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"The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss" (the sixtieth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), August 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss By Susan Coppola coppolasusan@adelphia.net (Entry #1) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Can You Kazoo In Wallamazoo?
One a day in the village of Wallamazoo, A Triffle flew in and a Trunkalunk too. They were looking for trouble, I could tell right away When they took out kazoos and then started to play. I turned to them both sitting up in a tree And said "No kazoo playing, it just cannot be. Kazoos may be fine in your home in Katchoo, But they're strictly forbidden in Wallamazoo!" The Triffle was speechless, didn't know what to say But the Trunkalunk smiled, then continued to play. When he'd finished his song, he put down his kazoo. "What harm could this silly, fun humming thing do?" As I looked at his face and he started to smile I sat down and pondered and thought for a while And I couldn't remember and couldn't decide Why kazoos were a bad thing and I was surprised. So I turned to the Triffle and Trunkalunk too "We must see the mayor of Wallamazoo He is the person who makes all the rules And rules are important regarding kazoos So we walked through the village and into the square Where the people of Wallamazoo went to share Important events or news of the day And to find out why rules sometimes say what they say. The mayor was seated up high in his tower To show all the people his strength and his power. I called up to the Mayor and asked him to say Why kazoos are a bad thing and why we can't play With something so happy and simple and sweet And then the two visitors jumped to their feet. "Dear Mayor, Your Honor, if you'll lend an ear, Then some happy,sweet music you're going to hear." Well, the Triffle and Trunkalunk started to play And all Wallamazoo will remember the day, When their ruler and mayor looked on with a smile Tapped his foot, hummed along and just listened a while. Then he jumped from his tower and stood in the square And spoke to the people that were gathered there. "I was just a small boy when my father decreed That kazoos were just useless and served no good need. From that moment on, and you know this is true, There's been no kazoo playing in Wallamazoo. But now I am older and my father is gone And I'm sorry to say, but my father was wrong! So dear people, my friends here in Wallamazoo, Please go to your houses, take out your kazoos! Go seek out your neighbors and meet in the square And let sweet kazoo music sing in the air. I thank both the Triffle and Trunkalunk too, For showing us all the real joy of kazoos. More important than that though, I wanted to say That they taught me a valuable lesson today. That rules are a good thing to keep people safe And to stop folks from taking what they shouldn't take, But a rule that does nothing but only say NO! Well, that is a rule, friends, that simply must go. So I say to you all here in Wallamazoo And anyone else who is listening too, To think first and question so you won't be fooled Because rules without reasons are never good rules!" |
| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss By ellenkhatcher@adelphia.net (Entry #8) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| It was winter and darkness came
early. I picked up my key ring and marched laboriously up the steep staircase
to the attic. I inserted the key into the keyhole and turned. It had been years since I had allowed myself to enter this room, so I was surprised when the lock turned easily. I closed my eyes and braced myself for my first look inside. I pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. Boxes, labeled “Daddy’s things” and “Christmas decorations” and various other categories, were stacked in neat rows along the side of the room. To the left was an old library catalogue cabinet. You know the kind. Rows of little drawers full of index cards. I walked over and pulling open the first drawer, I had to chuckle. My husband had been the neat freak to beat them all. He had listed every box and its contents and cross-referenced them so if you wanted to find your old baby book, you would look under “books/baby/your name” and it would say box A11 or some such thing. God help anyone who didn’t put something back in the appropriate box. I dropped my arm to my side and turned to look at the far corner. It had been enclosed with those room dividers to keep the contents separate from the rest of storage. I knew what was behind the dividers, but still hesitated. My daughter, Kaitlyn, only six years old, had been killed in a boating accident. Her father had taken her out on the lake to fish. He had put a life jacket on her, but when he turned to get in his tackle bag, she reached over and pushed the throttle on the motor. The thrust catapulted her into the water and her jacket strap got caught in the blades, pulling her under. Her daddy shut off the motor and jumped in but couldn’t free her to get her head up. He climbed back into the boat to get his knife but it took so much time with the boat tipping and threatening to turn over, it was wasted effort. By the time he got back and cut her loose, she was gone. I demanded that all her things be removed to the attic. I couldn’t bear to look at them, so my husband constructed the mock bedroom in the corner. I didn’t think I could ever forgive my husband, but time trudges on and we eventually resumed our life together. We had a son, Waggoner, who had married and recently presented us with a granddaughter, named Caitlin, after the