The Sketch Reed Archive

The Chessman

2010-05-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

Dear readers;

Once again, we are featuring poetry here on the Archives; specifically, this week we have a poem I wrote while witnessing a chess game between two masters. I hope you enjoy it.

THE CHESSMEN
(C) 2010 Sketch Reed

They sit and stare
With diligent eyes
Open, aware
As they surmise
The opponent's moves
With nerves of steel
They only think
And never feel.

The hand hovers o'er
The plastic men
It grabs it, moves it
Hopes to win
This game, this war
This battle of wits,
This is what happens
When the chessmen sit.

Thanks for visiting, dear readers. Come back soon.

--SKETCH

Reminder

2010-05-19T14:49:00.000-07:00

Dear readers;

As the gap between the rich and poor increases, the country collapses economically and our pocketbooks all shrink to the point of implosion, I felt the need to express my views about it. This poem is the result. Enjoy.

Reminder
(C) 2010
By Sketch Reed

They have said, through the ages
"Yes, my son, nothing changes
Unless something moves."
But what can I do?

I'm just a poor man,
Living on the street
In the winter I freeze,
In June I burn from heat.
My house is a box,
and my faucet is the sewer.
So what am I to do?

You are the rich man,
In your cozy home.
Your children all hate you
And your hair won't grow.
You have all the money,
But you "need" it all for you.
So what am I to you?

Nothing changes
Unless someone moves.
You splurge at driving ranges,
But I can't afford shoes.
You feast at the cafe,
I scrounge in garbage bins
You save up for vacation
I wonder when this ends.

But someday, my friend, you and I
Will be equal once again,
In the graveyard, we will meet;
We all will die, my friend.

Nothing changes
Unless someone moves.
So when will you?

Thanks for reading...I shall see you again soon.

Kudos.
--SKETCH

The Shattered Children

2010-05-12T17:55:00.000-07:00

It's Wednesday again, dear readers, and it's time for me to pen another entry to the book of the Archives. Today's offering was written in honor of a few dear friends of mine...friends who have considered suicide, but who thankfully changed their minds. I give it to you now.

The Shattered Children
(C) 2010
By Sketch Reed

We are the children of the shattered silver screen.

Alone we sit, surrounded by sustenance
But our spirits sink in sin and hate
Material goods leave nothing to be desired.
We have everything...and yet...
And yet
We have nothing.

We are the children of the shattered silver screen.

We live in the trailers,
The mansions, the streets
The apartments, the houses
Wherever you are, we are there
Crying for you to help us.
We want nothing, but we want it all.
We have everything...and yet
And yet
We have nothing.

We are the shattered children of the silver screen.

Suicide comes to us
It knocks on the door, making not a sound
With tantalizing lures of peace and release
And oh, how we want to let it in.
But we cannot
We struggle on, through the times
We are everything...and yet
And yet
We are nothing.

Help us.
We are your future.
One day you will die
And we will live on
Struggling to live with the pain you put us through.

The pain that you brought
With your self-righteous sense of security
With your veiled hatred of what we are
With your telling us to "Be a man!"
With your desire for us to hide our emotions and follow your orders
Without questioning or understanding the reasons why.

Look back now.
Look at all we could have become.
We could have prevented war
But you taught us hatred.
We could have saved the earth
But you showed us a world not worth saving.
We could have cured this disease
But you insisted on passing it on to us.
And now we are infected.

We are the shattered children.
And we are calling you to change.

Heed us.

Tune in next week, dear readers...and thank you for reading. I will see you again soon.

--SKETCH

Sketch Is Back! "The Earth's Eye Stares Unblinkingly" A Poem

2010-05-08T21:42:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back online, friends...and I've got so many new writings to share with you. Let's start with a new poem, shall we? Actually, it's technically not new--it was originally written about two years ago, when it was self-published in a small zine I created. But, as they say, "What's old is new!" And this is new--so enjoy!

The Earth's Eye Stares Unblinkingly
By Sketch Reed

The earth's eye stares unblinkingly,
As mankind unthinkingly
Destroys what little wonders they create;

And yet the eye of Mother Earth
Has not blinked once since mankind's birth
Watching as we make her desolate.

