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 Brief prose and poetry lacking other categories... |
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Basically anything under 1k or 500 words that's not a Drabble, an Express It in Eight, or a Promptly Poetry. Enjoy
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| Eight-year-old Liberty watched raindrops chasing each other down the windowpane. Steady rainfall drummed overhead. She pulled back as lightning split the sky, followed by a rolling boom of thunder. “Are we safe, Mrs. Fields?” The lady running the orphanage stood nearby, taping up red, white and blue banners. “Yes, Libby.” She guided the little girl away from the glass. “Will my new parents still come to get me?” “Of course they will, honey. Rain won't keep your family away. It may stop the evening fireworks, though.” “I wanted to see them.” Her hazel eyes glimmered hopefully. Mrs. Fields smoothed back Libby's blonde pageboy. “You love sharing your birthday with the United States. It's double the fun. Soon, you'll have a third reason to celebrate.” The thunderstorm tapered off late in the afternoon. Libby ran back and forth around the orphanage, checking the grandfather clock in the entry, peeking through every window, searching for her family. “They'll be here soon.” Mrs. Fields handed Libby a broom. “Why don't you sweep to help soothe your jitters?” Finally, as the first evening fireworks crackled, they arrived, with hugs and gifts. Mom wrapped her in a flag patterned blanket. Dad brought a funny tricorn hat for her to wear. “Just in time to celebrate at the neighborhood cookout,” he said. “Let's go!” They swung Libby between them as they strolled along the boardwalk. Sunset painted the waters pink and gold. They laughed, feeding seagulls with french fries. “I love you, Mom and Dad.” “We love you too, Liberty.” Libby snuggled between her new parents, enjoying the sparkling jeweled lights spraying across the night sky. Someday, she would help other kids like her find loving families. For now, she was happy to celebrate her birthday, her adoption, and the founding of her homeland, all together. |
| Fear not, He says, for I am with you. How can I be sure of this? My faith is weak. I see words on the page, but they fail to resonate. I lack the confidence and strength to believe That life will work out, somehow, Even if it doesn’t end well Or disaster strikes and I lose everything, God is with me, there is no need to fear. This should be inner peace, not based on pleasant circumstances But rooted in a knowledge of the Lord’s promises And a childlike belief in them. Such faith feels at times beyond my reach, As self-composure so often melts down under pressure. I pray for stronger faith, a positive outlook and a heart after God’s own. He is Righteous: I entrust my soul to His Hands. 16 lines, 133 words. Written for "SCRIPTURE POETRY CONTEST"  Prompt: "Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand." Isaiah 41:10 |
| The heart is a willow tree: it lives, breathes, thrives, Planted by flowing waters of crystal clear truth. Growing strong in knowledge, trust, faith, Enlivened by God our Father, who cares for everyone. When I sleep, I dream I’m sitting under the willow tree, Counting blessings floating downstream. I stand up, chasing what I’ve suddenly realized is escaping me Running along the slippery mud riverbank Away from the willow, so green and alive. Frantic, I plunge in where the water seems shallow, Grabbing ahold of treasures sinking fast. The truth of the matter almost drowns me: Blessings are meant to be appreciated, not clung to. A being in white throws me a lifeline, hauls me ashore, Walks me back to that thriving willow tree, Where I once more collapse, relaxing under its dappled shade. With my feet in the water of crystal clear truth, I contemplate life’s blessings, awakening to sunrise with newfound wisdom. 18 lines, 154 words. Written for "Poetry Topic of the Month Contest" Prompt: “sitting under a willow tree.” Inspired by Psalm 1. |
| They raise the flag with weary hands Battles won in burning sands Protecting home from evil ways Standing strong throughout the days. We honor them the way we should For doing only what they could. Let's not squander what they’ve done Holding fast to all as one. Treasure freedom to live and breathe To practice all what each believes. We raise their flag with grateful hands A welcome home from distant lands. 12 lines, 72 words. Written for "Honoring Our Veterans - Challenge" |