sister he never knew. I wanted desperately to treat this child the way a grandmother should and determined the only way to do it would be to face the demons of her namesake’s abandoned room. I pulled aside the divider and my knees turned to quivering noodles. I rushed to the bed to sit before I fell. The corner of the attic looked exactly as Kaitlyn’s room had looked when she died. Straight ahead was her toy box, beside her dollhouse. The dollhouse was fully decorated with play people peeking out the windows. I turned a little to my left and saw the bookcase. It was shaped like a house with each floor a different shelf, and each shelf on a different level, all jig jagged. No shelf went all the way across. Kaitlyn had loved her book case. I loved it, as well. I glanced at the various books and stopped short at the Dr. Seuss books. The hours I had spent reading those books to her. I kept looking for one in particular, but couldn’t find it. I started pulling the books out of the shelves in a haphazard fashion. Books lay everywhere in piles. I almost cried. I ran to the catalogue and looked for the title. It wasn’t there. Fury rose in my breast. Not only did he kill my baby, but he didn’t keep our favorite book. I lowered myself to the floor and sobbed. I had wanted to introduce my new grandchild to Dr. Seuss. “This what you’re looking for?” I whirled to look at my husband. He stood there with “the book” in his hand. Oh, The Places You’ll Go, by Dr. Seuss. “Why did you take it?” “Honey,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I was afraid it would make you cry.” “No, it gives me hope. He talks about all the roads we go down in life. Some good and some bad. The bad road was when Kaitlyn died. The good road is having Caitlin now. I want to share this book with her.” He handed me the book. “Let’s go down all the roads together—good or bad.” “That’s what I wish. Let’s be careful not to lose the works of Dr. Seuss.” He propped it up on the top shelf of the bookcase and together we cleaned up the scattered books. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #1 Second place: #8 Third place: #3 Fourth place: #7 Others receiving votes: #6, #11, #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Susan Coppola coppolasusan@adelphia.net |
#1 of 15 Winner |
| 487 | |
| Can You Kazoo In Wallamazoo? One a day in the village of Wallamazoo, A Triffle flew in and a Trunkalunk too. They were looking for trouble, I could tell right away When they took out kazoos and then started to play. I turned to them both sitting up in a tree And said "No kazoo playing, it just cannot be. Kazoos may be fine in your home in Katchoo, But they're strictly forbidden in Wallamazoo!" The Triffle was speechless, didn't know what to say But the Trunkalunk smiled, then continued to play. When he'd finished his song, he put down his kazoo. "What harm could this silly, fun humming thing do?" As I looked at his face and he started to smile I sat down and pondered and thought for a while And I couldn't remember and couldn't decide Why kazoos were a bad thing and I was surprised. So I turned to the Triffle and Trunkalunk too "We must see the mayor of Wallamazoo He is the person who makes all the rules And rules are important regarding kazoos So we walked through the village and into the square Where the people of Wallamazoo went to share Important events or news of the day And to find out why rules sometimes say what they say. The mayor was seated up high in his tower To show all the people his strength and his power. I called up to the Mayor and asked him to say Why kazoos are a bad thing and why we can't play With something so happy and simple and sweet And then the two visitors jumped to their feet. "Dear Mayor, Your Honor, if you'll lend an ear, Then some happy,sweet music you're going to hear." Well, the Triffle and Trunkalunk started to play And all Wallamazoo will remember the day, When their ruler and mayor looked on with a smile Tapped his foot, hummed along and just listened a while. Then he jumped from his tower and stood in the square And spoke to the people that were gathered there. "I was just a small boy when my father decreed That kazoos were just useless and served no good need. From that moment on, and you know this is true, There's been no kazoo playing in Wallamazoo. But now I am older and my father is gone And I'm sorry to say, but my father was wrong! So dear people, my friends here in Wallamazoo, Please go to your houses, take out your kazoos! Go seek out your neighbors and meet in the square And let sweet kazoo music sing in the air. I thank both the Triffle and Trunkalunk too, For showing us all the real joy of kazoos. More important than that though, I wanted to say That they taught me a valuable lesson today. That rules are a good thing to keep people safe And to stop folks from taking what they shouldn't take, But a rule that does nothing but only say NO! Well, that is a rule, friends, that simply must go. So I say to you all here in Wallamazoo And anyone else who is listening too, To think first and question so you won't be fooled Because rules without reasons are never good rules!" |
|
| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Penny Benjamin penny94@telusplanet.net |
#2 of 15 |
| 1077 | |