But none have ever stopped to sense
Our soul's own barren emptiness,
And realize how petty are our cares;

For God and gold, for food and land,
We wreck the earth with our own hand
Yet evermore her wounded eye still stares.

Thanks to all of you who visited during my hiatus, and to all of you who have supported me. There's new stuff from me elsewhere too--check out the following sites.

http://sxrportal.webs.com -- One-click access to all of my sites throughout the web.
http://yourdailyflame.blogspot.com -- Fractal flames, updated daily. Check it out!
http://sxrgames.blogspot.com -- A new blog from me, called the Game Master Blog. We'll be discussing board, card and role-playing games of all kinds, as well as reviewing game materials.

See you there!
--SKETCH

Glowing White Lightbulbs

2009-12-08T18:01:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas time again, dear reader, and here's a poem to celebrate the season. Enjoy.

Glowing White Lightbulbs
(C) 2009 Sketch Reed.

The glowing white lightbulbs flicker in the night,
As darkness and coldness envelop the town.
The white falling snowflakes, they dance in the light
From all of the strings of white lightbulbs around.

In bright-lit store windows lay jewelry and toys,
And signs on those windows announce, "Christmas Sale!"
The shiny new playthings enthrall girls and boys,
Who, grabbing their pencils, write Santa some mail.

The sounds of the season are hard to ignore,
From Crosby to Mannhem the radio sings
All the songs of the reindeer and Santa and more
Of the fun kind of music that Christmastime brings.

But the glowing white lights will be soon put away
And the New Year ball drops, thus ending the season,
But we still praise God for His great gift that day,
For Jesus, his son...who still is the reason.

Happy holidays, everyone. Don't forget; if you send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope by New Years Day, I will give you a Christmas present of 3 hand-drawn stickers. Send it to:

Sketch Reed

SXR Headquarters
190 Northridge Drive
Gerald, MO 63037

Happy holidays, everyone.
--SKETCH

Blood-Red Sun (A Prose Poem)

2009-12-02T20:21:00.000-08:00

Here's your (one day late) weekly dose of Sketch Reed writings. This week, I give you a prose poem entitled Blood Red Sun. Enjoy.

Blood-Red Sun
(C) 2009 SKETCH REED

The blackness of the darkest night
Anarchy will set free;
Fear and longing for the light
Gives rise to tyranny.

Concealing hate for humankind,
His era hath begun.
Controlling fate and warping minds,
The dark, the Blood-Red Sun.

Blood-Red Sun! The deathly one
Of doom, despair and might;
The end is near, his kingdom fears
His dark unholy light!

Throughout the years, rebellions fall
Dissenting voices killed;
The Blood-Red Sun, he conquers all
His breath can rouse the still.

But in a secret safe haven
The Guild of Light shall be
Born with earth, fire, water, wind
To plot the death of he.

Blood-Red Sun! The mighty one;
The King of death and gloom!
He cannot be allowed to see
His downfall and his doom!

The Guild of Light will plot to fight
From far and wide they come.
Underneath a shining light
They shall await The One.

For forty times a thousand years
They waited for this day
Vengeance is nigh! All of their fears
Will soon be washed away!

Blood-Red Sun! His reign is done
His rule shall be no more!
They chant aloud and through the clouds
The light shines down once more!

Now the land is free again,
The Blood-Red Sun is gone!
These tales are told of days of old
The legend will live on!

--o0o--

Now then...time for an update on your Christmas presents.

I have decided to give everyone who sends me a self-addressed, stamped envelope a Christmas present of 3 hand-drawn stickers. Sound good? Then send me your SASE to:

Sketch Reed
SXR Headquarters
190 Northridge Drive
Gerald, MO 63037

And happy holidays.

--SKETCH

Sonnet I (Dancing Alone Together)

2009-11-23T10:13:00.000-08:00

Hello again, dear reader. Because I posted a day late last week, I have decided to post a new entry a day early this week. For this week's post, I have decided to try something new; a sonnet.

For my English class, my teacher asked me to write a sonnet (if you don't know what that is, click here) involving love for another person. And so I did; taking inspiration from Beck's song We Dance Alone. Enjoy!

