Night of A Thousand Freaks

Stirring in my sleep. A chainsaw maniac chasing me through the woods, the cliché scene. I trip over a tree root – “CRUNCH!” – landing hard on my palms, tasting the soft earth. The sound of deadly weapon getting closer, lunatic footsteps crunching the twigs. Heart racing a mile a minute, struggling to free myself from the root, but shoestring seems to be snagged. The chainman is suddenly there, silhouetted against the faint light of the hazy moon. Frantically kicking at this reverse deus ex machina, tears rolling down my face. I look up; he has a mask on, like Jason, starts to lower the frightening buzzing weapon – “Please, NO!” My legs seem to give out. I stare at the madman and for just a second seem to see a glint in his eyes behind the mask, before it is extinguished like a smoldering fire. Everything in my head goes silent…and then…just then I’m on a makeshift raft with my dad in a dark swamp with trees on both sides. The sky above is starry, full of cosmic display. I stand up in this marsh and peer at the eerie forest before me and then look back at my dad. He seems to be sinking into the swamp, and what looks like rats are crawling over him, burying him alive, completely unaware, just sleeping away. My head pounds with anxiety. I stare at the horrific scene for a moment before the words that inadvertently come from my mouth are “He wasn’t worth it anyway,” and continue toward the forest, leaving my father to sink beneath the mucky depths of this mysterious wetland.

The nightmare shifts to me running through a labyrinth of houses, still at night, the sound of police sirens chasing after me, hunting me down. Heart pounding, I race through numerous alleyways and gated squares of closely packed homes, zigzagging this way and that. I keep running until the sound of the sirens are no more, not wanting to be found or face my downfall, and then the scene disappears and I am in a bright room lit by a hanging chandelier. The walls are wood paneled, the floor vanilla colored. There is nothing in this room except three wooden doors on the far wall facing me. And then a man at least 6″5 dressed in a casual dinner suit steps through the closed center door, steps straight through it like a ghost. He reminds me of someone I’ve seen before, but his face is blurry. This broad lad walks forward and stops just before me, seeming to grow a foot taller as I stare up at him.

“You know you have to pick a door,” he says in a loud booming voice filling the entire room. He stands to my right so I can see the three doors before me.

“Which one will it be, door 1, door 2, or door 3?”, the voice of Wayne Brady appears from somewhere.

The doors seem to rush towards me or I towards them and suddenly the room changes completely, gets smaller. I am now facing the three doors in what looks like a small prison cell. There is a large pool of blood in front of me and is seeping through the small floor crack of door 2. I definitely wouldn’t choose that door, would I? The other doors seem perfectly fine: one is a bolted metal variety, the kind seen in strong ship holds, and the other has wood of mahogany and cherry, expensive looking. But I am rooted on that center door, the blood reaching my bare feet, chilling my toes. I want to open that door, see what happened, the curiosity is tempting. Door 1 and Door 3 just don’t speak anything to me. But Door 3 says it all, even if there’s most likely not a good message on the other side. I touch the door and it simply swings inward, a flash of bright light and then…

I’m in a maze-like video game or movie, going through different rooms, and end up in a large bathroom/locker room of a gym perhaps. A little bit of creative thinking to solve the challenge, riddle here. Not so obvious. I start off entering the place through a door in a dark corner. Tiled floors. The sections of the locker room quiet and eerie. Up ahead is a lit area near a wall. I walk towards it and see a foggy mirror, cracked. Cobwebs hanging from the brick wall. Dust particles floating in the shining light. I turn to the left and see a lit passageway. Objects, such as a vanity set, are against both walls. In the distance is an opening to a dark chamber with the silhouette of a large menacing structure with curved sides and a sloping roof standing. Maybe there are steps on the sides. Probably enemies will be waiting for me there. They can likely sense my presence. I’d better stay away from that place. Going around the shadowy locker room looking for clues. Finally go into a section further away from the lit wall. Then a little girl appears, says “I just want to go home” in a creepy voice. She appears to be crawling on the ground and has an eerie horror look about her, one of those Gothic, depressed, lonely orphaned children. Blackest eyes of the night, pale face like pastry flour. The sequence ends and I go through a basement door, stepping into the darkness.

