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“This isn’t usually a book I’d pick up but I’m glad I did. It’s a well put together story and although it’s fairly short, the characters are vivid and bring a lot to the story. There’s Devin who’s a bit of a mystery, Romona who’s everyone’s boss nightmare, Clive and Rex who made me laugh on several occasions and Nayra, a bit of a gossip but knows a lot about ghosts!”

via Book Review: I Was A Teenage Ghost Hunter By Brian K.Henry – 3.75/5


Under staves that had punished her for nights

the buried worm evolved a crooked slide

staggered with indentations and crannies

that peered into solemn chambers undrained

and floundering with rancid fish-like forms

gulping and thrashing, gabbling morbid noise

Immersing her in former dark patterns

where a gulping black turtle’s maw engorged

clumsy ragged shards of unmoored captives.

Why did she neglect to write the poem

about the poem that bored her sister?

The same poem that contained few words

but had enough to drone a dull ache

into her best friend’s frigid head.

The poem that referenced another poem

forgotten and refused by her mother

and a woman who ignored poems when

given any opportunity.

The poem that condensed a short poem

and elongated a briefer one

that discussed an eclogue and an ode

and depicted a bitter argument about


She skipped it all instead and in its stead

wrote another treatise on monotony and bread.

Academia is Dead

Primitive Poetry

They say God is dead.
And we killed Him.
As if we could kill God.
Yet, we bow our heads with a slight nod.

I walk to the front of the chapel,
To pay my respects seems, natural.
Forced to look upon the face,
And forced to offer my disgrace,
When I notice this is not the face
That I was expecting in this boxed place.

It is academia who lies in the coffin.
For students sit silently in rows too often,
While information is spewed onto boards,
We string her up like strange fruit with cords.

Laptops are guillotines for creativity.
They steal ideas like the sharp blade,
That falls at the will of gravity.
As we sit and “take notes,” we fade.

Academia wishes she had died fast.
I know this, because I heard what she said last.
As I looked at her face, she spoke to me.

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Crustbuk the Clown slammed his tumbler of Scotch onto the table.

“Bring me my rust wig,” he growled.

Ofcrust the Clownmaid obediently started to search through the giant walk-in closet full of well-used clown paraphernalia. As a High Clown of the Clownsortium, Crustbuk had a massive collection of the highest quality wigs, floppy shoes, and vividly colored plastic noses all heaped up along with the other required accouterments of a well-rounded clown in his expansive closet.

“What’s taking you so long?” Crustbuk barked.


A dimly lit Taco Bell.


What kind of Christmas tacos do you have?



Christmas what?



You know, pine tree pollo, eggnog asada? What flavors?


I’m gonna barf.

(runs off)


Bastards! I know a war on Christmas when I see one!



Cool new review for I Was a Teenage Ghost Hunter from Laura N.

Laura N Books

What a neat little story! I’m so grateful to the author who kindly provided me with a free copy of this book.

    Title: I Was A Teenage Ghost Hunter
    Author: Brian K.Henry
    Buy: Available on Smash Words / Amazon


The story is centred around teenage Devin who has powers which make him ‘zone out’ and see the dead. Despite being encouraged by his friends to do more with his powers and to prevent them from getting out of control, , Devin tries his best to navigate teenage life, juggling a part time job as a barista under the close watch of his nagging boss Romana, and his studies at high school.

When there is a disturbance as the Rousten residence, Devin and his friends go to investigate and find themselves pelted with books amongst other objects, they know they’re not welcomed by the ghost that haunts the manor as…

View original post 321 more words

A dimly lit Taco Bell.

Wrapped in a thick flour shell it includes ground beef and sour cream.



What’s your order?



Yes, in the form of a question.


Are you okay, homes?



Time’s up. We were looking for ‘What is a chalupa?’


I’m getting security.

A dimly lit Taco Bell.



You seen any suspicious tacos ‘round here?

We don’t serve no other kind.

(flashes photo)

I’m looking for a special loser.


Felipe! I ain’t seen that taco since the Quincy riots. Tell me he’s okay!


None of us is okay, lady. None of us.



margarita who She was the woman who drank margaritas. Whether it was mid-morning or early afternoon or that dreary, gray hour sometime just before dinnertime in late September, she could be found with a frosty margarita in hand.

She didn’t let anyone get to her when it came to the recurrent margarita commentary. The sardonic comments from those who would appoint themselves the margarita police. The risk of margarita-shaming was just part of the hand you were dealt when you were the woman who drank margaritas.