He loved the way these things flowed ink on the page. Ordinarily, he'd type when engrossed in writing prose, but occasionally the artistic side of him, craved manuscript.

     "Hey, what the . . !" This is fricken' weird. Stop writing." He shouted, yelling at the instrument in his right hand. An ordinary liquid gel pen he'd just bought from the Office Depot was writing on its own.

     His shock escalated. He threw the pen off into the corner of the den. He had an ominous inclination that made his skin crawl. He suspected it would jump out of its landing place from behind the couch.

     He had a sudden impulse. Furtively eyeing the couch, he decided to check what he'd already, or rather what the pen had written. He felt like he were being manipulated, "Possibly a transponder in the pen, subliminal programming."

     He leaned over the paper. The script was in cursive, unfamiliar writing. "Your eyes beguile my senses' arousal"

     That was it. He had violently resisted the pen's influence. The feeling had been magnetic, his hand steel - pen magnet. That was all he had allowed to be written. Intrigue prevailed.

     "Let's see what it writes now." 

     He walked to the couch, leaned over to look behind it. Nothing there. On his hands and knees, he spotted it, he reached, grasping it firmly. It felt hot, compelling a tighter grip.

     He walked to the dining room table, grabbing a piece of paper from his desk. He sat down gingerly, still a bit frightened and skeptical for the same outcome. He wondered if it were just imagination. "Here we go."

     He touched the pen's point on paper. He wrote: "My name is Josh Bur," a spark of electric pulse struck the tendons of his hand. Automated script transcribed itself:

"Your eyes beguile my senses' arousal, 

a moment's stroke of your firm hand upon my loins, 

beg my libido's spring from fountains deep within, 

my desire for you insatiable, my thighs unveiled, 

sequestered 'tween lines that lead to apex point,

fluid skin that covers my womanhood, pink filled capillaries, 

to me your own lips bring, encase my lovely petals' cusps, 

so near they, chaste guard the point, 

deep past my love's entrance gates, wet nectar filled, 

sweet flows its hormone scents, entice your tongue, the prize you've craved, . . . "

     He released his hold again and again. Each time the pen touched the page's surface, spurts of erotic prose proceeded. He lost caution to the wind, overwhelmed by sheer mental passion followed with a craving greed for endless words to come.

     He yielded to the pen. He sat transfixed to its sensuous writing motions. He felt as if his hand climaxed. The words were poetic ecstasy. What seemed an holographic form appeared. It was she. A voluptuous human creature. He fell into her nakedness. She carried him enraptured to a literary plane of existence. There he penned unending streams of romantic novels from which he sought no escape.

     Electric fairy lights danced on darkened streets while the world slept. I, in the meanwhile could not sleep, insomnia pulled at my heart and sleeve 'til i was compelled to rise an' take a peek.

     Yeah, I'll testify, there they were dancin', playin' in the streets. Laughing, toying, chasin' each other an' the lights they lit. Mostly greens, they looked like leprechauns, I imagined if I'd catch one, boy what a fit. Probably, in its squeaky little toy voice, would reprimand me good, but then gave me a great big bit of good.

     I gave in. Jumped through my window and caught one between my thumb and index finger. Being extra gentle, I asked it its name. It said. "Let me go, oh, crazy human man. You're not supposed to be here, be asleep like everybody else. How come you're awake? Let me go before I tell on you."

     "Who ya gonna tell, cute little one?"

     She squirmed and wriggled and shouted, "Lord, Lord of Light. Help me. Help me!"

     "Okay, okay, don't get crazy. I'm just curious. What's this all about?"

     "Well, while humans sleep, I will tell, 'though I may get into trouble, . . . we come out and dance and play and bring peace on the streets assigned to us by the Lord of Light. We sing and praise the Lord of Creation. This helps people sleep. It keeps some of them, the ones who you call haters, it keeps them from doing bad or worse things to other people."

     "Well then, go on, go sing. Go play, make music and dance."

     With that she sped away on wings like a Tinkerbell. She looked like a neon flash of light, leaving a fluorescent glowing trail in the night air. I wondered if other humans heard or saw them as I did. Maybe, I thought, their activity is at this moment inspiring dreams. "I wonder if it's true, keeping violence or bad deeds happening on this or any given night."

     Their music was melodious, rapturous and sweet. "Enough to qualm the nervousness or mean streak out of any human predator or stalker," I thought.

     There were thousands of them. The whole thing resembled a grand parade, like the Festival of Roses. Some were elegantly dressed. Some appeared to be officials in charge of the whole thing. There were children and families and groups that played special instruments like harps and electric organs in tune with kaleidoscopic lights.

     I don't remember falling asleep. But when I woke it was just another ordinary morning. I made myself breakfast and wondered about the whole affair. I didn't question whether it might of not happened. I resolved to have an open mind and welcomed the prospect of it happening again.

english green surrounds

the wall trims and things

replete with artifacts,

reflect the hues therein,

with paisley carpet decored floors,

in tandem work with gold trim

and oak beams of shiny black,

that hold the ceiling stout,

for which provide the walls,

for support of varied books,

of topics manifold

toffees and crumpets,

splendid array displayed,

of quaint and cozy nook,

from whence i saw him took,

an ivory pipe that nests,

sweet scented moist tobacco,

from an elegant walnut hook

together work to fill the air

with memories,

like dreams that merge

with bluish white smoke that drifts

and swirls and trail themselves,

lightly,

ever so slightly,

into the quiet air,

close to the skin of my pensive face,

into my nose and to my lungs,

fills my shallow breath,

replete with magic thoughts

he puffs slowly,

gently and deliberately,

his bushy sideburns and tussled grey hair,

loose and thick upon his head,

and well trimmed beard,

bestow an aura of dignified repose

i am mystified

ever transfixed and mesmerized,

i am here to rest and contemplate,

let this setting in this place,

my heart warmly,

of he,

my fellow man,

embrace

he reaches for his favorite tin

lined with paisley and contained within,

his favorite toffee, fresh and clean,

sustained by his frequent use,

for times like this,

to eat,

let slowly melt

within his mouth

and merge therein,

with his black leaf tea

he drinks and savors it with warm delight,

“ah yes, my dear chap,

would you like a nip and a sip?”

he reaches out for me to grasp,

a toffee bit from the well worn tin

and motions with his merry eyes,

for me to help myself,

to an empty porcelain cup,

by which to join in

with the drink,

by which to wash the crumpet down,

by which to merge the toffee melt,

into my dreamy state of mind