And just as I witness the chainsaw maniac again, his freakish figure appearing in a greenish fog, I suddenly wake up, sweat drops on my forehead, breathes coming in cold hard gasps. It’s 6:00 in the morning. I quickly grab a pen and paper and begin to recall what just happened in this nightmare.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: Just a Dream


Death of the Prompt

I hoped to start off my month of March blogging with something enthusiastic and bright, something that would inspire pleasant pictures of spring approaching and kids getting excited for the end of the school year coming up, so why am I having to write about my own death, which would be quite a dark and depressing ordeal? I haven’t even met my future wife yet or moved away from home. I’m 23 years old, haven’t even lived a quarter of a century yet, and I’m already being asked to write my death statement? Geez, give me a break, Daily Prompt, or should I say Daily Downer. Let’s write about something cheery. There are numerous topics that could have been chosen, but you went with the three most gloomy and sad set of words in the English language: write your obituary, like you’re some glorified grim reaper. When I first loaded up the Daily Prompt page (since I still use it as a helpful fuel for my blog), I saw those three morbid words and thought “What? How am I going to write about that?” I mean, this is quite a sick prompt today and I’m not sure I want to read through a bunch of posts about death, basically suicide notes. It’s bad enough having to write an obituary for someone else, but I definitely can’t muster enough to write my own. It’s ridiculous.

Maybe if I were the President I would be writing my own obituary, planning my own funeral, but since I’m just an ordinary regular person I’m here to think about now, not writing the ending of my story.

I’m scared for the future of this Daily Prompt device. I believe it deserves its own obituary:

It was a nice place to gather ideas
A great way to jumpstart your thoughts
But then it hit a snag and relied on archives
And soon got stuck in rehash
Something happened to the spirit and enthusiasm
Of this dear device we once knew
The Daily Prompt:
A thing of the past;
It’s memory now lives on forever
In the clutches of the Internet

In Loving Memory of The Daily Prompt: 2008? – 2015

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: In Loving Memory

Write your obituary.


Share Your World – 2015 Week 9

It’s been a while since I shared my world,
But here I am, ready to unfurl

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?

Interesting question. If I didn’t know I was 23 years old, I would have to say I was about 30ish, since I do look and act older than most people in their 20s. Many twenty-somethings are out partying and having a blast hanging out with friends but I’m more of the mature, studious type who would find enjoyment in a board game or writing poetry or reading thought provoking articles. But then again,  I don’t have a job right now and find more enjoyment in playing video games and having fun, so maybe I would be around my actual age. When I was 14 in the eighth grade, some kids thought I looked older than that and belonged in high school, which is true since I was held back a year from attending kindergarten. In my opinion though they were just being nosey and too observant of me, since those were the days when I was an awkward adolescent. I believe age is just a number though. You can be 50 and still look young.

Are you left or right handed? 

Right handed, though I have tried to teach myself to be ambidextrous but have given up the feat numerous times. There is logic that right handed people are the analytical, observant type while left handed people are more free spirited and care free. Is this a question for a secret poll being conducted? Is the opposite hand of all who are not ambidextrous going to be cut off?

If you HAD to change your name, what would you change it to?

Oooh, an ultimatum, will I die if I DON’T? Anyway, I have a strong liking for the name Luke, since it is easy on the tongue and obviously has a cool connection to Star Wars. My last name? Stormstone sounds awesome. Luke Stormstone – sounds like a fictional hero in a book or movie.

Where do you hide junk when people come over?

I wouldn’t call anything I have “junk” unless you count the crates of old school papers and awards lying around my room. It depends on who comes over. If it’s just my dad or cousin and her kids, then I tend not to care about stuff lying about, but if it were a teacher or a pretty girl that I had just met and wanted to make an impression on, I would make sure to clean up my room; “junk” would go in my closet and I would be sure to sweep the floor and every corner thoroughly.

Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

Last week, my dad celebrated his 54th birthday. We went out to eat at Klavon’s, an elegant pizza restaurant that has dozens of HDTVs all around (even little ones you can watch in your booth), and serves the best deep dish pizza I have ever seen – literally one slice can make you full. I am grateful that I get to spend another year with my father, and after seeing all that he has gone through, from having artificial hip surgery to nearly going blind and having to have eye cataracts removed, to struggling to find work after being fired in 2005, I think it’s only fitting to say that I still love him even if we have had our differences. I’m not sure what this first week of March entails for me though I’m looking forward to making more videos for my YouTube channel and exploring more regions of my video production craft. I’m also looking forward to finding a job this week, my first actual job other than an internship.


“A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP”
– Leonard Nimoy’s final tweet


Break These Uncertain Chains

I’ve sat and waited, for my dreams to be elated
Moment on, moment again, handcuffed by uncertainty
And with burst of energy, will soon find power to break free
And if love is uncertain or revelations not far
It’s plain to see how I reach for the stars
And wrap it in sheepskin, handle with care
Since these are my dreams, and I want them to share
And water and fire mix; will future pardon me
As the cosmos dance along, my ideal image created

The present is a race: you’re always on the move
Elusive stars scatter, still time doesn’t halt
While the future’s a fight, it’s finish not smooth

Time taken now, to decipher desired place
It powers; the twisted hands of fate act
Setting course my days ahead, soon question will become fact

Writing 201: Future


WPC: Reward

Happy and bright with love,
The ones that looked above,
Thy inventor of me,
Together at Christmas;
And above all else,
The reward in my life,
Is still having two people
To fall back on
When all else fails;
And when my world seems
To be crumbling before me,
These two are still there
To give me hope and inspiration,
Keep me on the path to my dream,
My never ending journey

Weekly Photo Challenge: Reward

Harmony in Pure Nature


This is a poem created using Magnetic Poetry and I was inspired to use it after a fellow blogger used it as well and provided a link to it. Quite fun, actually.