| A Kids Life It's supposed to be important, to ensure you grow up right. Who are they kidding? They just want to relax at night. I have to get up everyday, yet this is not enough!!! I just think that getting dressed makes life really rough!!! And what's with all this bathing -- making me comb my hair! Do they think that my friends-- would really even care?? Now on top of everything-- they give me chores to do!!! I know I don't like it, and so I'm pretty blue. But when I try to protest, they won't listen to what I say. They usually only answer back-- You will understand one day. Halloween Havoc I walked all over town tonight, knocked on people’s doors. Listening to all the scary sounds... (A lot like daddy's snores). Even though it scared me, the sights and sounds that night, they all gave me candy-- so I guess that was all right. Strange things were out everywhere, the weirdest I've ever seen... You see -- this here night -- tonight, was my first Halloween. I brought home all the candy, chocolates, suckers, gum... I know I couldn't eat them, until Dad had tested some. I began to worry; I thought he'd never stop! Every time he opened his mouth, another candy went - plop! Daddy please may I have some, aren't those candies mine? Please stop eating all of them or I will send you out next time!!! Little Mysteries Do you know where my clothes are? They seem to disappear. Where it is they go, really isn't clear... I am told that they must be-- where I left them last, but how can I remember, that far in the past. They say the washer eats the socks, the dryer shrinks the pants, then couldn't it be possible, my clothes where ate by ants? I've looked all over for them, if only in my head. How was I to know, I kicked them under my bed. Trouble I tend to get into mischief. Trouble is my name. At least that’s what they call me ‘cause I’m ALWAYS to blame. It wasn’t me who drew the ships upon the wall; the mark up there is way too high for I am not that tall. It wasn’t me who thought to scale the garden wall, for I would never have the strength to make the hedges fall. It wasn’t me, who set all the rabbits free, Why on earth don’t they ever believe me? It might just be the twinkle in my eyes; it is not that I meant to tell any lies, the stories they just come completely out of surprise. My mom she is a smart one yes and my father too. For they know down deep inside all the things I do and though they do not mention it at the time, I see a look upon their face that seems to say “in time”. Little Leprechaun Lucky little leprechaun with your pot of gold, Constantly hiding it, at the end of each rainbow. What tricks will you play when someone catches you? Will you let them make a wish? Will their dreams come true? Or will you slip away hiding on the ground Blending into everything so you can be found? My Protector His is my protector; he cares for me a lot. He readily takes the blame, whenever we get caught. We fight almost every day, Still I know he loves me in each and every way. Although at time it may seem we do not like each other I will always love and protect my one and only brother. Life’s Little Highway Along life’s little highway, most will stumble and fall. This is to be expected, from someone young and small. If we didn’t make mistakes, we’d have no way to learn. Knowing the right choice, when life’s road takes a turn. Life is full of decisions, Some right, some wrong. For you to figure it out will take very long. Even as parents we have so much to learn, We do our best, hope and pray you will never yearn. Still do not fear to make mistakes for this is how we learn And with each of these mistakes we get better at life’s turns. My Little Angel Behold my little angel---- You often fall from grace. But who could be angry, When they see your precious face. Your smile lights the hearts, of everyone around. And our hearts fill with sorrow, When your dreams crash to the ground. We always see your joy, but forever feel you pain, For in you is a part of us, which no longer does remain. Oh how I miss those, youthful times, When I made those same mistakes. I only wish I could protect you from all those awful aches. Although I do realize you must try things on your own, I want you to remember you’ll never be alone. Little One You are growing fast so strong and tall. Sometimes it saddens me you are no longer small. You don’t seem to need me anymore, You don’t depend on me like you did before. You don’t understand what it means to me, To be the answer to all your hopes and dreams. I look at you and I see me and how it used to be. I want to make it better for you, To make all your dreams come true. I love you with all me heart, No matter what happens we’ll never be apart. Growing up When you were a baby, I measured you every day. Just to see how much you grew in each and every way. Then as you got older, the measuring still went on, Testing your memory in forms of words and songs. When you were bigger, and you started your first day of school, I remember taking you there, Trying to act so cool. Inside I was shaking, feeling all the pressure, For this was the first time I wouldn’t be able to measure. Your teachers now have that job, And as long as you try your best, Hard work and perseverance, Will measure you above the rest. My First Christmas I have to wear all this stuff; Coat, mittens, hat and muff. It sure is cold out, white stuff falling down. Every time I go outside my head makes a scrunching sound. I remember being told not to bring things in Little things like sticks, rocks and sand from the outside bin. If little things are bad, then one thing bothers me. Why did mom and day just bring in that big tree? I stood there watching for mom to trim the tree but she didn’t use the scissors she used to last trim me. They started with lights from bottom to the top, I didn’t want to take a chance, so I backed up a notch. Music and laughter filled the air, Talk of a man with snow-white hair. The house was full of people, Hugging, kissing, pinching my cheeks. Why was this man going to have to sneak? Then someone said he’d leave toys lying all around, Well no wonder he was sneaking for that was something my mom never would allow. I had never done it; it was a thing of fear. But as near as I could figure this Santa does it every year! |
