A Few Poems to Tide You Over Dear Reader

Note: I assure you that this short story is coming. Due to some hiccups and a few more edits I found in revising it, it'll hopefully be done by mid next week. So to help tide over you dear reader, here are a few poems.

Autumn

Breathe me in, I'm the ghost of your better years
Dripping wet from the constant downpour
Soon the skies will clear and the cold will set in
Light your fires down underneath your belly
Let me be that warmth that self assures you
Make me wish I could stay here longer than expected
Seek out that way closer to where your head lay down


Eden

I'll show you to the garden where our flowers bloom and we whisper secrets of happier days gone away
Don't avert your eyes or stray from the path, their intent is to lead you astray with shame
I will be your firefly, light your way through the brush and darkness to taste the sweet fruit
In that place I'll show you joy beyond others, build you a home within, standing tall as trees
Rest your head on my shoulder, dream of somewhere far
I'll be your eternity and you'll stay asleep


Burned Out Again

I've had the worst nights in a long time
Tossing and turning in my bed
Sweat accumulating beneath my back
I count the ticks from my ceiling fan
One, two and three more seconds till I snap

I'll write some sappy poem and you'll eat it up
The joke is over, I'm not cut out for this

My days are numbered but they drag on
Twisting and restless in my office chair
I'll jumpy at every single thing
I stare at the clock on my screen
One, two and three more minutes till I snap

Oh I don't mean to worry you
My body just hates me sometimes
My mind just wants to commit suicide
My psyche just is sick of all my bullshit

I'm pretty sure I've run out of ideas
Struggling and frustrated, my pen bends in my hand
The ink spreading by the side of my palm
One, two and three another poem lost to luck


A Light

Somewhere I hear her sing
The piano keys falling gently
Stormy weather pouring outside
Her voice breaks through thunder
It beckons her sweet bliss
A cat crawls onto her lap
There it sits and slumbers
The light from the lighthouse
Glowing and warning of shore
Her fingers tire as the song slows
But her voice still shines
The storm calms and dies
A new day to greet
Spirits calm and rise
They call out for guidance
Lost and confused
Her touch is gentle
So they call out to her
A voice so sweet and beautiful
They would be led home
A lighthouse in the darkness
Her voice whispers till the light is out


Come Back

With every thing I share to the world
My words written on several hundred pages
Every time I post it to see
My heart stops a second
I hold my breath and don't bother to restart
Now I'm finding my words fail and repeat themselves
I use to seem so steady but in truth
My hands are always shaking
My mind is always racing
And everyday is a struggle to wake up in strength
To keep myself from an early grave
I'm not sure if there's a heaven but I wish for a better place
Because where I am at is a hell
No I cannot sing because I'm tone deaf
No I can't be happy when I hate myself
No I won't make promises when I don't know what I want
I went away to find myself and I still haven't come back
No I haven't come back
No I haven't come back
No I haven't come back
No I haven't come back
So maybe God is a little silent, because maybe he's not talking to me
But even after my words fail, I'll keep writing
I promise I'll keep writing
I promise I'll keep writing
I promise I'll keep writing
I promise I'll keep writing
writing of something better

Another Twenty-Something Burn Out

Growing up, we were raised to believe in a certain way the world works
First, you're born and then you take in that first surreal, epitaph of air
With our eyes blinded to the new world, finally blinking that we are alive
Then we grow up, with words spiraling around in our heads sinking deep down
After we have put in our time to school and to to knowledge of what we love
Books, print, science, math, film, sports, exercise, nutrition, food, cooking, cultures, porn

Then when the time comes we go to college to lock down our future, to lock down a chance
We sleep in awkward positions in an arm chair in the library, we drink ourselves stupid on the weekend
We stay up till 4 a.m. to finish that final term paper that determines if we pass or fail
We fall in and out of love, we fall in and out of lust, we regret and then we don't regret

Then we walk across that stage, grabbing an empty folder where our accomplishments should be
We are in front of thousands of people, thousands of our peers but yet we feel so tall
Knowing that once those doors close behind us that opportunity is waiting on the other side

Then reality hits us, leaving a hand print on our faces

Work work work work work work working working working working working worked worked worked
We were worked into being the biggest cash cows in the world, more profitable than another war
With crippling debt we are expected to work it all back, owing the country for our education