| My head jerked upright as I slouched on the concrete bench in front of the grocery store, my scruffy mutt Rufus at my feet. I needed a drink of water. I was starting to see things. Just a few minutes ago, I thought I saw an old guy wearing a pumpkin color suit and a floppy, oversized straw hat, carrying two bright green bags… Blinking away the daydreams, I looked out at the bustling parking lot and realized I had seen him. Indeed, he was still there, walking along at a measured pace with a shopping tote in each hand, the trademark Publix shade of green. My bleary eyes, desperate for a diversion, followed him to his car, an antique Woody Wagon in the same shade of pumpkin as his clothes. He set one tote on the ground to look through his pockets for his keys. Not finding them immediately, he set down the other tote. He couldn't find them in any pocket at all, apparently, because he walked slowly around his station wagon, checking for an unlocked door. I felt bad for him, standing helplessly under the broiling Florida sun. No wonder he was wearing that funny hat. I stood up, ran a hand through my greasy, unruly hair, and shuffled towards him, hoping I didn't look too disheveled. Rufus padded after me. “Excuse me, sir, do you need some help?” I spoke quickly, knowing his first assumption, based on appearances, would be I was asking him for money. He looked me in the eye and said, in a voice with the piping tones of a man in his eighties, “I’m afraid I've lost my car keys. Do you think you can help me find them, young man?” I smiled, because it had been a long time since anyone called me young. “Sure, I'll try my best. You remember where you left them?” “If I remembered that, I wouldn't have lost them,” he chuckled. “My name is Paul, by the way. Nice dog you have here.” “Thanks. He's my rescue guy. I'm Louie.” I scratched Rufus behind the ears. “You think you might've left them in the store?” “Let's see… I did have to stand at the pharmacy counter for a while, discussing my coverage. I might have left them there. Then I needed to cash a check at the return desk.” “We'd better go in and see if anyone's turned them over.” Paul stooped to pick up his totes. They were heavy, so I insisted on carrying them instead. At the entrance, I told Rufus to sit and stay. Publix has an “absolutely no pets inside” policy. The last thing I needed was to be unceremoniously trespassed from yet another store. Rufus wagged his tail and sat obediently in a corner, out of everyone's way. We went to the customer service desk and asked if there were any keys handed over to lost and found. The lady checked their records, looked in a drawer, and shook her head. Next, we went to the pharmacy. Paul plodded cautiously, picking up his feet with intention and keeping his eyes to the floor. I suspect he preferred using a cane. Perhaps he had lost it. I tried not to be too self-conscious as we walked together, one elderly well-dressed guy and one shabby bum. The pharmacist immediately said yes, there was a set of keys which someone had left on her counter and she had sequestered for safekeeping. “What car do you drive, sir?” “A Ford station wagon, about forty years old. My car keys aren't those highfalutin electrical key fobs you see nowadays. Just plain old gold keys.” “Yes, sir, that’s the ones.” She brought them up, and we thanked her and headed back outside. Rufus waited patiently for me. A strong wind was sending clouds flying across the sky and junk flying through the parking lot as I carried Paul's totes back to his car. One sharp gust tore his big straw hat right off of his head. It rolled and tumbled away as if it were alive. I couldn't drop the groceries to chase after it. “Rufus! Fetch!” It was an instinctive command, yet incredibly stupid. If the hat went in front of a car or out into the street—yikes! I prayed it would be safe as Rufus went running. Thankfully, the floppy thing got caught in some shrubbery at the corner. He grabbed it in his mouth and came trotting back triumphantly. I took it from him, trying to wipe off the slobber. “Here you are, sir. Good as new… just a little sticky. It'll dry out in the sunshine.” “Thank you for all your help, Louie.” Paul adjusted the straw hat back securely on his head. “You've been a blessing.” “It was nothing, really.” “No, no—if you hadn't shown up, who would have carried my shopping bags? Or caught my hat? Such kindness warrants a reward.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a bill. “Oh geez, sir, I couldn't take your money…” The look of longing on my face belied me as I thought of how much I needed it. He pressed the hundred dollar bill into my hand and patted my shoulder. “I pray better days are ahead of you, young man.” “So do I. Thank you very much, Paul. It was nice meeting you.” I shook his hand and went back to sit on the bench by the store with Rufus, calculating how many days of food I could buy for us with the money. I should save a little to get myself a sunhat, to remember Paul. Words: 938. Written for "Merit Badge Magic" And also for "Starting Stories" Required story starter highlighted in blue. |
| You're Mama's little sunflower girl, Smiling, happy as can be. Facing sunshine, head in dreamy clouds, Eyes reflecting inner glee. With peaceful strength you grow every day Better than ever, it's true. Year after year, a joy to us all I ask God's blessings for you. Send your roots deep, scatter only love Thrive wherever you may be. Gathering sunlight, raindrops so pure Give life to all we can see. 12 lines, 70 words. 9-7-9-7 syllables. Written for "Writing 4 Kids" June prompt: Write a children's poem inspired by the sunflower. |