|
| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Bharat Shekhar bharatssin@yahoo.co.uk |
#3 of 15 |
| 2199 | |
| Short stubby trees burned leafless and turned lifeless. Boulders baked. Water holes dried up and died. Beasts upon hungry beasts roamed the Serengeti … It was summer time, time for the herd to move again. In the evening before the great migration, the elders were busy and wildebeest youngsters were playing ‘croc-catch’. It was a type of hopscotch where the youngsters jumped from square to square. The rules were simple. The youngsters avoided the squares that contained the crocs or they got out. Now it was Kimuni’s turn to jump. She shuffled and shifted. She twitched and shook. She shifted and twitched. She shuffled and shook. Shuffled, twitched, shifted, shook. Then she closed her eyes and leapt… straight onto a croc square. Instead of her usual laugh and run for another try, Kimuni just sat on her haunches and howled. “Very shaky,” thought Yimuni her mother, “and no wonder. This is the poor girl’s first crossing.” Night time brought the wildebeest ever closer to the horrible journey that must be made. Kimuni jumped and shifted so much that she got the hiccups. To take her mind off the crossing, Yimuni told her all the stories that she knew, all the stories she had heard, all the stories she had made up. There were tales about the earth, about the stars, about the butterflies. There were tales about leaping lions, chasing cheetahs, galloping giraffes…. At last, Kimuni dozed off and Yimuni also lay down. As they slept and snored, Yimuni dreamt that the night crept; crept slowly away like a thief, taking with it the rest of their wildebeest herd. II The sun filled the sky with a rich orange-red. It yawned and stretched to heat the earth. Sweat dripped. Yimuni woke. Bright light baked bare rocks. There was no sign of life. Just Skyvenger the slimy vulture sitting on a branch, looking at them hungrily. Seeing Yimuni stir, Skyvenger cackled. “No need to wake up my pretty. Why don’t you lie down and die so I can eat you? Why don’t you lie down and die as there is no food here? You will starve anyhow. Your herd left hours ago. It must have already crossed THE riv-ver. Oh! You will never be able to cross THE riv-ver alone with all those horrible CROC-O- DIE-LES. The hulking brutes, those rotters, they lie lurking in those waters- with bumpy hides that walk with crunchy teeth of rock with greedy eyes that burn they make my stomach churn.” Yimuni picked up a stone with her tail, swung it and made a threatening gesture. Skyvenger just shifted to another branch and kept croaking. “Scrunch, munch, oh for a dead -delicious wildebeest lunch… ouch!” Skyvenger said and flew away as Yimuni threw the stone at him. Yimuni thought this year that she and Kimuni must cross the river alone as the rest of the herd had already left. Poor Kimuni must make her first crossing all alone! No. Not alone. She has her mother Yimuni who would never let any harm come to her. Yimuni awoke Kimuni and the two of them trudged across sand and rocks, desert and hill, till at last they reached the river. Rippling water: Lapping green, flowing clean, Soothing cool, flowing pool. Kimuni child saw only the invitation of the water. She did not remember Yimuni’s warnings about the dangers that lurked underneath. She ran, stumbled, and then stumbled and ran on the crumbling bank, stumbling for the water. Just in time, Yimuni held her tail and pulled her back. Click! Crocodile jaws shut again. Slash! Crocodile teeth sliced in the air. Rumble! Crocodile stomachs grumbled. There was no way to enter the water without getting caught, without getting ripped, without getting chewed. “Mother Gnu, what should we do?” “Daughter, I do not know what to do” said Yimuni. “But we should move further down the river bank. Maybe there we will find a place to cross where there are no CROC-O-DIE-LES.” So they walked by the side of the river till they came to where the banks were the steepest and the water was the deepest. Suddenly, a creature with black and white zigzag stripes pranced out in front of them. “Neigh! Have you also lost your way?” Said their old friend Zuber the Zebra. “I got separated from the rest of my herd. They have crossed the river without me, it seems. But look what I have found while I was searching for them.” He pointed to a contraption shaped like a curled up crocodile. The mouth of this reptile thingamajig was wide open and the tail was rounded to look like a human ear. “Hey Kimuni, you go to school. Why don’t you read what is written?” Beneath the instrument there was a sign that Kimuni read aloud: ‘Distance Talk-Talker. Don’t Wait! Croc-an’ -dial for a ride to the other side of the river.’ As soon as Yimuni picked up the contraption, there rose from the water the biggestest, cruellest looking croc that anyone had ever seen. His eyes were cruel. His eyes were greedy. His eyes were burning. He had a hide as thick as two- no three thick trees that walk, and his teeth were longer than the longest thorns of rock. But here was something strange! From his throat came a trilling, a tweeting, a twittering, a cooing that sounded like cozy birds calling. From his throat came a silky voice that tasted of honey poured over the tastiest Serengeti grass. It said: “Leave your fears behind. Let your worries float away in the river. I am here to take you to the other side. Do not be frightened by my size, or my looks, or my eyes, or my teeth. For, I am harmless. I am a plant eater, a vegitabile. My name is Ali Grater and I live only to help. So jump on my back and awaaay we will go. When you return from the other side, just get me some juicy grass. That is all I ask.” Tinkling, soothing sound filled their ears. The voice spun a web. The words laid a spell. “I think that croc is cooking up crooked lies!” said Zuber, who was still distrustful. “Look at his eyes. They are popping with greed.” But Yimuni and Kimuni wold have nothing of it. “Popping with greed? Poppycock! They are just bulging with kindness.” Zuber tried again. “Look at his teeth. They are so hard, so sharp, so big, so pointed.” Kimuni said, “Hard and sharp? Big and Pointed? Rubbish. They are just sweet and fresh like peppermint. They are just soft and rubbery. Come. Let us not waste any more time.” Zuber gave up. They jumped one by one on the back of the croc – Jump, Jump, Jump. Kimuni the youngest, jumped first- jump. What could Yimuni the mother do but follow? Jump, jump. Zuber, who was careful, who knew something of false words, went last, but alas, at last, he too jumped- jump, jump, jump. “It is very hard here,” said Kimuni with a wriggle. “It is hard, more for you to enjoy the soft grass on the other side,” replied the crocodile as he started swimming. “It is very bumpy here,” said Yimuni with a wriggle, wriggle. “Oh, it is bumpy more for you to enjoy the smooth ground on the other side.” By this time Ali Grater has gone far from the shore. “It is very slippery here,” said Zuber as he clutched the crocodile’s tail with a wriggle, wriggle, wriggle. “Oh, it is so slippery that I can slide you off my back and EAT you.” They were now in the middle of the river. The croc finally showed his true colours. He gave such a mighty wriggle that Kimuni and Yimuni and Zuber almost fell into the river. His voice no longer sounded sunny. His voice no longer sounded sweet. Now, it had the hard sound of hitting stones. Now, it had the cold sound of chilling chills. It had the cruel sound of many deaths. “A crocodile eating grass! Fiddledrums and Fiddlesticks. Have you heard of anything more stupid? Have you heard of anything more ridiculous? My name is Ali Grater. That is because I grate and eat my meat. I will take you to the deep. In the deep, I will drown you. In the deep, I will tear you, and taste you, and chew you and eat you. Zebra and Wildebeest, Wildebeest and Zebra are my favourite foods.” Oh no! To have been taken in by the crooked oily lies of the crocodile. How foolish they had been. Yimuni could not let her daughter Kimuni die a CROCO-DIELY death. She found her voice and sang: “Mr. Crocodile, Before you decide to take us under, wait a minute, pause and wonder. Why do we wander without our herd? Why did they leave us without a word? After all, whatever be the weather, don’t all the gnu stick together?” Just what the crooked crocodile, Ali Grater, had been wondering! So he growled, “Tell me quickly you miserable beast. Why are you without the rest of your kind? Tell me, before I sink my teeth in your behind.” Yimuni turned towards Kimuni and Zuber and winked to show them that she was telling a lie- to fool the croc and save their stock. Then she blurted: “Mr. Crocodile, Ali Grater sir. It is like this. I am tailor to his highness, the mighty Mitty lion. He is getting old. He is so old that even the heat of summer makes him cold. To keep warm, he wants an overcoat of…of young, tender wildebeest fur. I am the royal tailor and I must do as he bids.” “Lions and tailors and coats! Harrumph! Are you trying to tell me a bedtime story? Are you trying to sing me a lullaby? Finish. Make it fast. I want to eat.” Eagerly, the Grater feet tapped. Furiously, the Grater teeth snapped. “Wait sir. Hear me out…With every year, the mighty Mitty mane is balding more and more. With age it is getting patchier and patchier. To hide the patches, he wants me to make him a striped top hat of zebra skin. I am the royal tailor and I must do as he bids. S…so I am taking these two miserable creatures t..t..to be skinned, so that his highness, the mighty Mitty, may have his overcoat and his top hat. But sir if you think otherwise,” Yimuni left her thoughts there, half finished. “OTHERWISE? WHAT OTHERWISE? ” By now Grater’s teeth were grating real hard. His eyes were popping with red veins. Yimuni quickly said,“ Then I cannot stop you. A lion, or anybody else for that matter, can never stop you if you want the coat and the hat for yourself…….” “Ah! Are you trying to fool me?” Suddenly the crocodile sounded not so sure, not so stern, and not so definite. You are not trying to flatter me are you?” Ali Grater’s voice was now crackling like a cloud filled with lightning, trembling with excitement. “You really think so? You really think I can have the coat and hat for myself?” “Of course sir. I tell you this because you are mighty; mightier than the mighty; even mightier than the Mitty. I tell you this because you are wise; wiser than the wise; even wiser than the Witty. I tell you this because you are great; greater than the great. You are Ali the Greater, Sir. If you wish, you can have the hat, the fur coat and anything else for that matter.” Till now, Ali Grater had no other craving except to taste some wildebeest and zebra meat. But upon hearing Yimuni’s words, he started thinking: What if there was a nice coat for his fat, stuffed, croc body? What if there was a smart hat for his thick, crooked croc head? What if he took what Mitty the lion wanted? WOULDN’T THAT BE GREAT? So in a grating voice, the Grater