--o0o--

Sonnet I (Dancing Alone Together)
(C) 2009 SKETCH REED
Through fields of flowers underneath the trees
We dance alone beneath the Sunday sun.
The sound of the birds, and the buzzing bees
Tell us not to leave what we have begun.
People look at us and stop and stare
They don't understand; but we just don't mind
We're two in love without a single care
No one else knows the happiness we find
Dancing alone beneath the maple tree.
Your soul and mine, they shine like gleaming gold
Ages can pass, but this love will always be
Glowing bright as together we grow old.
There's no music to guide us on our way,
Our love will take all of our cares away.

--o0o--

Well, now that I've posted my poem, it's time to update you all on my stickers. Now for those of you who have no clue what I'm talking about, I shall explain.

I post videos regularly to Youtube, and recently, I have been making videos of stickers that I have created by hand. (To see the first of these, click here.) Also, in these videos, I have said that I am planning on giving these stickers out as Christmas presents for my fans and friends. Well, I am posing the details here, on the Archives.

Currently I have about 40 stickers made (all hand-drawn, mind you...to see them, click here), and I am planning to get more sticker paper so I can create big ones. I haven't decided how I'm gonna distribute these yet...so stay tuned.

I'll see you next week.

Kudos.
SKETCH REED

Key Fob Verses

2009-11-18T17:27:00.000-08:00

Sorry if I'm a little late in updating, dear reader..I've not been well. But at least I am updating today. So, for your reading enjoyment, here's a whimsical little poem called Key Fob Verses. Enjoy.

Key Fob Verses
by Sketch Reed

Bob and his dog
Went out for a jog,
Around the park on the square.
But alas, poor old Bob
Lost his favorite key-fob
Which rather caught him unaware.

It was found by a bum
Who was drinking some rum
And looking for something to eat,
The bum said, "Oh joy!
I got me a new toy!
I'll sell it and buy me some meat!"

To the pawn shop he walked
But the shopkeeper gawked
And said,"This thing ain't worth a cent!"
So he threw the keychain
Back out into the rain
And into the sewer it went.

The keyfob was washed,
Battered, pushed and tossed,
Through the sewer quite violently,
And quite far it went
Taking many a dent
Until it drained into the sea.

Now Bob was distressed
At the loss of his best
And most favorite keyfob of all.
He stayed melancholy,
And not even his collie
Could relieve his sadness at all.

Now one day he said,
"I'll just stay here in bed,
And cling to the sheet like a leech!"
But his dog scratched and tore
At the glass sliding door,
'Till Bob took him to the beach.

But when they got there,
Bob stopped, gawked and stared;
For there lying there on the rocks,
Was his long-lost keychain
All covered in grains
Of sand that smelled like gym socks!

Bob was overjoyed
That he'd found his toy,
He gave his old collie a grin,
And said "Look, old buddy
Even though it's all muddy,
I got my old keyfob again!"

Now if you find it weird
How the toy reappeared,
Remember this fact, if you please,
If you ever go down
To any coastal town,
All the drains lead to the seas.

(C) 2009 Sketch Reed.

Burden And Release-A Poem

2009-11-07T16:40:00.000-08:00

Here's a poem I wrote quite some time ago; back when I was freezing cold on a December morning. This was before I learned to love the cold...before cold became part of my psyche and persona. Enjoy.

--o0o--
Burden and Release
Sketch Reed
--o0o--

Winter is a whirlwind;
swarming the trees
with wasp-like talons
of coldest ice;
which pull the limbs
of this great oak
down with weighted
chains of cold.

But now;
Spring has come again
and this great oak
lifts its limbs
toward the skies
hoping to catch
a little piece
of heaven.

(C) 2008-2009 Sketch Reed.

A Trip To The Zoo (An Adventure Of The Unpronouncable Name)

2009-11-03T04:41:00.000-08:00

I was in a bad mood today, but I found this poem I wrote a while back, and it cheered me up. Somewhat. Maybe if your day sucked, this nonsensical, whimsical poem will help you and put you in a better mood. Enjoy.

A Trip To The Zoo
(An Adventure of the Unpronounceable Name)
by Sketch Reed

The Unpronounceable Name,he had came,
To the Finkle Muncipial Zoo;
To see all the monkeys and bears with brown hair
That never can fit in their shoes.