| John pulled up to Benny's Burgers in front of the grocery store, parked his car and got out, carrying a tablet. As the new district manager of the national chain, transferred from Metro Atlanta to a podunk region of coastal Florida, he wanted to visit each restaurant within his territory and get to know them better. From the moment he walked inside, there was something different about this Benny's. The first thing he noticed was a life-size artificial wisteria tree in a wicker basket, placed by the front entry. Glancing around, he saw many other flower arrangements, large and small: one at each table setting, several lined up on the checkout counter, even one perched on top of the fountain drink dispenser, surrounded by little plastic knick-knacks. He frowned. Fake flowers everywhere? At Benny's? That wasn't right. Rather than the usual TV mounted in the corner of the sterile tile walls, there was a painting, a copy of Monet's water lilies. By the service counter, a poster of the Ten Commandments hung on the wall. His jaw dropped. He stared blankly at it as though it were written in a foreign language. “Have you been helped, sir?” A young lady asked, coming to stand by the cash register. John introduced himself and asked to see the manager. A little old lady came bustling out of the office, adjusting her gray bun. “Good afternoon, sir! They told us you would be coming to visit. I'm pleased to meet you.” “Same here, Mrs. Jones. Would you care to show me around?” She guided him through the dining room, where lace cloths adorned all the tables and a floral garland with tiny lights stretched around the perimeter. “I don't understand why you've, er, decorated the area so intricately. It's not the usual Benny's.” “The customers like it. I even set up a kiddie corner. Everyone's happy.” She pointed to a low table, with kid-size chairs, a stack of alphabet books, coloring pages and crayons. John shook his head in bewilderment. “That's too close to the fountain dispenser. Honestly, ma'am, I'm afraid this is not set up to standard protocol. We want customers to have the same experience at each Benny's they visit.” “You want me to remove all this?” She raised an eyebrow. “It's—yes. The fake flowers are dust catchers. You can't clean them. I've been district manager over hundreds of stores, and I've never seen one with lace tablecloths or posters on the wall.” They continued to circle the dining area. John was beginning to feel as though he were in a cozy tea shop, like an AI video. It was peculiar, yet comfortable, with a small-town charm. But it wasn't a proper Benny's Burgers! His befuddlement grew deeper when they came to a front corner window, where a round table was arranged with a plate, a glass, an open book, a placard, and a vase of fresh flowers with a US flag tucked into it. A framed photo of a solemn man in uniform stood by the vase. Something about this mysterious display reminded John of an altar. He leaned in closer to read the words on the sign. “To honor all our soldiers missing in action. You will never be forgotten. Your sacrifice for our country is deeply appreciated each and every day. Our prayers are with you.” John turned to Mrs. Jones. She nodded. “My husband,” she said quietly. “He never returned.” “I'm sorry to hear.” In that moment, John began to understand what he was seeing. A woman rooted in her community, providing a hometown experience to her friends and neighbors. It was something he would never be a part of, but he could leave it be. For he knew what it felt like to lose someone on the battlefront. His own son was missing in action. Mrs. Jones unique decoration of her Benny's franchise stood as a testament to the strength of a small town, where those who defended the country were not forgotten. Words: 663. Written for "Honoring Our Veterans - Challenge" Inspired by a true story. |
| Enough songs have been written by now To realize they don't change the world. It's all very well to rant, rave, ruminate, revile, but in the end, words are wind. What's needed is action Not violence, nor a noisy protest. Firm, quiet actions on the part of many Can change the course of human history. What this means in real life? I have no idea. When one works every day for less than one's worth, Comes home to drown in cultural escapism, Wakes up to do it again tomorrow, It's hard to think about larger things. Change is needed, but how it starts? Within the heart. Resolve to do better, Be kind to your neighbor. Yet resolutions get lost in the hullabaloo, And we resort to base instinct. Maybe all we can do is write: a song, a blog, a journal entry, a thank you note, goals, dreams, observations, expressing how we think things should be. Perhaps our songs do change the world Even if no one hears them. 28 lines, 169 words. Written for Rachel's Beatles Challenge. Song of choice: Revolution. |
