I want to look at the night,
Gaze out into the unknown.
Dare to dream of flight,
A dream of being unknown.

When night comes softly
On feet as light as air,
I can see more clearly
Of what I can dare.

Alone on this hilltop
With the embracing cold,
I will leap past boundaries
That I have created of my own.

Darkness hides all secrets
Beneath its cloak of despair.
Secrets that lie safe and secure
Under the cloak of my hair.

At night I can roam free
Without the hindrance of others.
I can leap over castle walls,
Past the slombering mothers.

Looking down at all below me,
Sleeping in their beds of down,
I can see how I am different
As my eyes sweep the town.



1 Curiosity


My heart pumps fear through my veins,

bringing me anguish and pains.

Why must I be the curious one?

The one who can’t let the deed be done.

I must follow the noises to the basement,

where something is making an awful statement.

A voice called to me from my rumpled bed.

The sound echoed endlessly in my head.

I descend the stairs to the darkness below.

The noises combine to form a loud bellow.

A hiss hits my ear as claws rake my arm.

​My silly cat thinks I mean him some harm.

I offer soothing words but he wants to flee

just as the door shuts and locks behind me.

The light bulb goes out leaving me in the dark.

Do I now hear a dog’s whimper and shrill bark?

Chills taunt me as I go down the dark stairs,

following the whimpering and stray hairs.

Feathers float in front of me.

I don’t know what this can be.

I step on something squishy and soft.

I find a light and hold it aloft.

I lift my foot and the tail retreats

to the chair where it has hidden treats.

With the bright lantern held high,

I search for the source of a sigh.

My neighbor sits with her panting pals

of the furry sort in guys and gals.

“Am I also welcome to the party?”

I ask the pig-tailed girl, laughing hearty.

She replies, “Of course, you are, my dear neighbor,”

A point she refuses to belabor.

I join the circle on the floor,

as the cats and dogs eat some more.

Cake and cookies for all the guests,

even ones who have been great pests.

My black cat joins in with tail held high,

sniffing at the desserts and brown pie.

At least this story has a happy ending.

No one wants another tale to be pending.


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Calming blue waters.

Soft white sand.

Reclining on a hammock.

Enjoying the sunshine.

The bright blue sky.

The quiet.


Darkness descends upon us.

The trade winds turn violent.

Sand flies in our faces.

Rooftops fly above our heads.

We make a mad dash to town.

The sun hides her face.

Lightning joins the winds.

Where to hide?

The Town Hall waits.

Its front door stands open.

Inside is dark and quiet.

What awaits us now?

Windows shatter.

Shrieks fill the rooms.

Shadows fly by the tall windows.

We’re doomed.







In the quiet summer night,

Light shining from a great height,

A search until morning light.

We hold strong with all our might

That we find what we’re searching for,

Before night ends and shuts the door.

We need to find her before it’s too late.

We refuse to leave this up to mere fate.

A shout, a cry is heard in the dark.

It must be her alone in the park.

The light shines on her pretty face.

She sees us and picks up her pace.

She is crying and laughing at the same time.

A perfect ending to this story of mine.


babyanimalposts: A BORING AFTERNOON AT THE PET STORE A boring afternoon at the pet store. “What to do? What to do?” the white cat pondered to herself. The only movement was an annoying fly. It flew around the store. The four kittens followed the fly...



A boring afternoon at the pet store.
    “What to do? What to do?”
    the white cat pondered to herself.
    The only movement was an annoying fly.
    It flew around the store.
    The four kittens followed the fly with their eyes.
    In fact, they couldn’t keep their eyes off it.

The fly was black and furry.

    It had unusual yellow stripes down its back.
    The smallest cat wanted it for a new baby brother.
    The Tom cat wanted to swat the thing with his tail.
    The fly finally landed.
    On the Tom cat’s nose.
    “Ouch,” Tom cat screamed out.
    “It bit me!” he said while rubbing his nose.

Fluffy, the big white cat, ran over to Tom.

    She said,”It didn’t bite you but stung you.”
    “Oh no! Oh no! What should I do?”
    Tom ran around in circles.
    The white cat moved closer to look at his nose.
    “It’s fine. If it swells, we’ll put ice on it. It looks better
    than the poor fly.”