He witnessed the Butter-Toed Green Pip-Sardine,
The rarest sardine in the sea.
He laughed with delight at the sight of the White
Mambo and the Sloth-eating Flea.

But when he did leave that fun park, it was dark
And he could not locate his car key.
What's more, there were two tickets stuck on his truck
Totaling twelve dollars and three.

His joy was made null at his sucky bad luck
And what's more, it had started to pour;
So The Unpronounceable Name went insane
And started to lick his car door.

THE END

An Interview With Death (Part 2)

2009-10-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

Here's the second half of An Interview Of Death. Enjoy.

--o0o--

I hurled the letter onto the floor of the staircase and rushed to my room, feeling somehow powerful, as if I was laughing in the face of Death itself. But those who laugh at the face of Death, as I was about to find out, seldom escape without being changed for the worse.

As I reached my room, I grabbed my pen, pencil, and paper as the letter had requested. After doing this, I went over to my dresser and opened the bottom drawer. There, in that bottom drawer, were a pistol, ammunition, a diverse collection of different types of knives, a small bottle of poison, a dagger, and a broadsword. I pondered for a while, and decided to take two of the throwing knives and the bottle of poison, for these would be the easiest to conceal. So I put the two knives in a special sheath and hid the sheath under my jacket; the bottle of poison, I concurred, would be best concealed in my pants pocket, for it was very small, not even half a cup in size.I left the drawer open and rushed to the door, with my bag of writing tools and my tools of the ancient murderer’s art in tow.

It was little more than a minute’s walk to the stables, but the adrenaline from the situation I was in got me there in less that half that. But when I got to the stables, I was suddenly hit in the face with a blast of cold air-- no, more than just simple air. I felt as if a dark and lethal miasma had sucked all the blood right out of my veins, replacing it with liquid lead which burned my soul and destroyed my will to carry on. Suddenly, I felt a hand cluch my shirt, and I heard a voice speaking to me in a demonic, unholy voice, screaming at me the words “Trying to destroy the master, eh? He will not be pleased with this”. That was all I heard before I fell to the ground and passed into a dark slumber filled with nightmares, phantasmagorical visions of the worst sort imaginable.

..o0o..

When I awoke, I was surrounded by a darkness so black that I was not exactly sure that my eyes were not closed. There was a rank, putrid smell like that of sulfur in the air, and it was so disgustingly foul that I nearly choked when I breathed. It was cold in that--that-- whatever it was, but I observed that it was not so cold that I would have noticed it if I had been wearing my jacket. How, then, could I feel this cold throughout my body? With a faint horror, I realized that I was completely naked. I shivered, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the blackness, I saw that I was in a cell, not made of bricks or wood, but carved completely out of rock.

The cell must have been at least twenty feet in length, and nearly eight feet high. There was no exits that I could see, and I knew I was not put in here to survive, but to suffocate, for I was sealed in. With a sudden shiver that belied the mild coldness of the climate of the cell, I understood, finally, that this feeling of doom was indeed not a feeling; it was cold, cold reality. Resolutely rising to my feet, I shouted, “All right, Mr. Cadthenate-- or whoever you are-- SHOW YOURSELF!” Hearing no answer, I became somehow angry--no, MORE than angry--and as an innocent victim who has been framed for a heinous crime would become inflamed at the very presence of the one who set him up, I screamed with blood and vengeance, “You cold-blooded MURDERER!! SHOW YOURSELF!”

Suddenly a bone-chilling laughter filled the room, and I felt a sharp blow to my groin, as if someone had kicked me. I doubled over, and no sooner had I done this than I felt something grab me by the throat and throw me against the wall. My head ached, but somehow I was still conscious. “Get up,” a hellish voice commanded. “I have yet to finish with you.”

I looked up, and what I saw terrified me. Standing above me was a man--no, a THING-- clothed in a black robe ripped at the hem. The robe had no sleeves, but this--this thing’s arms had no skin, or so it appeared. What little skin it had was a ghastly pale shade of grayish-blue, and you could see the blood vessels intertwined in the thick bones, the scarlet blood flowing through them causing the arms to pulse regularly. The thing’s face was no more than a corpse’s would be if buried without a coffin and left to rot beneath the earth for several months. One eye was missing from its socket, replaced by a reddish glow, and the other optical member was rounded like a cat’s, only this one was colored a ghastly shade of yellow-green, as if it was filled with some sort of toxic slime or ooze.