grunted, “A lion with a top hat and an overcoat? Bah! Fiddlesticks. Have you heard of anything more ridiculous? Now, on a crocodile like me, an overcoat and a top hat would look reaaaal neat. On a crocodile like me, they would look reaaaal good. Reaaaal smart. I’ll be the hit of croc city. So just forget that foolish lion Mitty. Skin these beasts. Make me a coat and hat. Then what is left of these miserable fools, I will gibble-gobble. This way, I get to wear my cake and eat it too. HA! HA! HA! HA! ” Ali Grater laughed so hard and shook so much that Yimuni feared he would drop them right in the middle of the river to drown. “Mr. Crocodile sir, please stop. You must take us to dry ground where I can measure you. Then we must err… skin these miserable creatures so that I can make you your hat and coat.” Like an arrow that has a fire on its tail, Ali Grater shot to the bank of the river. There, he lay across their path with his fangs bared. “Miserable creatures, do not try and run from me. Miserable creatures, do not try and hide from me. If you do, I will snap you in half. I will cut you into quarters and grate you into mincemeat with my teeth. Now, gnu lady, wildebeest woman, go ahead, measure me, make my day.” Yimuni took her trembling tail as if it were a tailor’s measuring tape and carefully moved it around the crocodile’s broad back. “One and a half le.. lengths,” she stutterd. “Now Mr. Ali Grater sir, you must turn on your back and let me measure the inside of your highness’s hide.” The eager crocodile moved. His creaking and grumbling bulk tilted… tilt, tiiilt. And as he began to turn, HE CRASHED! There he was, on his back, like a felled tree. How helpless he looked, like a newborn human raising its arms for milk. How soft was his belly, like egg yolk covered by a thin membrane. At this moment, his highness, the Grater, looked just like a cockroach that was flipped on its back. How easy it would be to slash it and slash it with their sharp hoofs…. But would that not make them like the crocodile? Would that not make them worse than the crocodile? He after all was only going to eat them because he was hungry. Well, greedy and hungry. Could they just kill the crocodile? No! She had a better idea. “RUN”, screamed Yimuni. “We are in luck. This croc is stuck on his back. So run. Run for your life.” III Like any other day, the river ran that day. And Yimuni and Kimuni and Zuber ran. They ran toward the inviting grass. They ran toward their waiting herds. They RAN. |
|
| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Colin Campbell chevalier_campbell@yahoo.co.uk |
#4 of 15 |
| 320 | |
| 'Cheeky bastard,' Jo said quietly and unexpectedly.
'What?' 'No not you, this.' 'What?' The two of them had been marking student work in a diligent silence broken now and again to complain that teaching might be OK if only it were not for the marking. She said it again, 'Cheeky bastard, I didn't ask for too much. Write a poem, just one poem, in a recognized form and in the style of one of the great names of English literature not normally associated with that particular form.' 'So what did you get back?' 'Mostly worthy if boring stuff, but there's always one cheeky bastard.' 'So what have you got?' 'Pantoum.' 'Pantoum's OK if not the easiest of forms. You've got to give each line twice. I just tell them to remember it's like deja vu all over again.' 'So see if you can tell which great name of English Lit. might have written this.' Jo passed it over to a grinning Ann who chose to read it out loud. Today I saw a butterfly. It fluttered in the sky. I still don't know why. It really caught my eye. It fluttered in the sky. I watched that little guy. It really caught my eye. I watched it flutter by. I watched that little guy. I still don't know why. I watched it flutter by. Today I saw a butterfly. 'Well,' continued Ann who was by now unashamedly giggling like a schoolgirl. ‘The rhyme is quite sweet, if somewhat unusual in a pantoum. So let's spot the style. No it's not Shakespeare or Hemingway or even Mark Twain, unless of course it's a very early Mark Twain, perhaps age eight or thereabouts.' 'I've got it,' said Jo taking the poem back and flourishing her red pen. 'Come on, let me see what you've written,' Ann took it back and again read aloud, 'Congratulations, you have discovered The Lost Work of Dr Seuss.' As they went back to marking their students' work, they agreed that the world is a far better place for having a cheeky bastard in it. |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss lee10@host365.com |
#5 of 15 |
| 464 | |
| When a bureau collapsed due to woodworm, the owner was startled to see, sheets of paper protrude from the backboard. He slowly, with care, worked them free, To discover an unpublished story by Doc. Seuss, his ‘Grandfather Ted’; a tale he had never known existed. The words of a man ten years dead. “Spending so long with my writing, there’s no other life I know. I’ve thought like a child but now I need a challenge, and so much as I dearly love children, sometimes one has to break loose. This is my tale for adults. Make what you will of it....Seuss.” RAGE ON THE ROAD I wandered through the blackest night, distressed, distraught and angry; my car embedded in a tree; my head throbbing and bloody. I wiped the gore from out my eyes and tramped the tarmac highway. I swore revenge on maniacs; fools like them should have to pay. The woods were dark, the road was long. I vowed I’d catch up with them. I’d know their car if I saw it. They’d soon regret their mayhem. I’d make them pay; too right they’d pay for forcing me from the road; especially the one who jeered, spat and