| I have a long way to go— Mostly uphill. I'm not sure I can wrap my head around God— Is that a blasphemous idiom  Speaking to Him seems difficult… What about other forms of spiritual experience I exclude almost automatically? Sometimes I appreciate Buddhism; I should look into it further because it seems rather similar to nihilism. Nihilism is a thing with me lately. I wonder what the point of life is, Letting myself slide downhill Rather than wasting energy on the climb to higher ground— Exhausted before I've begun. I pray for wisdom, discernment, love, Faith seems all too magical: a dream, a scam, a trap, a tool Used by others for manipulation and control. Philosophically speaking, God is highly likely to exist, The primary cause and source of all else. Seeking His Face is the puzzling part. How do I filter out the noise, focus on the Voice? Peace, stillness, a moment to breathe, gratitude, All will help me find what I'm looking for. The journey begins with a small step, A tiptoeing mustard seed of faith, Sprouting eventually into a deeply rooted, thriving tree of life. 28 lines, 191 words. Written for "Share Your Faith" May Prompt: The Search What aspect of your faith journey are you currently exploring or seeking clarity on? |
| Dear God, Please protect the tiny human Growing inside the womb of my dearest friend. Shower your blessings upon them both Keep them healthy and strong As You form the little one in Your image. Give my friend the fortitude to be a mother, Strength to raise a child in the way they should go So that when they are old they will not depart from it. Keep the fetus free from all the disorders I fear it could get between now and the birth. Please let it be a happy baby, with a happy childhood. I couldn't bear to see it any other way. Thank you, Lord, for the precious gift of life. In Jesus name, amen. 15 lines, 118 words. Prompt: a prayer of supplication or intercession. Inspired by real life. My most sincere prayers seem to be when others are expecting babies. I forget to pray for myself. |
| Loom I’d like to be a tapestry Filled with vivid colors - The light, the dark, the shades and tones, Woven into a beautiful whole That shares a message of hope Like a security blanket For anyone who needs it I’d be a tapestry Sitting on the loom Never quite complete With new colors and threads Weft upon the horizon Looming is a sunrise Or is that a sunset? Both are equally stunning And we need balance to move forward Weaving our story In vivid colors Upon the loom of life. 19 lines. Written in response to "Note: Newsfeed Contest Write a poem directly in the..." Inspired by the upcoming release of the Imagine Dragons album Loom. |
| Twenty seven years ago, I was born, Collarbone broken on the way out, Imbued with moroseness from the womb. I knew pain, but forgot it, apparently. Still, dysfunction runs deep, A disjointed mashup of entangled weirdness— At odds with everyone from the beginning— Particularly my mom. Long-suffering, she regales me repeatedly with bitter memories of life before I came along: treachery and woe, sickness and pain, Decades of self-sacrifice leading to nothing but disaster. From which my deeply cynical nature, Unconvinced otherwise, concluded: What's the point? Why do it that way? Why do as you did, Or do as you say, When I can do it my way: Selfish, silent, solitary, stagnant. Nihilism unchecked, I fell, as a stone rolls downhill. Incompatible, yet forever trapped, I test the ties that bind like fraying bungee cords, Flinging myself headlong off cliffs to escape Only to find myself back again, inevitable. Drawn to the only person who ever cared, Demanding what she cannot give me because she's still seeking it herself: Wholeness, acceptance, understanding—a home. We grow old together, homeless at heart, Unable to connect yet utterly inseparable, Driving each other crazy, Wondering why we're still relating the same way we did when I was two years old. It can't be her fault—she did the best she could. Raised me in a garden paradise, books galore, education at home, safe, protected, at great costs to her own well-being. I learned morals, spirituality, miracles, arts and crafts; I wrote, I played, I dreamed, built worlds. I aced the ACT, twice. Where did it all vanish to? Why am I stuck, immobilized, wasting irrevocable time, unable to do for her All that she does for me? My worldview is a blindfold. I need fresh eyes to see positive potential In myself and others. Supplanting deep-rooted antisocial attitudes is tearing up every fiber of my being Like renovating a haunted house. But I can't allow myself to rot, Disappointing my mother who gives herself up for me Every single day. 57 lines, 335 words. Written for "Merit Badge Magic" Happy Mother's Day, Mom    |