The four cats looked down at the fly lying on the ground.

    “It gave its life so it could sting you,” Fluffy said.
    “But why would it do that?” Tom looked confused.
     “It’s the way of life,” Fluffy said in a sad voice.
     “I know! We should bury it with a service and all.”
     The little voice came from the youngest kitten.
     They all agreed with him.

Not having a yard for a burial, they wrapped the fly

     in a tissue and were going to flush it down the toilet.
     But first, the youngest, Squeaky, said a few words.
     Squeaky was sad that the fly didn’t even have a name.
     “Let’s call her Miss Bee,” Fluffy suggested to the group.
     “Why? It was a fly.” Squeaky was upset.
     “No, my dear, she was a bee. And that is why she stung Tom.”
     Squeaky began to cry. 

After wiping his nose and eyes, Squeaky agreed to call

     her Miss Bee.
     “Goodbye, Miss Bee. We’re sorry we didn’t get to know you
     better. I hope you make friends in your new life.”
     With that said, Squeaky flushed the toilet and watched
     Miss Bee float away to her new life.
     “Goodbye Miss Bee,” Squeaky said. “We’ll miss you.”


“ Ice Hotel, Quebec
A house of ice.
Sounds too nice?
It might be.
It’s next to the sea.
Ice statues populate the place.
Just don’t look into their face.
Tales of horror fall from their lips.
Better run away from all this.


A house of ice.

Sounds too nice?

It might be.

It’s next to the sea.

Ice statues populate the place.

Just don’t look into their face.

Tales of horror fall from their lips.

Better run away from all this.









I was on way with my second book, developing my characters, setting up the story, introducing conflicts for them to overcome. Then the problems began. I started to read articles from popular authors’ sites, claiming to know the best way to set up a story and its characters.

I agree the midpoint should be placed at the middle of the book and be the pivotal spot for the plot, where characters are spun about on their axis by unexpected events or people. However, these authors lecture about specific spots where each plot point is to be introduced.  They outline the exact number of pressure points and where they should be placed. 

I began to dissect my book, bit by bit. I follow an outline of my own. Each chapter is created to be a full scene with a beginning, middle and end. My midpoint is the big reversal. I didn’t plan on pressure points but I have them; not at the exact percentage points as recommended by the articles but close. After the reversal, I have pressure spots planned leading to the ultimate climax. 

I did all of this instinctively, from reading books my whole life. There is a rhythm to writing like there is to music. It doesn’t have to be strictly set at one speed. It can flow at your own pace. Characters don’t have to direct opposites or heroes to your main character, they could play off your protagonist to elicit humor or bring out the story.

There are rules but not hard and fast ones like in math and science. I followed the rules in my past jobs in Finance. I love formulas where you can input your data and come up with the one correct answer. Writing is more creative. There is more than one way to tell a story and each person has a different story to tell.

The beginning of my book has been rewritten four times before I realized that my story has been following the rules of writing but at its own rhythm. My own pace. I’ve stopped reading these preachy articles about the best way to structure a book. Scenes, character arcs, plot points and acts still float around in my head, but once I began writing all of these details took care of themselves. The plot can reach the midpoint and reversal on its way to the climax without any calculations of percentages.

If you’ve read enough books, an author knows how the story should flow. You instinctively know how to introduce characters and how they should play off the main character. I’m off to the finish! I’ve cleared the midpoint and on my way to the climax! Don’t ever doubt yourself. Let your story evolve from inside of you.



A blue wave of ocean.

Coming closer to shore.

Bringing with it darkness.

And yet still so much more.


I’m tempted to ride it.

Take it to the limit.

I want to see its strength

And if it’s a gimmick.


The blue is almost transparent.

A glass of cold water for me.

Hitting me in the face with salt.

Lifting me as high as can be.


Goodbye to the town of Oasis.

Goodbye to my perfect paradise.

Squashed by the hand of The Dead and gone.

By a mere roll of the deadly dice.


THE DEAD GAME by Susanne Leist



Read me a tale, grandfather,

of battles and dead bodies.

Turn the pages, grandfather,

of the book of horrors.

Tell me more stories, grandfather,

of evil armies and sadness.

I will close my eyes, grandfather,

and will the darkness away.