With only months till the bills knock on our doors and show us that we are truly owing them
One struggles to find work in his field, what he studied most of his life to be
Another works in her field and works and works and works till her mind is burning and tired
To suck the joy out of one who feels like they went to school for the wrong thing
Wishing that he had those years back and had gone to war, to prove more profitable

Choosing our passion, we should have known that we should have chosen something more efficient

And now we are sleeping in awkward positions in our cubicles or at our desk
Working away or looking for work day in and day out
We drink ourselves to sleep almost every night hoping to numb that pain, soothe the burn
We are up till 4 a.m. either working for a deadline or thinking on our lives, losing sleep
We fall in love when we think that we are in love, we divorce when we realize we have no idea
We regret and we regret and we regret until we aren't even sure what regret is

Choosing what works towards freedom when we lost what it was that we loved

We are all burnt out with a sigh of breath

I Should Have Known Better

I was stone before I met her
Built strong from the tried ravages of an maniacal, angry ex-love
I did not let the world get to me
I was strong, I was angry, I was empty to the world
One after another there would be others who asked where we stood
My reply would be sent with no clue and empty promises
I would lose sleep while always trying
Telling myself I was grown up. I was grown up. I was awake.
Then I met her, a curve ball on the open field throwing off my balance
Someone I felt that I had a connection with, someone that didn't make me feel
That emptiness that has been eating away at my core, at my soul, at who I was
She made me feel like it was okay to feel so broken, like the toys of my childhood
That instead of focusing on the noose I knotted, I was focusing on being
Who I am again, that same dorky, child at heart, wishing and dreaming of better

I was stone before I met her
But I trusted and opened and bled and tried and keep on trying
I never anticipated this
This was not in the plan, this was not the course that I set up
She's on my mind and I can't stop obsessing
I know that she's scared of me like I'm scared of me and that's scary
My past has made my present and my future seems fucked
That I am ashamed and I am angry and I am frustrated and I am loathing
Myself. All with myself.
I trusted and maybe if I take my head out of my dark place I will see clearly
and know that I shouldn't trust, never trust

I was stone before I met her
Made of cold concrete with cracks that aren't structurally damaging
Depression is a real thing.
It's like swimming in tar, you either stay calm and slowly sink or struggle and go down faster
But I talk and I try and I try and I keep trying to win her heart
I'm told to be patient and see where it goes
But what if I'm afraid of time and of patience?
It always goes south on my part it always turns out bad I always make things worse

I was stone before I met her
She soon stopped talking to me as much
Blank texts met with silence or short responses
That things fall through and I haven't seen her in months
I was always scared of trusting anyone and I never wanted to trust anything
I miss her now and I wish I wasn't who I was
I'm scared shitless when I am with her and when I talk to her
I am scared of opening up and trying to win her heart
But I work with the fear and find excitement with her, excitement and fear

I was stone before I met her
I should have known better

A Letter to Myself: Poetry or A Promise?

Dear you,

I have found myself, dear readers, staring intently at my blank word documents hoping for something to be born on the page. I have dedicated countless hours to my random work I wish is poetry, countless hours to improve what I have written in past. Then, then I post it here, for all of you to see, for hopefully anyone out there to see. I write for some sense of therapy, for some sort of solace that maybe my life is not pointless and maybe, just maybe, I won't find myself at the end of a noose. One that i crafted for myself with every sour thought at my expense or hurt that I feel.

Why do I bring this up? Because it has to be. How am I to grow as a writer, as a person, if I can't throw my life on a page for the world to see? To perform and craft the words that are swirling in my mind? I'l fucking try. I will fucking try.

I have made some serious changes in my life over the past couple years. And now I am stuck. I am finding myself stuck back in my head, in my thoughts, lost. My only peace has been in writing these words that you have read. In the words that I am writing now.

Getting to my point of this; I am tired of waiting. I am bursting at the seams with all the stories I wish to tell, to share with you. In the last month I have committed a lot of time to revamping the stories I cherished after I wrote them. In another couple weeks, that will come to a close. In a couple weeks I will start then on what I want to be my breakout. I will sweat, I will cry and I will bleed for this. To take a hold of my dream and mean something to myself.