| Dear Diary: My name is Lizzie. Today was the first day of school. I'm in fifth grade this year. Mrs. Sanders says I should keep a diary to write down important things. She asked if I'd like to read some of it aloud each week. No way! I shook my head. Talking is super awkward, especially with a new teacher. All my friends were here from last year, so I felt comfortable. Today we learned about reptiles and amphibians and how they're cold-blooded. I thought that was bad, but Mrs. Sanders explained how it means their body temperature matches whatever it is outside. Joey asked why people call each other cold-blooded, and she said it means someone doesn't have feelings, like regret or guilt or sadness. That sounds scary. I don't want to be one of those people. * Today a new kid came to school. My friend Paul said he's autistic, and that means he can't speak. But Joey said not all autistic kids can't talk, only the severe ones. They started arguing. Joey asked Mrs. Sanders if the new kid can talk, and she said no. So he must be severe. His name is Aaron. He's small and dorky and wears glasses. At lunchtime no one let Aaron sit with them. Paul said they're afraid of him cause he makes weird sounds and waves his arms. He sat in a corner, rocking back and forth. He didn't eat anything. I wanted to ask him if he was ok, but I was afraid to. My uncle said autistic kids can hurt people. I don't think Aaron would hurt anyone. But I don't know. And he couldn't tell me anyway. * Today we learned about volcanoes. Hayden said Aaron is cold-blooded because he's autistic. I wanted to ask Mrs. Sanders if that's true. I don't think it is. But I stayed quiet. Everyone's talking about Aaron except me. I don't talk much about anything, usually. I like to hear what others are saying. I'm worried about why he doesn't eat. He doesn't bring lunch, but he doesn't buy one either. Maybe he's not hungry? But he seems really sad. No one ever asks if he's ok. Sometimes kids yell at him. He doesn't seem to notice. * I think I should do something about Aaron. He never eats lunch. But what can I do? I'm afraid I'll cause trouble. I'm so worried, I don't even remember what we learned in class today. Something about photosynthesis and rainforests and Amazon. I thought of offering him some of my peanut butter and jelly, but what if he's allergic? I think I should tell a grownup first, before doing anything. Ugh. I don't like having to talk to people. It makes me feel sick inside. What if I say the wrong thing? Maybe I shouldn't say anything at all. He'll be fine, right? * I was wondering what to do about Aaron today. Mrs. Sanders read us one of the really old Winnie the Pooh stories from a big book. One quote jumped out at me. I think Eeyore said it: "A little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference." I felt like she was talking to me! I knew what I should do, even though I was super nervous. When we got up at recess, I waited until everyone was gone. My heart was beating really fast and I felt so jumpy, like I wanted to run away. "Mrs. Sanders, I need to talk to you." "Of course, Lizzie. Is something wrong?" "It's about Aaron. He doesn't eat anything for lunch. I'm worried. He looks really sad." "Really? That's not good. Thank you for telling me. I'll reach out to his mom and let her know so she can pack him a meal." Then Mrs. Sanders looked me in the eye and smiled and patted my shoulder. "I know it might have been difficult for you to speak up, Lizzie. It's ok to let trusted grownups know when you see a problem. You did good." "Thank you so much, Mrs. Sanders!" It was such a relief to get it over with. It wasn't nearly as awkward as I was afraid of. I'm glad I spoke up. * Today Mrs. Sanders told me about Aaron. He wasn't eating because he doesn't like what our school serves. He's super sensitive about textures and how food looks and smells. So now his mom knows to prepare something he can eat. At lunchtime, he had food. He was grinning and eating heartily. I felt so happy knowing he's ok now. Speaking up is really important. Eeyore is right: caring about others makes a big difference. Words: 790. Written for "Writing 4 Kids" May prompt: "A little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference." - Eeyore. |
| Fadeout—line between good and evil Drawn jagged within my heart—erased. I wear a mask each day: Good girl, proper, angelic. Never an unclean word escapes. No one guesses monstrous insanity lurks beneath: Fights to the death, scenes of torment, Dreams I wake up apologizing to God for. Torn between abhorrence and fascination I wear conservative values Protected behind iron bars of fastidious rules. Who would I become If I broke out of prison? Bitter nausea overwhelms my attempt to answer. Venomous spiders dangle In unswept corners of my soul. Nightmares illuminate what I deny. If I am who I am in the dark, I refuse to accept myself, Splintered between decent and dirty Outcast from my short-circuiting mind bristling with electric barbed wire, Chasing cockroaches in circles under a bloody full moon. Is uncleanness my identity? Or is it my struggle, my burden, I've been assigned to resist? Enlightenment at tunnel's end, Or train wreck inexorable? 30 lines, 156 words. Written for "Rebel Poetry Contest" Chosen Prompt: The Ballad of Lucy Jordan (written by Shel Silverstein  ) |
