Bartholomew "Barty" Buttercup, renowned paranormal investigator (in his own mind), adjusted his tinfoil hat and declared, 'The spirits tremble before my mighty EMF meter!' A couple of kids laughed at him. Unsurprisingly, this was not paranormal for Faehaven Manor, a popular tourist trap. Barty was swarmed in gadgets. He pulled a gadget that looked like a squirt gun glued on to a wrench out of his ...

trust fall with a kiss,

the smile of a con trusted,

both worlds far apart....

Most tourists don't go to graveyards. Every town has one. To a yellow eyed man they were the most interesting part of his travels. A sign was here somewhere...

He swiveled his head around. A bird chippered and dandelions were scattered on the left, a small creek flowed and clovers swayed to the right. He stopped for a moment thinking and smiled. His heel spun. To right it is.

He ducked under the b...

The apartment was small. Muted pictures of botanical gardens, faded moors, green inked poems, and heavy rain were taped across the walls. A rusted steampunk-looking robot made of pipes sat numbly at the edge of the island. A flick of washed out auburn streamed through the small window blinders and pasted, then a pure white, and then a bluish hue. The dented robot still stared at the ground with a ...

I don't want to stick out

like weed in a field of wild flowers.

A burden if there

ever was,

If the April showers

could wash my differences

out completely,

I would live happily....

A figure stalked through the dark elm tree's bough, a soft whispering quelled near. The spy laid down and swung his legs to side to side quietly but swiftly, grabbing at tufts of long grass and dragging their form up. The smooth grass moved like waves. The endless ocean scrambled the hushed voices- the spy must get closer.

A louder voice, heavy accented with German, penetrated the swish-swash of t...

This is a story about Arthur Smit.

Arthur Smit lives in 201 Baker Street and every day at exactly 3:30 am he wakes up on the right side of his bed. Every morning he knocks on each wooden door as he makes his way to his toothbrush. Most people at these early hours are grumbling and trying hard to recount dreams, but Arthur Smit is too busy closing his eyes so he can't count his teeth.

Arthur Smit...