This project has been on my mind for some time now. Something that I think will be something that anyone could read and find some sort of comfort in. A place to hide for few minutes, a world to cherish for a time, a story to keep you wanting it to grow. It will be broken into two parts (books?) and when it is done, I will put more than anything into getting it out to the world.

I'm excited and nervous. Scared to death, more like. When it leaves my mind, it's no longer mine. It's yours and I only want you to cherish and enjoy what YOU find in it. Whether your an avid book lover, a casual reader, a passerby in a busy bookshop/coffee shop, or a quiet child reading a book in his home, finding the beauty in words.

The most I wish to share about it is probably just the title. So, to end this letter, this promise to myself: Prepare for "Generation: Lost".

-reader, creator, person

Strange Life: A Guide to Survive by, Vol. 1

Strange Life:

A Guide to Survive by, Vol. 1

 

Foreword:

Thank you for your interest in improving yourself! With life being as hard as it is, everyone needs a different perspective. Improve yourself! Better your goals! Take a stab at the good life! With this guide we will take a look deeper into what makes you, you! Dive in and take the steps into what it means to live!

 

Working on It:

There are plenty of twists and turns along the way to content. Dear reader, take a chance to examine the good that is in your life. Examine where you could go and who you could be. Take a chance physically, emotionally and mentally!

This is Breathing:

Stress, anxiety, and depression are like a cancer. They eat away at you and break down the walls or barriers you built so high. All just to get through the day! You’re daily routine has become a safety net over the years. Resuming it whenever you feel that crack in the wall. Now that wall has big gaps in it. Your routine is plagued by the thoughts, actions, trail of your mind that gives way to long nights spent awake and staring at the ceiling. Break away from it all and take a walk. Look at the world you inhabit. Breathe in the air around you, it was meant to be.

Tattoos, Alcohol, and the Rhythm of Music:

You’ve made changes, but are they the right ones? You figured that if you change your appearance, change some of those habits, or rework some of the old ones, that you will begin again. Starting that new chapter takes much more than adding some ink to your skin or spending more time in crowds at the bars. Remember to revive old passions. Sing your favorite songs, move your body to the rhythms. Don’t change yourself back to your old style or old habits entirely. Embrace some of the changes, but don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget the family that loves you and supports you. The friendships you’ve built and sacrificed for. You’re a good person, so don’t hide that behind some trivial things.

Effort:

The act of being is a brilliant thing. We strive to continue on, we crawl on towards a goal. Is it unattainable or is it just within reach? Questions that will continue on till the said goal is lost or won. It’s amazing what we’ll do to get somewhere in life. Hunting to survive, breathing thinking the air was meant for us. The drive to gain a simple piece of paper with your name. A golden star for your trial and tribulation. Keep your chin up, some will say. Look towards that goal, another will say. You’ve worked hard for your goals, whether it is that diploma that you’ve poured years into or that promotion at work that took time to build repertoire to gain. No matter the goal, keep it up! Surely, you can’t have be all for not.

On Dealing with Death:

Fear not the cold chill. This is something unavoidable. There will be things that will never gain answer. Forget that brush with the reaper. He gives freebies. Death comes knocking and you either flee or stand before it. Fight or Flight. Thinking on this topic could drive some insane. When will it happen? Why focus on that, when there is so much to live for? Then there is the opposite side, when it happens, what it will feel like. Whether it is slow or fast, painful or painless, it will happen. The obsession with death, the obsession with the end. It will be the death of you.

Femme Fatales and Silver Tongued Devils:

Life can be difficult to work with. When you feel overwhelmed and desire to feel a connection with someone else, it can drive you mad. You’ve probably spent nights alone in your apartment. Making dinner for two but only to feed one mouth. Late nights binge watching the shows you love, the Netflix queue over abundant with things you may or may not ever watch.

Do not fret! Go out and take yourself to the town! Explore the world you’ve been missing out on for years. There are worries though. Beware a woman that has good intent. She will enslave you and make you hers. She will keep you in tiny boxes and make you feel the mistakes of your future. She holds a cigarette pressed tight between lips burnt red, blowing smoke into the night. Her eyes are traps and you know better than to put all your trust into her. You see her sitting down from the bar. Move towards her and offer a drink. Take her home and be sure to use those words that mean all the right intent. Don’t feel sick the next morning with your decision. Everyone goes through this, everyone has a night they choose to forget. Just don’t make any new bad habits.

