. . . . . . . . . . STORIES--Nothing but GREAT STORIES. . . . . .
For your reading pleasure, from local authors:
My Scary Tale By Mary Lucille Martin
It was a spooky, gloomy night And I was torn with morbid fright; I shivered, quivered in my bed Because of what my sister said:
"Old Mister Albro, he is there His foot is on the bottom stair," She whispered low and sinister. I would not, could not, answer her.
All neighbor kids were terrified; We'd find somplace to run and hide When Mister Albro came in sight, Convinced he'd harm us, and he might.
To think he was so close, so near, Ah--trickled down my cheek a tear. My heart was thumping heavily. I begged, "Please, Mom, come help poor me."
Then sister hissed, "He's on step TWO!" Oh, horrors! What was I to do? I thought I heard a warning creak It was so dark; what was that squeak?
And then she said, "He's on step THREE!" He'd surely, surely get to me. I cringed, I scrunched--to make me small, I curled up in a cow'ring ball.
But when she called, "He's on step FOUR" Imagined I, such gruesome gore. My limbs were trembling, getting weak, My eyes were closed; I dared not peek.
Just then, "Step 'FIVE," she blurted out, My mouth was dry, I could not shout. Five steps he'd climbed, five steps to go. "He's on step SIX," she taunted low.
"Step SEVEN," loud and shrill she cried. I'm doomed, I'm doomed. Oh my! When I'd Begun to contemplate my fate There came the dreaded words: Step EIGHT!
Suspended in this bleak abyss Bedeviled by my impish sis "Step NINE, step TEN," I heard her roar And feet came stomping 'cross my floor.
I moaned, I groaned, I shrieked, I cried. But soon, dear sis, I realized, Though now I was a sniv'ling wreck, 'Twas your sweet hands around my neck. 200?
"I Kindle Not" by Mary Martin
Please give me quiet cozy nooks To rest and read my precious books. These modern viewing texts I spurn For printed paper pages yearn. The gentlest sound of turning leaf Somehow from stress brings calm relief. Just let me savor ev'ry phrase And on occasion lift my gaze; Reflecting, musing, deep in throught What comfort! -- 'tis not all for naught. Pursue your hectic pace, but I On volumes treasured yet rely. 2011