“I told you to get up, mortal,” the creature rasped, “and if you have any will to live at all, you will find it necessary to follow my commands.”

“Who- who are you?” I gasped in horror. The creature smiled, a terrifying smirk that made me fall back against the wall.

“You have not figured that out yet, Mr. Capernicos? I was told that you were of above average intelligence, yet you cannot solve even the simplest of anagrams. Such a pity. I was rather hoping for a knowledgeable man to kill for once.”

My mind raced as I stood up. If this creature was indeed Rani Cadthenate, and his name was an anagram, then if I rearranged the letters, I would have its real name! Suddenly I figured it out, and with a gasp I stood in shock, realizing at last the true extent of the terrible irony of the situation. RANI CADTHENATE, rearranged in various ways, produced only one logical response:

Death Incarnate.

As if sensing my terrifying deduction, the grim figure smirked evermore and said, “Well, well, it would seem that you are indeed bright, Mr. Capernicos. Perhaps kidnapping you for this interview was not such a waste of time after all... Pick up the pen, ink and paper that I threw at you. We shall start at once.”

I wasted no time objecting to this seemingly inane request, and picked the supplies up. No sooner had I done this than a bright light illuminated the entire chamber, and I was blinded. I felt something like some kind of robe being thrown over my shoulders but I could not see what or who did it.

When I regained my sight, I was hit with a sense of amazement. We-- myself and Death-- were now in some sort of what I assumed was an office, but it was like no office I had ever seen. The temperature felt as if it had gained more than just a couple degrees, as it was hotter than the hottest summer’s day in my native city. There were no windows or doors, and the only light in the room came from two torches, one each to the right and left of a desk where Death was seated. This desk was also like nothing I had ever seen or heard of. It was carved from what looked like solid bone, although where the owner of the desk--or for that matter, the owner of this entire place, whoever that was-- got a slab of bone that immense baffled me.

I was now clothed, to my relief, in a black robe that covered me from shoulder to toe.. The chair in which I was seated was also carved of the same strange bone-like material that made up the desk in front of me. Death must have seen the astonishment on my face, for he chuckled maliciously and said, “Yes, mere mortal, this desk is indeed made of bone, and this room that you call an ‘office’, although I see no reason to compare it to something on your low-level plane of existence, is not located on your planet, but in it.”

I gasped, realizing exactly where I now was: Hell. This room was located in the bowels of Hell itself! “Surely, this is a jest!” I exclaimed, but the look in Death’s eyes told me otherwise.

“You do know why you are here, don’t you?” he said, with a dark twinkle in his one eye. “You should be happy, if not completely elated. You are one of a small handful of mortals to see and experience Hell before you die, and not only that; you are interviewing Death himself! What an article this will make!” The grim figure suddenly leaned forward, and I felt a deathly chill run up and down my spine as he spoke: “What a shame, then, that your father will not be able to take pride in his murderous son’s accomplishments.”

“What are you talking about?!” I cried out. “I had no part in...” The look on Death’s face stopped me cold, and he spoke in a low, quiet voice: “I think you know exactly what I am talking about, Mr. Capernicos. YOU KILLED HIM, didn’t you?”

My throat became dry, and I could not respond. Death continued, “Yes, Mr. Capernicos, although I do not know when births take place, or how long one’s life will last, I know both when and how each person will die. And I happen to know when and how your father, Mr. Jacob S. Capernicos, died, and unlike the story you filed in your paper, his gunshot wound was not self-inflicted. YOU killed him, Mr. Capernicos. YOU pulled the trigger. A perfect crime, was it not? Pull the trigger, file the report, report the lie, and close the case. But despite your excellent cover up, only one person--or rather, being-- still knows exactly what happened; ME. YOU killed him, didn’t you? By the way, please realize who you’re talking to and what he is capable of when you answer me.”

I bowed my head in shame, and answered Death truthfully this time, “Yes. I did.”