Coffee and Mint Bubblegum Saves Lives:

There should be one thing in your life, during a crisis, which takes the forefront of your mind. If it’s school, don’t forget to set your alarm. Waking up late every time and struggling to get work done. Let’s look at Dave and see how a typical day of school can get hectic when it doesn’t take the primary slot in his head and concerns:

“3:00 AM: Finally fall asleep amongst your fort, you left Parks and Recreation playing in the background. Funny dreams may ensue.

8:00 AM: Clock goes off, the loudmouth bastard. Ignore him and maybe he’ll go away.

10:00 AM: Shit! Oversleeping again and need to hurry out the door.

11:00 AM: ON campus and I didn’t do any of my reading… binge reading is my life.

3:00 PM: This place gives me nightmares. They say it was a riot building, pretty much still is…

5:00 PM: Home, now what to do? Homework? That’s funny. Turn on the TV.

3:00 AM: Shit… it’s that late?”

Don’t be like Dave.

Good Guys vs the Finish Line:

Wake up and tell yourself that you are going to be a good person. Don’t drink yourself to sleep every night. Make sure you care about every living, breathing person that has existed, exists, and will enter this world. Hold the door open for the elderly, care about the single mom. Forgive them all for their trespasses. Accept people for who they are. Make someone smile and do not break hearts. There is someone waiting for a person LIKE you. That finish line is not so far away when you squint your eyes tight, yeah just like that.

The Fear of Falling Apart:

Dear reader, despite these tribulations, there is still the method of self-examination. Look into yourself and see what has been there, festering. Face your fears and stare deep into the eyes looking back from the mirror!

Security in Numbers:

Reality is scary. When the world is opening up and you begin to take on more and more of what it means to live, you will both curl up and die or rise to the occasion… am I meant to rise to this?

Anyways, when the world comes down and you feel your every nerve begin to tense. Your body either flees or fights. There is a halt though. The sudden freezing. When you realize that only a few days separate you from the world of living. Will you use those excess pillows at night to stack them tall? Building them up so that you can feel some sense of security from reality while you sleep.

Lost Loves:

Love is a thing that is named in books. Seen on the screen of a theater, or told from word of mouth.

“I love you, I did what I could to save our future. I made the wrong decision leaving you. Ending this what the biggest mistake of my life and I want you back.”

“When everything fell apart, you were there to pick me back up. You taught me to live for myself again. In the end I fell in love with you, but you used that to your advantage. I hate you, I love you. I never want to see your face again.”

“I met you when I really tried to start fresh again. You’re a breath of something new and familiar all in one. You understand what I’ve gone through but I could never love you like you want. The spark is not there, I just hope I can find the strength to tell you one day.”

“Fitting into my new lifestyle, I met you and it has been an interesting ride thus far. I don’t know your intent and I think you figured me out. I have no clue what I’m doing and I don’t know how to love again.”

“We met by circumstance and I think we knew there was no love in our actions. Lust overpowered us and we took a chance to spend one night in each other’s warmth. Please forgive me, wherever you are, I chose to forget your name.”

Don’t fall in love again. Don’t fall in love with your best friend. Don’t think back to your ex. Don’t compare anyone to her. Don’t wish that she was here instead. Write stories to help drain what remains in your head of her. Break a heart, it makes you feel better, makes you feel in control. Don’t look over to see if they are around. Don’t call her. Don’t let her know you wanted her back the moment she started packing. Don’t let her know that you fell in love after her. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall down just to get back up. Don’t fall down. Don’t get back up.

Parental Guidance May Be Required:

Smoke. Drink. Play a chord. Repeat. Smoke. Drink. Play a chord. Repeat. Smoke. Drink. Yell at the wife. Play a chord. Repeat. Smoke. Drink. Scream at the wife. Hold your boy by the throat. Repeat. Smoke more. Drink More. Scream at the wife. Never leave chair. Yell at dog. Push sons away. Repeat. Cycle Break.                     Begin New Cycle… Sit in chair. Sit through pain. Smoke. Drink. Pop pill. Yell at dog. Yell at wife. Push sons away. Play a chord. Don’t be like me. Be a better man than I am. Repeat.