As believers, who are we? Are we Peter, grasping Christ's true self, Growing, maturing, with pure intentions? Falling flat in denial under trial, Seeking forgiveness and trying again? Or are we Judas: devious, scheming, Purportedly trustworthy but inwardly lost Desiring only to grasp material wealth Sacrificing what we should have protected For a bag of gold? Perhaps the essence of both Wrestles in the heart of every believer. Duality of sin and salvation Threatens to destroy us each day. Pray without ceasing. Cling to the Father. Ask yourself: Who am I? Judas? Or Peter? Words: 90. Lines: 16. Written for "SCRIPTURE POETRY CONTEST" Prompt: a poem about anything which took place between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. |
| My Fido, he barks real loud Chasing all the squirrels But I love him, love him, love him He knows I love him beyond words. And maybe he smells like dog But I don't think that's a prob, 'Cause every time he wags his tail I just wanna yell, "Let's hear it for the dog! Let's give the dog a bone! Let's hear it for my Fido You know you gotta understand He may be no Cane Corso But he's my snuggly one-dog show Woof, woof, woof, Let's hear it for the dog!" My Fido's alert and bright He won't let strangers by. He guards me, guards me, guards me I know I'm always safe by his side. Sometimes he chews my shoes But that's the worst he'll ever do, 'Cause every time I see his eyes I just wanna cry, "Let's hear it for my dog! Let's give the dog a treat! Let's hear it for my Fido I just gotta let you know He ain't got no pedigree But he's the perfect dog for me! Woof, woof, woof, Let's hear it for the dog!" Lines: 32. Words: 186. A dog-slobbery parody of the 1984 song by Deniece Williams, Let's Hear It For the Boy. Written for "Merit Badge Magic" Theme: National Pet Day. video ▼ |
Air, vibrant, living, Joyful birds sail turquoise skies Precious sight above. Water, flowing pure, Otters slide down riverbanks, Whales dance in the sea. Caterpillars munch Curves into tasty green leaves Soon to be transformed Into butterflies Floating so delicately Bearing rainbow wings. Earth, safe home to all Protect it while we can Wild friends will thank us. Lines: 15. Words: 57. Written for "Writing 4 Kids" April prompt: children's nature haiku. |
| Devout, in purest prayer unceasing Across changing kingdoms, ever faithful No regiments could make him fall away. In trials, chains, fiery furnaces, standing strong; Even hungry lions became as kittens for him. Learn to be like Daniel: strong, wise, Godly. Six lines, 40 words. Written for Quihadi's Christian Poetry contest, "SCRIPTURE POETRY CONTEST" Prompt: write a meaningful acrostic using a Bible character's name. |
| Jimmy was a brilliant space engineer on the Kokomo 350 starship. Until it veered too close to a black hole, causing the ship to implode, killing everyone on board except him. Now he's suspected of causing the disaster. His career is ruined, he's jaded and disgruntled, and he subsists by delivering meals to humans incarcerated on distant moons. One day, he delivers a meal to Petra and recognizes her as a mechanic from Kokomo 350. She explains she survived by hiding in a snowcone machine and claims she's imprisoned because she knows why the ship was blown up. Her dog, Snoopy, is a cyborg programmed to help her build snowcone machines which can withstand the forces of black holes. When Snoopy disappears, leaving behind a pile of disassembled snowcone machines, Petra decodes a cryptic message from a band of rogue ThornJogs, threatening to wreak destruction by unleashing black holes throughout the known universe. She believes they've kidnapped Snoopy to prevent her from building enough snowcone machines to suppress the holes. Petra escapes from the moon prison with Jimmy being her getaway driver. Together they hack into Snoopy's computers, determining his location. Arriving, they find proof ThornJogs are responsible for what happened to Kokomo 350: an experiment, preparing for a large scale attack. Jimmy and Petra infect Snoopy with a virus overriding ThornJog orders, destroying their software. But after disabling the threat, a twist arises, jeopardizing the entire universe's stability and testing Jimmy and Petra's skills like never before. notes ▼ |
| A fantastic proposal: taming a dragon, Teaching it manners or pulling a wagon. It's long and hard, but also quite fun Taming a dragon under the sun. Adopt an egg first, help it to hatch Plenty easier than trying to catch. Once it's a baby, feed it quite well Hold it, talk to it, trust it can tell. Your kindness pays off: an obedient fledgling Stays by your side without any meddling. Next comes the training, the do and the don't Patience is crucial, or teaching it won't. Steadfast like clockwork, your schedule maintain; This helps it to learn and patterns to gain. Advance it gently, with plenty of praise Set goals and levels to guide it in grace. Soon your dragon will grow strong and mature A beautiful sight, that's for sure! Flying freely across summer skies A creature well-trained, healthy and wise. 20 lines, 144 words, couplets in verses of four lines each. |
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