. She signed up for a few online freelancing sites and was immediately flooded with work: good pay, great hours, and the ever present opportunity to write if she so desired.

Two

Abby met Chad and Liz Essex shortly after she arrived in San Diego. Liz was attending a Saturday monthly book club at the local library when Abby strode in, hip-hugging jeans revealing a hint of the tattoo on her lower back, hippie-style gauze shirt, clogs. Abby was very pretty, five-feet-seven-inches tall, an athletic build, her shoulder-length auburn hair in loose waves (and to her mother’s dismay usually messy), piercing green eyes hidden under black sunglasses. Liz smiled. Abby grinned back; instinctively aware that the two of them would become great friends.

After discussing the latest novel touted by Oprah, the group adjourned. Liz approached Abby, arm extended, hand open in a gesture of friendship. “Liz Essex, nice to meet you. You’re new, aren’t you?” Liz was a bit shorter than Abby, very attractive with dark hair cut into an attractive shag with face-framing bangs, brown eyes, and a bit older. Liz was also clad in dark-wash jeans and a beautiful leopard print blouse—with matching shoes.

“Yes,” Abby replied, shaking hands. “I moved here last month from Colorado.”

“Welcome, it’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow bibliophile who actually reads the book before the meeting,” Liz laughed aloud.

I already like her, mused Abby, grinning. “Want to go get a cup of coffee or something Liz?”

“That sounds fantastic! Why don’t you follow me over to my place? My husband Chad is out running errands, but should be home pretty soon. You can meet him too.”

“Fine with me,” Abby replied, following Liz out of the library.

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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Simon & Schuster
Chapters 1 and 2 of "Impasse"
One
Abby Kent was a blast.

Funny, outgoing, smart – the kind of person everyone wanted for a friend. Up for adventure, ready to lend a hand, easy to talk to, she excelled in the majority of her endeavors.

A casual writer herself, she worked as a freelance proofreader, enjoying the prospect of losing herself in her clients’ imaginations while reaping the benefits of being self-employed. She was a perpetual night owl; hard to awaken in the mornings, but once energized was alert until the late evening hours. Abby lived to read, loved to escape into different worlds, eras, cultures—appreciating the opportunity to live vicariously through other people’s words.

Perhaps it was her less-than-ideal childhood that paved the way for her zest for reading. An only child, oftentimes lonely, parents working most of the time, she learned to cope by reading. In those fantastic places of classical literature she was accepted, loved, nurtured, and free. She voraciously read books by the dozen, visiting the library as often as possible, losing herself, finding herself.

Nobody was surprised that Abby graduated college with honors, majoring in English and journalism, paying her way with scholarships and part-time tutoring jobs, as well as writing the occasional term paper for desperate college students. Her parents’ attention toward her dwindled as she got older and more self-sufficient, ostensibly oblivious to the fact that she longed desperately to have parents who loved and noticed her.

Also not surprisingly, she moved away shortly after college, from Laramie, Wyoming to Colorado Springs, primarily to embark upon her writing career and to escape from her familial indifference. She worked for the Gazette as a sometime-feature writer and copyeditor for a few years.

She also adopted Jinx while in Colorado. Jinx was a three-year-old black male cat with four white paws and a white spot above his right eye. He was a stray, found by a couple of kids walking home one day. Since their mother was allergic, they begrudgingly took him to the humane society. He was only there two days before Abby found him. He was definitely a sweetheart—her leading man, Abby would say. He was rarely more than five feet away from her at any given time and had his own pillow atop her bed. She did have to teach him to not shred the tulle canopy. It only took about two weeks—and three canopies—before he got the hint and has been a perfect gentleman since.

So, at the age of 28—and already stressing about turning 30—Abby decided to leave the snow for a different climate.

There was no rhyme or reason why Abby chose California. She had only been there once when she was seven and her parents took her to Disneyland for her birthday. It was, sadly, one of only a few happy childhood memories.

She found a cute and rather affordable little one-bedroom house to rent in a quiet Mission Beach neighborhood with a large bay window displaying a beautiful view of the ocean. A great place for my desk! Very inspirational, she mused. Jinx immediately made himself at home on the windowsill, purring contentedly as the sun shone down upon him.

Abby rubbed his belly, “This was a good idea, wasn’t it?” she asked him. Jinx meowed in agreement.

She found a job with the Union-Tribune as a copywriter but after only three weeks of California commuting traffic, she opted to pursue the freelance proofreader route. She signed up for a few online freelancing sites and was immediately flooded with work: good pay, great hours, and the ever present opportunity to write if she so desired.