Wake. Smack alarm. Sleep more. Get up. School. Work. Drink. Think. Wake. Smack alarm. Sleep more. Get up. School. Work. Drink. Think. Wake. Smack alarm. Feel the pain in your insides. Try to sleep more. School. Work. Feel bitter in your own skin. Drink. Pain. Think. Pain. Wake. Smack alarm. Pain. Wish for death. No sleep. Lay in bed wishing for death. Get up. Drink. School. Work. Drink. Feel bitter. Pop a pill. Pain. Think. Pain. Sleep comes late. Pain. Wake. Pain. Smack alarm. Pain. Drink. Wish for death. I became my father. Think. Wish for death. Wish to be a child again.

The Physicality of Pain:

Pain has a weird way of working. It can pop up from the smallest of things wrong. The tingling, burning of the sting. It can be external and internal. The latter will break you down quicker than any other. Pills will not work. Changing your diet will not work. Good rest and healthy living haven’t done anything. There isn’t a moment when the pain is not present. Sickly, burning in the gut. Like acid melting away the linings and exposing sores. Open wounds hurt the most if not seen. Shaking hands, the tremor is omnipresent. Drinking numbs the pain. Making boys become men like their fathers. No sleep kills the light that was in dreamer’s eyes. The heart becomes bitter and trust becomes rare.

Ulcers plague my body. My stomach. They sting. They burn. They ache. I don’t eat. I don’t want to sleep. I’m so tired of my body doing this. I feel like death is with me when the pain is here. I almost wish that I were dead. I’m angrier, I’m more irritable. I don’t recognize myself anymore. When there is nothing but pain you lose sight of who you were.

Remnants of Humanity (In Return):

Soft scents. Warmth in her touch. How I miss this. This feeling of completion.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?”

I can’t handle this. All these memories, all this working through your problems bullshit. What if I never could handle life? What if I never could show anyone else how?

“I don’t know.”

“I still love you.”

I will fall into myself and feel that spiral down into the bottom. Remember to breathe. Feels more like choking. What if I can’t afford student loans after I graduate? What If I die alone? What if I missed my shot at true happiness? What If? What if?

“You’ll find someone better than me, you’ll move on.”

“How can I? When all I’ll do is compare everyone to you. No one will ever be you…”

How to Live Again (Dealing with Life):

There is no clear answer anymore…

  

In Closing:

There is still work to be done. If you wish to continue on with your betterment, look for Volume 2!

Sorrow for the Puppet Man (a short)

This is a story born of a nightmare that I had. It is not for the faint of heart

-Dave

Sorrow for the Puppet Man

It was a cold night when I woke from my sleep. An image had stayed with me from the nightmare I wandered. The crooked, sad smile of a man no longer in his own eyes or in his heart. The light of a child in his soul distinguished. I could not do anything but sit up in my bed and look into the darkness, visualizing that last scene. As children we were told of monsters so as to keep us on a straighter path. We never knew the true horrors were beneath our skins, deep within our souls.

As I pondered on this thought, sitting up in my bed, I thought of the toy maker and his tragedy.

Robert the Toy Maker was his title. To the children that came to his shop he was the ‘Puppet Man’. His shop rich of toys, dolls, trains, marbles and others for the young hearts. A place built in the hopes of laughter filling it from the voices of children.

Every afternoon from his shop he would set the stage and hang his marionettes high above the children. Their laughter is what made his heart warm. Their smiles and their giggles echoing in his shop and onto the streets. Passerby after passerby, with children in hand, would come one by one to stop and see his prized puppets. The fool with a grin high and strong and the princess with her golden hair flowing to her feet. They would dance for the children, exploring the humor in the fantastic.

When the show would be over, Robert would dim the lights down to a close. Ushering out the last of the children, curious on what stories would come the day next. Once they had all gone home he would retire to the upper floors. There he would find his wife, Anna, with glowing eyes and peach skin, rocking in her chair.

“Did the children laugh, dear?” She would say. Her question was always met with a smile.