punched the air and crowed, “Sucker, move over! Move over!. Shift that old bucket of bolts!” Then they drove off through darkest night leaving echoes of insults and pain to keep me company. My head began to clear and shock quickly turned to hate-filled thoughts, “And I’ll teach them not to mock!” Charged by adrenalin I ran, my feet on blacktop pounding. Far up ahead I saw bright lights and heard loud music sounding. Outside the pool of light I stopped to plan a course of action. I saw their silver, dented car; their weapon of destruction. I’d found the place where they’d holed up. The roadside bar was rowdy; the car park full of battered trucks; the place was cheap and sleazy. I stood in shadows, black it was; and payback time was due. I knew I’d found the culprit when a drunken thug appeared, on cue, peering from the window laughing. and waving high a bottle. He joked, perhaps, of what he’d done; epitome of evil. I pondered hard, I pondered long. His throat I’d like to throttle or maybe slash his tyres…No! Revenge should be more subtle! I thought of petrol, thought of fire. He and his friends should suffer. I justified my actions by working out a metaphor; a way to clean, a way to cleanse, to purge the world of evils. A petrol bomb would do the trick and rid us of these devils. I found some petrol in a can, the fumes were over-powering. I pushed some rags into the spout and pictured fire, flowering. My lighter held, my hand outstretched, the bomb prepared to flare. But something whispered, stayed my hand, “Just remember who you are!” Suddenly I woke from nightmares, safe inside my own bedroom; trembling at my subconscious which, would send others to their tomb. The night was dark. The night was long. I looked into my psyche, and knew I’d lost my innocence through a dream of anarchy.” “And so my stories for children are done because there’s a darkness tainting the hand I used to put pen to paper; finishing my time of writing.” Seuss |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Rachel Green leatherdykeuk@gmail.com |
#6 of 15 |
| 615 | |
| There’s a swamp and a cesspit in my father’s
yard You can see if you look for it’s not very hard Be careful of spiders and woodlice that lie On the edge of the swamp you can see when you spy. Be careful of mushrooms: that poisonous breed That flourish in sewers where people have weed Be careful of tigers; I once saw a cougar If you get too close you might even see Booger. “What’s Booger?” you ask and you are indeed right For I never could tell what he was in the light. In the dark he glowed green with a terrible stench An American twang with a smatter of French. I met him one Tuesday when I was a lad On my way home with my satchel and pad. I stopped at the swamp to find me a tree To draw out a picture for homework, you see. I’d sat on the bank with my pencil and pad And sketched up a tree that was droopy and sad When out of the edge of my eye with a start I just saw a glimpse of a creature; a part. “Oi, you,” he said with a hiss and a spit “You should be at home and this isn’t it. “Now leave me alone and in peace with my swamp “Or you’ll see my teeth when I bite and I chomp.” “Why are you here in my father’s backyard?” I said, most put out by this rude green blackguard. “Be off with you, quick, else I’ll call out my mom “She’ll send you back to wherever you’re from.” “Your mom isn’t here,” he replied, “you young pup. “So run away quick else I’ll gobble you up. Quick as a fix, with a good turn of speed He’d stolen my pencil, and started to feed. “You rotter,” I shouted. “You give it back,” “Not at all,” he replied. “It’s my little snack.” I showed him a pen and said “Have this, it’s new!” He gave me the finger and said “Same to you!” And he clapped As he snapped My poor pencil in two Picked up the pieces And threw them in poo. “Go get it yourself,” he said with a smirk “You’ll need it if you want to do your homework.” He waggled his fingers and splayed out his toes And a slimy green pussball came out of his nose. He tossed it from hand to his foot to his tail Leaving them slimy like sludge from a snail. Then to my horror he threw it at me It splattered on shirt, on my hands and my knew. “You rotter!” I shouted. “You absolute swine! “I’ll rip off your ears and then sew to your spine!” Head to toe covered in green slimy stuff I grumbled and moaned because I’d had enough. I got out my hanky to clean off the mess Took off my shirt and began to undress When all of a sudden he gave such a shout I thought that there must be policemen about. “Put it away,” he exclaimed with a sob, “I’ve got some insurance to pay for the job. “Just tell me the cost and I give it you back “Don’t put me inside of that white cotton sack!” “What this?” asked myself with the hanky held high. “I use it if I’ve something stuck in my eye, “For cleaning off goo it’s surprisingly good “Give it a try. I insist that you should.” He let out a cry and a sort of a sad wail And gave a brief wag of his puppy-dog tail “You wouldn’t use that,” he said with a plea “I won’t taunt you again or throw slime of green pea.” “Go away now,” he said, “I must dash.” With a whiz and a bang he was gone in a flash. I folded my hanky and put it away And gathered my clothes and went home for the day. The moral, if you can be bothered to ask, Is carry a hanky along with your flask. What happened to Booger? Nobody knows! You’ll probably find him hid under your nose. |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Sal Amico M. Buttaci sambpoet@yahoo.com |
#7 of 15 |
| 1980 | |
| General Madison Monroe pounded his gloved fist on the
desk. “Some mistakes in history you just can’t fix,” he said.