Two
Abby met Chad and Liz Essex shortly after she arrived in San Diego. Liz was attending a Saturday monthly book club at the local library when Abby strode in, hip-hugging jeans revealing a hint of the tattoo on her lower back, hippie-style gauze shirt, clogs. Abby was very pretty, five-feet-seven-inches tall, an athletic build, her shoulder-length auburn hair in loose waves (and to her mother’s dismay usually messy), piercing green eyes hidden under black sunglasses. Liz smiled. Abby grinned back; instinctively aware that the two of them would become great friends.

After discussing the latest novel touted by Oprah, the group adjourned. Liz approached Abby, arm extended, hand open in a gesture of friendship. “Liz Essex, nice to meet you. You’re new, aren’t you?” Liz was a bit shorter than Abby, very attractive with dark hair cut into an attractive shag with face-framing bangs, brown eyes, and a bit older. Liz was also clad in dark-wash jeans and a beautiful leopard print blouse—with matching shoes.
“Yes,” Abby replied, shaking hands. “I moved here last month from Colorado.”
“Welcome, it’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow bibliophile who actually reads the book before the meeting,” Liz laughed aloud.

I already like her, mused Abby, grinning. “Want to go get a cup of coffee or something Liz?”

“That sounds fantastic! Why don’t you follow me over to my place? My husband Chad is out running errands, but should be home pretty soon. You can meet him too.”

“Fine with me,” Abby replied, following Liz out of the library.

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Write a poem about any body part. Go!
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Defiance

I used to boast I was in mint condition,

Thanks to exercise and proper nutrition.

Until medical scrutiny,

My gall bladder mutiny, 

Resulting in its surgical extradition.

5
0
3
Juice
105 reads
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Write a poem about any body part. Go!
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Defiance
I used to boast I was in mint condition,
Thanks to exercise and proper nutrition.
Until medical scrutiny,
My gall bladder mutiny, 
Resulting in its surgical extradition.


5
0
3
Juice
105 reads
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I want you wonderful prosers to write a ghost story in rhyme (or prose), but it should start with the following line: "A house stands upon a shady hill..." let's see who can run a chill down my spine! Please tag me (@fortbruce) in your story/poem so I can know you entered into the challenge. Good Luck!!
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Paranormal

Trick

A house stands upon a shady hill,

As night fell, the wind was still.

An eerie glow from the stars and moon,

Throughout the yard, debris was strewn.

How long it’s stood empty, I cannot say,

Once bright, I’m sure, now pale and gray.

Strange noises wreaked havoc with my mind,

As I witnessed a figure behind a blind.

That’s crazy, I whispered, there’s no one there,

This vacant shell in complete disrepair.

When a pale apparition stared down at me,

From an upstairs window behind a tall oak tree.

Clad in white with long hair and a solemn face,

Silently imploring, wanting out of this place.

Were my eyes playing tricks along with my ears?

Struggling with myself to confront my fears.

Scary movies foreshadow this cannot end well,

Myriad secrets the dead can—and do—tell.

Not wanting the same fate as the ghost I saw,

Yet curiosity was my fatal flaw.

I slowly approached and rang the doorbell,

Fearing the clamor was my own death knell?

The sound of footsteps behind the door,

A turning knob chilled me to the core.

But I couldn’t make myself turn and leave,

How apropos on this All Hallows’ Eve.

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I want you wonderful prosers to write a ghost story in rhyme (or prose), but it should start with the following line: "A house stands upon a shady hill..." let's see who can run a chill down my spine! Please tag me (@fortbruce) in your story/poem so I can know you entered into the challenge. Good Luck!!
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Paranormal
Trick
A house stands upon a shady hill,
As night fell, the wind was still.
An eerie glow from the stars and moon,
Throughout the yard, debris was strewn.
How long it’s stood empty, I cannot say,
Once bright, I’m sure, now pale and gray.
Strange noises wreaked havoc with my mind,
As I witnessed a figure behind a blind.
That’s crazy, I whispered, there’s no one there,
This vacant shell in complete disrepair.
When a pale apparition stared down at me,
From an upstairs window behind a tall oak tree.
Clad in white with long hair and a solemn face,
Silently imploring, wanting out of this place.
Were my eyes playing tricks along with my ears?
Struggling with myself to confront my fears.
Scary movies foreshadow this cannot end well,
Myriad secrets the dead can—and do—tell.
Not wanting the same fate as the ghost I saw,
Yet curiosity was my fatal flaw.
I slowly approached and rang the doorbell,
Fearing the clamor was my own death knell?
The sound of footsteps behind the door,
A turning knob chilled me to the core.
But I couldn’t make myself turn and leave,
How apropos on this All Hallows’ Eve.

7
3
7
Juice
145 reads
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