“I can only wait to hear the laughter of our own.” He would say with pride in his voice. Every night he would sit beside her and place his hand upon her swollen belly, daydreaming of raised voices in cheer and happiness.

The night hours would go by, all the while the puppet man would work in his office. Scraps of yarn, burlap, and wood chips thrown about with every toy that he would make. Tonight he spent these hours doing something else while his love slept. For every month of her pregnancy he would write a single poem for his child to come.

“Dear child, while you travel, your mother bears your weight. Growing moment by moment into the beauty that she has passed on. Will your eyes be green like hers? Or will you don my brown? Little whispers from birds and angels show that this world will welcome you. Will you laugh, will you smile for me? I will sing songs to you with words that rival the heavens.”

When he placed down the paper that bore his words, a sudden thought came to him. What marvels would he make for his child? A toy like none other he would create. A little doll made of burlap and yarn, with marbles for eyes. A smile large to that of his fool. Once he would be done, Innocence would its name! Yes! A name that will keep with the child so that they could know the world is full of wonder. Each new experience something fresh for them to inherit.

From then on, the puppet man would spend his final month before the arrival of his child, in work of his greatest gift. Every night for that time, once the children had left and the lights had dimmed in his shop, he would work. So careful was his method, simple cuts of burlap to take shape. Yellowed yarn to stitch together his child’s doll. Its tan skin being stuffed with wool carefully so as to not pop the seams. When it came time to choose the eyes for innocence, he took the brightest of blue marbles from his shop. Wood glue to hold them in tight within their sockets.

It was when he finished the doll that he heard a cry from the upper level. His wife cried in joy and fear.

“The child is coming! The child is coming!” Her voice would crack from excitement. He rushed up to her and grabbed her arm firmly, walking her out of the shop and to the hospital.

Robert the Toy Maker. Robert the Puppet Man. Robert the father. He stood pacing to and fro. Alone in a hallway, waiting for news of his child. His hand over his mouth. What was joy and excite from the sudden news of his coming child had gone. Now he alone would feel fear and ache for news now of his child.

When the child left his love, Anna, there were no cries, there were no gasps of new lungs taking in their first breaths. The doctors exchanged looks before they left with the child. The nurse urged Robert to stay with his wife, tired from the labor of new life. He pushed her aside and went after the men with his child.

“Stop! My child!” he cried out. One of them turned and faced the man rushed for his child. The doctor urged him to stay and await their word, the child was not breathing.

So there he stood. Robert the father. Awaiting news now of where his child was and why his child took no breath. The doctor returned to him. With no child in hand the doctor placed his hands on the shoulders of Robert. His child would never smile, his child would never laugh.

Robert the Toy Maker. Robert the Puppet Man. Assumed his usual position, high above the marionettes, high above the children waiting. There was no laughter, there were no smiles. The marionettes stayed motionless, floating a midst the air. The Fool and the Princess lifeless. All was quiet for Robert, while the children waited and their parents gossiped in whispers. The only sound that would break through were the sobs from atop the stairs that found their way to his ears.

The parents stood and grabbed their children’s hands. The walked out leaving Robert to his silence and sobs. He stood there still, high above his marionettes. The sobs grew louder with each passing moment. It racked him, driving him deeper and deeper into his own mind. There he found silence. It would not last, you see. For there he found an image of his doll beside the crib they had made for their child. Silence become sobs, not of his wife but cries of his child.

Many say that then, that is when Robert the Toy Maker came to madness. That he stood for what was hours above his marionettes, the lights of his shop still burning bright, till he came to and cried. Not in tears but in true pain. That it was heard down the streets and that it almost drowned out the rising sobs of his wife.

That night, the rain fell hard, warning of flood coming to the darkened streets. While the downpour continued, there was Robert. Down in the sinking earth, raising the dead in the night. All the while, his wife continued her mourning alone atop the toy shop. A slamming of their door only stopped her sobs for a mere minutes. Robert had returned from the night. The only noises that she heard were of his working. Hammering, stripping, tearing and his own cries of pain.

It was in the morning that Robert the Toy Maker woke his grieving wife from her sleep. She refused his touch, never wanting to leave their bed. He gripped tight and dragged her to her feet. She followed him, letting her weight and the weight of her grief press her forward. His voice dry and ragged sounded like sandpaper to her ears.

