(no subject)
::whine::
I'm BORED with the story. So here's the dramatic poem I'd written while in China instead. It's not as good as it could be, but it might be as good as I can get it.
The red dream first lapped up his sleep on the night
That his mother forbade him to leave on the light.
"Johnny, my dearest, you're six and a half,"
She'd said with a loving dry tear and a laugh,
And she'd clicked shut the door-oh that ominous sound!
For the eyes of the dark menaced wide all around.
Courageous, dear boy, he'd laid down his head,
As the Red Dream crept soundless the length of his bed,
And put out its simpering fire-red tongue
To scent on the air the sweet draw of his lungs.
Through the candle-bright blur of a glittering haze,
The presents were strewn in a tinseling maze;
The presence of walls were with garlands festooned
And shadows of furniture lurked 'round the room.
Johnny crept in, for Santa'd soon come
Through the ashy black maw where the stockings were hung.
There, as he crouched by the mantle, a clock-
Perhaps it was shy-hid its face as it struck.
A tremulous midnight coursed through the house,
Bouncing off every blind wall in the house,
And as the last shiver died out from the night,
Johnny imagined he saw a faint light.
From the ravening chimney an echo resounds,
A hot eager glow seeps over the ground.
It liked its own color washed wide in his head
Like some nocturnal fear leaving footprints of red.
And he woke. His breath came in rasps
And his palpitating heart beat a furious pat.
The tentative moonlight peeked in through the blinds
To shed its illusory light on all sides.
His room was quite still, not a thing out of place;
Neither moonlight nor streetlight betrayed any trace
Of any brief Presence just now scurried out
By the firmly shut door or more devious route.
But he knew it was coming, and all in a rush
He ran to his dear mother's bedside to clutch
At her nightie, to tattle his fear of whatever
Dream creatures who crept ever near.
"Hush dear you've been dreaming," that cold woman said,
And tucked her poor John in his terrible bed.
To avoid the mistake of the hour before,
Johnny clapped his most vigilant eyes on the door
To that treacherous haven of monsters and dreams:
The closet whose breast harbored six years of fiends.
But the comforting weight of his weather-worn quilt
Seeped out the strength of his childlike will.
And as his eyes closed in his innocent face,
The Red Dream crept out to have one more sweet taste.
Johnny dreamt that he stood by the chimney again
And heard a faint skittering over his head.
The delicate tattoo of sweet cloven feet
Descended by measures the chimney and leaped
Onto the hearth logs, unfolded its leg
Onto the bib of red brickwork, and laid
Its fine knobby fingers over the frame,
And showing its teeth, out Nicholas came-
He woke. One more time. Perspiring, hot,
He threw off the quilt and rushed-and stopped.
In the faint, gentle halllight outside of her door
John turned to his quivering bedroom once more.
A dreamer'd be frightened, to see how it stood
With its twig fingered hands pressing marks on the wood,
Its small cloven feet stepping silent as snow
Over the carpet it minces and bows.
But there wasn't an ounce left of dreamer in John,
Where the Red Dream had licked out each ultimate drop,
So he met it halfway down the lengthening hall
And with an unchildlike, unflinching gall,
He asked Nick just why he'd come to this house.
The gnarled jaws creaked 'round the cherry red lips;
Nicholas bent close to John's little ear,
And his trickling whisper quietly lisped
"To be the last thing that you ever will fear."
With a stiffening smile, a lingering stare,
He melted back into the dark of the air.
John then lived to be old, and never did fear
The loss of a love or the passing of years,
The giddiest heights or the sharpest of rifts,
Since Nick took away his most valuable gift.
I'm BORED with the story. So here's the dramatic poem I'd written while in China instead. It's not as good as it could be, but it might be as good as I can get it.
The red dream first lapped up his sleep on the night
That his mother forbade him to leave on the light.
"Johnny, my dearest, you're six and a half,"
She'd said with a loving dry tear and a laugh,
And she'd clicked shut the door-oh that ominous sound!
For the eyes of the dark menaced wide all around.
Courageous, dear boy, he'd laid down his head,
As the Red Dream crept soundless the length of his bed,
And put out its simpering fire-red tongue
To scent on the air the sweet draw of his lungs.
Through the candle-bright blur of a glittering haze,
The presents were strewn in a tinseling maze;
The presence of walls were with garlands festooned
And shadows of furniture lurked 'round the room.
Johnny crept in, for Santa'd soon come
Through the ashy black maw where the stockings were hung.
There, as he crouched by the mantle, a clock-
Perhaps it was shy-hid its face as it struck.
A tremulous midnight coursed through the house,
Bouncing off every blind wall in the house,
And as the last shiver died out from the night,
Johnny imagined he saw a faint light.
From the ravening chimney an echo resounds,
A hot eager glow seeps over the ground.
It liked its own color washed wide in his head
Like some nocturnal fear leaving footprints of red.
And he woke. His breath came in rasps
And his palpitating heart beat a furious pat.
The tentative moonlight peeked in through the blinds
To shed its illusory light on all sides.
His room was quite still, not a thing out of place;
Neither moonlight nor streetlight betrayed any trace
Of any brief Presence just now scurried out
By the firmly shut door or more devious route.
But he knew it was coming, and all in a rush
He ran to his dear mother's bedside to clutch
At her nightie, to tattle his fear of whatever
Dream creatures who crept ever near.
"Hush dear you've been dreaming," that cold woman said,
And tucked her poor John in his terrible bed.
To avoid the mistake of the hour before,
Johnny clapped his most vigilant eyes on the door
To that treacherous haven of monsters and dreams:
The closet whose breast harbored six years of fiends.
But the comforting weight of his weather-worn quilt
Seeped out the strength of his childlike will.
And as his eyes closed in his innocent face,
The Red Dream crept out to have one more sweet taste.
Johnny dreamt that he stood by the chimney again
And heard a faint skittering over his head.
The delicate tattoo of sweet cloven feet
Descended by measures the chimney and leaped
Onto the hearth logs, unfolded its leg
Onto the bib of red brickwork, and laid
Its fine knobby fingers over the frame,
And showing its teeth, out Nicholas came-
He woke. One more time. Perspiring, hot,
He threw off the quilt and rushed-and stopped.
In the faint, gentle halllight outside of her door
John turned to his quivering bedroom once more.
A dreamer'd be frightened, to see how it stood
With its twig fingered hands pressing marks on the wood,
Its small cloven feet stepping silent as snow
Over the carpet it minces and bows.
But there wasn't an ounce left of dreamer in John,
Where the Red Dream had licked out each ultimate drop,
So he met it halfway down the lengthening hall
And with an unchildlike, unflinching gall,
He asked Nick just why he'd come to this house.
The gnarled jaws creaked 'round the cherry red lips;
Nicholas bent close to John's little ear,
And his trickling whisper quietly lisped
"To be the last thing that you ever will fear."
With a stiffening smile, a lingering stare,
He melted back into the dark of the air.
John then lived to be old, and never did fear
The loss of a love or the passing of years,
The giddiest heights or the sharpest of rifts,
Since Nick took away his most valuable gift.