Harmony in Pure Nature

By nature’s secret
Only of the spirit
Dark air could light intuition
Live like an insect
Through thick root
If you have life
Never know wild grass is
Her deep sacred rose &
Winter tree
Beautiful as said spring prairie
Always breathe above earth
See me in bright sanctuary
Rest in vivid river song
Sun over a cold dawn fruit

Writing 201

From Bare to Brilliant White

“How dare you mock me?”, I say,
squatting near your dusty wall,
your drawers of ripe old age,
have witnessed much life, much
rise and fall;
You’ve been with me through many tears,
witnessed hopes, dreams, and fears,
trials and tribulations,
“Wow, I can’t believe I’ve kept you all of these years.”
Were there when I was a baby,
and have witnessed so much more,
watched me grow up fast,
walk through many bedroom doors;
Ah! What a brilliant shade of white,
it shouted anew in 2010,
Contained within it’s
ever changing confines,
are an assortment of odds and ends:
A jar of beer caps, some flossers, and
guitar tuner which is likely dead;
The 80s live on in an old baseball handbook
while a memory book lies above
college diploma, received from
all those painstakingly boring classes I took;
And the ties of assorted taste, and
honor roll medal from high school,
discarded toothbrush in the back,
and hydrocodones from the old Liz I knew;
Let me keep you, dearly durable drawer,
and all of your companions,
Because I love you to the moon and more;
I have never had another dresser,
this same one from my youth,
and as the years roll on,
and life changes colors,
I realize I can never let go of you

Writing 201


Magical Ore of Words

My mind is at ease, familiar click of the keys as I write down these words, taking me back to that happy place. The perennial pen that produces my thoughts, undeniable taught with wisdom, courage, and understanding. The slow flow of a constant show to unravel the answer of me. Tapping into the magical ore within, drawing out inspiration, pulling through desperation, it’s going to be my innovation.

The words seek to be approved, I bust my way through to be improved, tapping the magical well until the keys start to swell, it’s either heaven or hell, as my words form a shell of my utter existence. Like the glittery firebugs that light up the night, electrical synapses from my brain power the prose that flows down like rain, until I am completely dry. But satisfaction never comes, as the magical ore refills once more, and the magical pen starts in again, pulling me through the gates to a peaceful bed of literary resistance.

Writing 201


Ballad of Selma’s Hero

the voice of the trodden,
he turned the world around
the voice of the trodden,
burned segregation
to the ground;

I say to you, Mr. King,
you are a true icon to me
I say to you, Mr. King,
your legacy lives on for eternity;

he had a dream
that the world would
come together:
not just fifty shades
of black and white,
but every thread of
the proverbial

he had a dream
that we all could
sit down together
could go to work
together peacefully;
could ride the bus
together peacefully;
could cross the street
together peacefully;

he had a dream
that our votes belonged
in the same box;
our education
in the same box;
our athletic talents
in the same box;
our political agenda
in the same box;

realize what Mr. King did,
shattered years of
racial hatred;
broke down the
proverbial Berlin Wall,
made us realize
we were all human, the
same after all

and now we have
a monument to
remember him;
and now we have
a way to pay our
respects to him;
and now we have
his powerful words
persevered in our history;
and now we have
his message being
heard universally

but this does not
change the fact
that his dream is still
spit on;
this does not
change the fact
that still a great many
have the utter most hate on;

but I’ll keep the ballad
of Selma’s dear hero
a happy soulful one for now;
I’ll keep the ballad
of Martin Luther King, Jr.
my grand respect for
his dream come true,
a happy tribute for now



Oh, Canada

Kanata looms, just over the
port of Windsor,
a place I’ve been close to but
have not actually felt the shiver;
Beautiful, graceful Moraine mountains but
I’ve longed to see the land of the Maple Leaf,
the birthplace of ice hockey, Gretzky;
A Mari Usque Ad Mare,
majestic moose, Nova Scotia,
where the speed limit is kilo,
“God Save The Queen”, they say;
And once I’ve tasted some of
that old aged lager,
I’ll go up the continent
a little further and
picture Alaska:
Amazing Anchorage, Juneau in July
This little ice capped heaven
where I would finally die

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: Tourist Trap.”

What’s your dream tourist destination — either a place you’ve been and loved, or a place you’d love to visit? What about it speaks to you?