Death smiled his grim sneer again, and he spoke to me in a commanding voice, “Now, I’m afraid that it is time for you to leave here and return to that dirt-hole of ill-gotten gains you call a home. This article, when you wake, will be lying beside you on the grass. It truly is unfortunate that it is the last article you will write, for the world will truly enjoy their first glimpse into hell, and will want more from you.” At this point, he leaned across the desk for the last time, and said in a low voice, “You will die as soon as the article sees print, and I will see to it that it will indeed see print. Thank you for your time, Mr. Capernicos. I shall see you soon-- very soon. Farewell.”

(c) 2009 Sketch Reed

An Interview With Death (Part 1)

2009-10-28T05:58:00.000-07:00

And now for a Sketch Reed classic; a story I wrote quite some time ago. It's called "An Interview With Death". Here's Part 1 of this epic tale.

Please enjoy.

AN INTERVIEW WITH DEATH
(c) 2009 Sketch Reed

I know not exactly why I responded to that invitation, that demoniacal summons from the very being of which we all must meet eventually. A sense of terror and urgency, yes, but then again, no amount of urgency or fear could bring me back across the river Styx, the very river I would cross the day of my interview with Death.

The day was June 23, 1906. I was residing in San Diego, and I had just received an accolade from my superior at the newspaper I currently was employed under, for my detailed article reporting the terrible earthquake and fire that destroyed San Francisco just the previous month. I was in line for a promotion, and life was grand—no, more than grand. But alas, I felt an overwhelming feeling of dread that I could not explain.

My feelings of doom, I thought, were unjustified. I was wealthy, somewhat famous, and should, by the measure of any and all standards, be extremely happy. Now, I was not wealthy of my own merits, but rather, my wealth was given, although somewhat unwillingly, by my now-deceased father, who had left me an enormous sum in my name. But, I reasoned, his death had no effect on me personally. I had no love for him (or for that matter, anyone else) but because my mother had passed away, and there was no other male heir, I took control of the benifits of my late father’s shrewd investments. His death, save for my small part in it, should have had no lasting ramifications on my happiness. But still I was racked by a feeling, a feeling of depression that can be only brought on by the subconscious knowledge of impending doom.

After my walk home to my mansion, I decided that this perceived triviality should not trouble me. After all, I was rich, a bachelor, and a successful man. So, after a small glass of sherry, I settled down for my evening repast. However, just as I settled down to enjoy my lonely feast, I was surprised by a knock on the door.

As I opened the door, I was nearly blown over by the influx of wind and water that poured in, as if a tsunami was erupted from the sky. A man was standing there, and his appearance was perplexing, to say the least. He wore no overcoat, nothing of the sort to shield him from the elements. Instead, he was garbed in a formal suit, such as dignitaries and the royal attendants of foreign nations wear for parties. In his left hand was what looked like a piece of paper, but strangely, this piece of paper showed no signs of dampness despite the rains that blew around this man like an unholy torrent. But what astonished me the most was his face, or rather, an mark on it. There was a scar above his left eye, shaped like a four pointed star with a circle around it and inside each of the spaces therin. I had never seen this mark before, but I regained my composure and told the stranger to come in.

“ I am sorry, my friend, but I cannot,” he replied, in a stately voice that belied his small stature and gaunt face, “for I am only told by my master to deliver this, an invitation for you.” Before I could object, he handed me the mysterious piece of paper and said, “My master would be deeply obliged if you may respond to him as soon as possible. He requests, in fact, that you reply in person, and that you leave for his residence at once.”

While he was speaking, I studied the piece of paper intently. It was embellished with the same symbol that adorned this man’s forehead, and the line for the address and sender’s name said only this: Rani Cadthenate. I looked back up when the strange visitor had finished speaking in order to reply--

--but he was not there.

I stood there for a moment in shock, the rains still pouring through my door from outside like a barrage of unwelcome houseguests. Suddenly I snapped back to my senses and grabbed my raincoat and fled from the house to search for my visitor. But he had left no trace, no footprints, no nothing, as if he was never even there. There was no reasonable explanation, no proof (save the paper he had given me) that he had even existed that night.

