As Halloween approaches, here's something a little spooky.

Editor Adam Henry Carriére of DM du jour and Danse Macabre published this short story in April, 2016.  Merci beaucoup, mon ami.


https://dmdujour.wordpress.com

APRIL 1, 2016

Linda Imbler ~ Dead of Night

While strolling late one night as insomniacs sometimes do, I had a most terrifying and perplexing experience. As I rounded the corner of some hedges, I caught sight of one of my dearest friends, caught in lamplight, some yards away ahead of me. As I opened my mouth to call to her, she suddenly yelled, hugged herself tightly and dropped to the concrete. Before I could take a single step toward her, something landed on the ground next to her.

I heard it speak in a soft, silky voice that seduces, makes you feel safe and warm, reels you in..… “I’m glad to find you here at this time. You see, I must stay out of the light. I only come out at night when evil roams.” It bent quickly over my friend and covered her body with its wings.

Then it rose and as I stood immobilized, it looked at me. I could see the wings, the long nails, flowing hair and tail of a beast. And the eyes, oh yes, the eyes, burning eyes that grip and hold one spellbound. My throat went dry. It remained, silently, and I continued to be frozen with fright. Then, with the strongest effort, I tore my eyes away. I felt a surge of strength in my legs. I fled.

At once, a shadow fell over me. I felt the air from beating wings bearing down, but the shadow passed.

I knew then, I knew what had accosted my friend. What pursues those who are lost, who are helpless: Abchanchu, Upyr, Vampyre.

Somewhat recovering my senses, I realize how much I feared for my friend. I was also recovering some of my courage, I returned to the site where she had fallen. Perhaps some help could be found for her before she became ——-

But strangely, there were no marks upon her neck, she was neither pale nor gaunt. She was slightly stirring. Using my phone, I called for help, emergency came. I made no mention of that supernatural observance.

One week to the day, she and I sat in a diner talking about many things. Suddenly, she told me that after her heart attack felled her, she had a strange dream. Something came, and breathed new life into her as hers was being spent.

At home that night, I thought about what she had said. Could it really have been?

Meanwhile, on the edge of forever, God looked and smiled upon one of his own. “You did well last week, Leliel, you did very well indeed.”

Creating "Dead of Night"

A new look at vampire stories.

Afterthoughts for "Dead of Night"

Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can only see when it's dark.

Isaac Bashevis Singer

Teibele and Her Demon

What hath night to do with sleep?

John Milton, Paradise Lost

The night is the hardest time to be alive and 4 a.m. knows all my secrets.

Poppy Z. Brite

Editor Kathy Kieth of Medusa's Kitchen published this poem in October.  Thank you again, Kathy!

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com

PAINTED WALLS

The first coat of paint in that cozy kitchen
was a soft yellow that reflected the morning sun.
They drank their coffee there and ate their bacon
and eggs together at the table.
Youth and fortuity were on their side,
that beautiful shirking of what should be done,
saved for later.

The second coat in that kitchen
was a shade of coyote brown to hide
little jellied handprints and the scuffing of shoes.
With full adulthood upon them,
they were often steadier and craftier achievers.

The third coat in the kitchen was the hardest to choose.
They sat there for what seemed like an endless time,
trying to decide what color would be most welcoming to the new owners.
Finally, having decided, they picked up their meager belongings
and hoped that the home would have welcoming walls.

Thank you so very much to Editor Veronica Bruce of The Paragon Journal-Anapest for publishing
four of my poems over the last few days.  I am honored to be a part of this great publication site!
❤️❤️❤️❤️


https://www.theparagonjournal.com/anapest

An Old Dog’s Lament

October 6, 2017

|

Linda Imbler

When you left me at the park bench,

I could not see you walk away,

But I knew you were gone

When you no longer spoke to me,

And your scent faded.

I waited all night in the rain,

Refusing sleep so I would not miss your return,

My matted fur and dry mouth

Greeted the sun of that first new day,

My first day without you.

My eyes had failed me the previous year,

And somehow I had failed you,

Although I do not understand how.

Should I ever smell you again,

I will come to you,

And lick your hand,

And ask your forgiveness,

For whatever was lacking in me.

Now I am elsewhere,

Being cared for by another,

I am one of the lucky ones in that regard.