“I’ve done it love, I’ve done it.” He had said softly, almost a whisper.

Down, down the hollowed stairs they went, into the shop. Each step sent an echo into the open emptiness. At the foot of the steps he had her wait. Light flickered through the crevices of the boards that had their home on the windows.  There, sat the crib he had built for their child. He rocked it and waved to her. Ushering her to come close and see what it was he had achieved. What she saw soon stopped her heart. The weight of her body fell to the floor, and the Toy Maker’s wife’s light was gone.

Months had passed it seemed. For the children who had come by to see the Puppet Man and his marionettes. Each time met with cracked windows backed by wooden boards. Still a light shined from the window above the shop, the blinds drawn.

Till one day, a child with courage in his heart and desire for the Fool’s smile, crept into the old Toy Maker’s shop. Inside he felt the heaviness of the air. Old and molded from the rain that had leaked in. There was only light pouring in from the open board he had pried to enter. All the toys that had glowed with the light from better days had gone to dirtied shadows of their former selves. Dust upon dust collected. His gazed sight was taken back when whispers were heard from the top level.

The boy wanted answers that he and all the children had wanted for some time. Where had the Puppet Man gone? What of his toys and marionettes? He climbed from the depths of the shop and into the home that was Robert the Toy Maker’s.

The steps creaked and buckled under his weight. The whispers ceased and the boy held his breath. Yet, further and further he had climbed. When he reached the door it was closed, but with light rap on the door, it opened. There in a large room, rocking to and fro in the rocking chair sat the Toy Maker’s wife. She was as beautiful as the past days of her smiling at the children from the shop’s counter. Preserved in a face of motherly fondness, staring down towards her breast. The boy’s eyes followed down from her gaze, seeing the yellow stitching and the tanned skin of the mother, locked into eternity with her child. It was still and motionless like her, being swayed by the rocking of the chair.

The boy gasped with fear. The horror before his eyes and the rocking slowed every second until it stopped. Across the way, from the hall that led further into the home, stood Robert the Toy Maker. His face was still, only disrupted by the tears that were in his eyes. He did not move for the boy, he would not harm this child. Instead, as if condemning himself to his hell, he yelled at the boy.

“Run! Go! Away from this place!” He cried, his hands clenched tightly into fists. The boy turned and ran, leaping and bounding downs the steps and back into the shop. Silence nipping at his heels as he climbed through the window he disturbed.

That night, sirens blew and smoke rose into the air. A fire at the toy shop. A place that was once filled with smiles and laughter, now bursting at the seams with fire and charred wood. That same boy stood across from the destruction that night. Seeing the faces of the Fool and the Princess melting away into the fire.

The sorrow would not end there for Robert the Toy Maker. Many say now, the same children that once attended his shop of joy, that the old toy maker had survived the fire. Not without horrible scars that plagued his body from the burns. Those same children now grown have their own children and tell stories of the same man, the same toy maker. While their children sleep they remind them that love and creation are a great power, one that could turn ill if one is full of pride.

“The old Robert, the old toy maker, the old puppet man. He loved his life much. When he woke each day his heart was filled with pride.

The old Robert, the old toy maker, the old puppet man. When his child born dead and his wife heart stopped, madness over took him. Turning pride into grief.

The old Robert, the old toy maker, the old puppet man. He stitched them up to keep his love, to keep his pride. He burned his home in grief. And now, Robert the Toy Maker lay still. He covered his wounds in burlap and yellow yarn stitched. His face covered by the same grin of his fool. It’s smile so large you could see the burned meat beneath his shell. His eyes still brown and gold, staring from the holes of the charred burlap. Strung up from the wires he built himself. A marionette in his own show.

The old Robert, the old toy maker, now only the Puppet Man.”

So now I lay here, my eyes fixed on the dark. Remembering the smile of old Robert the Toy Maker. His love was strong and his life so rich, that when it was taken, he crumbled. Hope in the child and love in the wife, a lone doll still is found in the ashes and rubble of the toy maker’s shop, but his smile forever will follow me into my sleep. The smile of the Puppet Man.