When I headed back inside to continue my dinner, I could feel the overwhelming feeling of doom come upon me again with renewed vigor. This lethal miasma of depression and gloom kept me from even finishing my once-delicious meal. It was as if I could taste my own demise with every bite. However, I managed to shrug this off as well, thinking, or rather, forcing myself to think, that this must have been a product of horrendously bad cooking.

Looking back, of course, it was not bad cooking, but Fate, which had caused that sensation that terrible night. But I was unaware, and I had not even finished a small portion of my meal before I decided to retire to bed. But before I could go up the steps to my room, my eye caught a small piece of paper on the stairwell that I knew was not there before. I grasped the paper and looked at it in utter amazement.

It was the letter which my mysterious guest had given me! I had remembered placing it on the table next to my plate, but there it lay, on the stairwell, as if it had moved there on its own accord! I opened the letter, feeling rather light-headed, as if I had just woken from a dream of the utmost irrationality, and read these words from the beige-colored paper:

Mr. Fredrick Capernicos;

Greetings.

Being a journalist of the highest order as you are, I suppose you might recognize my name. But alas, if you do not, allow me to introduce myself through my credentials. I am the one who, not even a whole month ago, claimed the souls of over five thousand strong in the city that you must know so well, judging from reading your report. In fact, everyone in recent memory that you know that are dead--yes, even your own father, who did so much for you only to be repaid so unkindly--know me by name, for I am the one who lured them to their graves.

I stopped reading in horror. How could this--this stranger, who I had never met before in my life, claim to know me? And how did he know that-- I shook my head violently and continued to read the blood-hued words written on the paper:

If you do not recognize me from that, I am afraid we must meet. Be aware, Mr. Capernicos, that reporting this letter to the police or anyone else will do you no good, for I am watching your every move--even at this moment. The only way to save yourself this late in the game is to do exactly what I tell you to do. Read the following instructions very carefully, for it may be--and is--your only chance of survival.

I wish for you to interview me at my residence. Pack five pieces of paper, a quill, and a bottle of ink into your bag. You will need nothing else. Once you have done this, go immediately to your stables, where you will find a carriage just outside waiting for you.

My motives for this act will be revealed upon your arrival at my residence. Remember, your only hope for living another day on this sphere of mud and rock depends on you following these instructions promptly and to the letter.

Farewell,

Rani Cadthenate

The letter ended there. I stood in that spot on the stairwell for some seconds as if I had been turned to stone, and the thought entered my mind that maybe, maybe this feeling of doom I had felt was somehow more than just a feeling; it was an omen. “WHAT DO YOU WANT??” I cried--to Rani, to the house, to the world, to no one. But there was no answer, and this left me feeling more perturbed than ever. At that moment, a cold, resolute decision entered my mind--I was going to go to this Mr. Cadthenate, and I was going to kill him.

TO BE CONTINUED!

The Magaska Minja (A Humorous Poem)

2009-10-26T14:05:00.000-07:00

Greetings. Sketch Reed here, and I would like to welcome you to my Archive blog. I created this blog to showcase my writings and poetry..and to free up space on my homepage for some of my art.

For my first entry in the archives, I thought I'd start with one of my old works; namely, a humorous poem about root beer and a shoe. I hope you enjoy it.

--o0o--
The Magaska Minja
Sketch Reed
--o0o--

The Minja, he came,
riding in a canoe.
He was drinking root beer
and eating his shoe.

He came from a land
far, far, far away.
The name of the land
is Magaska, they say.

The Minja, the Minja,
He came by canoe.
Drinking root beer,
and eating his shoe.

The Magaska Minja,
he came through the land.
He had a wood sword
and a hook for a hand.

The Minja stood tall
at two inches, one foot,
even though he was small
and covered in soot.

The Minja, the Minja
He came by canoe
Drinking root beer
and eating his shoe.

The Minja's canoe
was covered in fleas.
It looked like a life raft
for plague and disease.

The Minja came through;
then he left the land.
And all that he left
was a big root beer can.

The Minja, he came,
riding in his canoe.
If you doubt, ask the blind man,
for he saw him too.

Thanks for visiting, and be sure to check out my website, http://sketchreed.webs.com, for more of my work. I shall see you all soon.

--SKETCH REED