There's new smells in the air,

But always I am searching

For that one ,which to me, is most familiar

And brings the happiest memories.

Creating "An Old Dog's Lament"

Occasionally, someone will adopt an older dog. And that is a wonderful thing.

The best of the adopters realize that older dogs have very long memories and 

really need that extra care.

Afterthoughts for "An Old Dog's Lament"

A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than you love yourself.

Josh Billings

The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and 

not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too.

Samuel Butler

My goal in life is to be as good of a person my dog already thinks I am.

unknown 

Dogs have given us their absolute all.

We are the center of their universe.

We are the focus of their love and faith and trust.

They serve us in return for scraps.

It is without a doubt the best deal man has ever made.

Roger Caras

My Drawing:

Published in The Paragon Journal-Anapest.  Thank you, Editor Veronica Bruce.


https://www.theparagonjournal.com/anapest








Dallas

October 8, 2017

|

Linda Imbler

The land of Cowboys and cattlemen,

The land of bankers and Baptists,

The land of bless your heart and there you go:

They say it's the city where JFK was killed, a friend

once told me at NorthPark Mall that her father knew

Jack Ruby back then.

They say it's the land of mortgaged extravagance: Yes, there

you go, I have seen lavish hotels built upon

former ranches.

And they say to me Dallas town itself is quite small: My reply

is there you go, for there are suburbs both rich and poor

that surround it.

And there is both bitter hunger and keen gluttony;

poverty and great wealth, and I match their snide remarks

and say to them:

This is also the town of my youth, the place where the Crossroads

Club and the Dairy Queen gave me solace and refuge.

It's the town of my latter years where my father died, and later

still, those whom I had once been close to fell away from me,

sadly, so there you go. 

Thank you so very much to Editor Veronica Bruce of The Paragon Journal-Anapest for publishing
four of my poems over the last few days.  I am honored to be a part of this great publication site!
❤️❤️❤️❤️


https://www.theparagonjournal.com/anapest

Keeper of Nightmares

October 9, 2017

|

Linda Imbler

Who is the keeper of nightmares?

Who is the killer of souls?

Blaming that which lies without,

He to whom we say our morning prayers.

If all men at once lay down arms,

Lay down arms instead of bodies,

How would the world change

Instantly if all believe and wield charm.

Instead war is kept as a curse

One from which there is no escape

For to share that much heart

We are only willing to intersperse.

We'll stay the keeper of nightmares,

We'll stay the killer of souls

Blaming that which lies without,

He to whom we glibly throw our cares.

Creating "Keeper of Nightmares"

Wouldn't it be terrific if we could all take the responsibility for our own behavior up front?

I must continually re-examine my own conscience.  And you?

Afterthoughts for "Keeper of Nightmares"

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. 

Francis of Assisi

Reject hatred without hating. 

Mary Baker Eddy

Everyone should play their role in tearing down the wall of hatred. 

Lalu Prasad Yadav

Oz

October 10, 2017

|

Linda Imbler

A shabby town feigning glamour,

A vapor amid the clamor,

Distractions from sidewise contours

masking that unwholesome smell.

Lurking snake oil salesmen

with unctuous undertaker bent,

switch dark lights to bursting flash, then

ensnare you within the carousel.

Lolita dolls posed on the street,

exteriors seem so sweet

but within, cold hearts that seldom beat,

features masked with colors.

Genial contempt disguised,

smiles that never touch their eyes,

hardset, merciless mouths plied

to take another dollar.                                                                        
My Drawing:

Blazing buildings so compact,

the wrapping maze that so attracts,

leads to where the minotaur’s kept,

purposeful deceit.

Beware the bright yellow brick road,

false idols dot it, we’ve been told,

hidden deep cracks suck your soul

and feed this town’s conceit.                                                              My Drawing:

Creating "Oz"

Safe travels, everyone.  Safe travels.

Afterthoughts for "Oz"

I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy. 

Anais Nin

Amsterdam has more than 150 canals and 1,250 bridges, but it never seems crowded, nor bent and bitter from fleecing the tourist. 

Julie Burchill

Bangkok, like Las Vegas, sounds like a place where you make bad decisions. 

Todd Phillips