“Nothing short of time travel could do the trick. Time travel? For
crissakes, we can’t even do space travel! It’s 2124 and we
haven’t managed to get past lunar rocks and Martian sand! So this book
here means something, hear? We’ll call it the first worth excavating.
Maybe we’ll find more.” It was true. Rumor had it that about two hundred years before, Old America had actually transported men in space vehicles that landed them on the moon. For reasons known only to the general and a handful of others who had contraband encyclopedic chips soldered into their brains, these old-time space travelers failed in whatever they were hoping to find up there. Madison Monroe’s military cabinet nodded their heads, somewhat intimidated by the man who had only months before, with a small band of loyal militiamen, wrested control of the United States of America from the mealy-mouthed Democrats, Republicans, Republicrats, and New Immigrants, all of whom had mismanaged a nation for nearly two centuries. A true patriot, the self-proclaimed general put his love of country before all else, including tact and tolerance. And he loved to read. His ancestor Paul Monroe had been executed back in the dark Days of Terrorism because someone in his law firm had falsely accused him of complicity in the bombing of the liberty lady statue up there in one of the northern harbors. What we know of that account--of any historical account, for that matter--we learned from the general who had learned it from his father who had learned it from his--well, you get the drift. The luxury of being privy to the best-kept scientific secret--the encyclopedic chip--rested with a very few and they guarded it well, handing it down like a family fortune from one generation’s last born to the next. The rest of the world--all of it!--had undergone the evil scientists’ chic surgical procedure that supposedly would add decades to their lives, but instead erased their knowledge of all things historical. The good scientist son of Paul Monroe, one of the team members somewhere in the Utah lab that invented the EN-Chip, was the first to undergo chip imbedding. And he, as well as the others, kept it to themselves and then only to their last-born son or daughter. In the totalitarian state into which America had evolved, it made sense. Up until the general’s coup, John Wayne Hernandez had already served seven presidential terms and was greedily reaching for his eighth with no indication of tiring. Back in 2041, the White House had moved from the District of Columbia to Phoenix, Arizona. There, the hot sun continued to fry the heads of the heads of state, to the point where power had completely corrupted them. General Madison Monroe blamed the American people. After all, he told us, no less than four Bushes had served as Presidents, and everyone of them thanked their voting majority with a brand-new war. First it was against the desert terrorists, then against the combined Forces of Asexuals and Gays, in what Jeb Bush’s administration referred to as the F.A.G. War. Then came the first woman President, Consuela Bush Wicker, who convinced Congress “What this country needs is another war,“ and shortly after, Old America underwent The Second Civil War. This time, instead of North against South, it was the Old Immigrant Class against the new one. If your folks immigrated to these shores before 1950, you were the Old; 1950 and later, you were the New. In the end, the over-populous New Immigrant Class won and the first thing they did was tear down the Mex-Tex Wall and authorize the burning of all books written and/or published before the Treaty of Phoenix, which ended their war. They had burned all the books; In a final crazed presidential action, Hernandez ordered the libraries, private collectors, schools--anyone who had a book!--to surrender all writings to local council hall yards where bonfires lit up America for a long sad season. He was only months ago assassinated by an irate librarian who had once written for the Phoenix Times. It was the perfect time for a revolution and the general made certain there was one. The Army, the Navy, the Air Force, the Marines--most of the nation’s armed forces were stationed in countries all over the world. Few were safeguarding their own country. With the rest of his rebel soldiers, the general laid siege to the White House, disbanded Congress that by now was occupied with yes-men and yes-women, many who could hardly speak English, and declared New America as the now-designated name of these United States. I joined the rebel militia a year before. It was the same old story. Join the military and see the world, or what was left of it. Colonel Bracken, a friend of my father’s, finagled me into the inner circle. I could keyboard well, write short, and keep my mouth shut. I was proud to serve the general. When it was all over and True Peace was won, Madison Monroe promised all of the citizens of New America the EN-chip so each of us would know where we’d come from, how we’d arrived at the mess we’d been in, and how to avoid ever again falling into the traps set by those politicians we trust will protect us and our freedoms. General Madison Monroe brushed away the dirt that caked the book in his two hands like a black crust of old bread. His lips trembled as he read the writing on the cover. “What does it say?” we all wanted to know. We who could not read; the general had the chip. He could read and understand anything. “What kind of a book is it?” one of the officers asked. The general lifted his graying head. It was obvious he’d been crying. With the back of a soiled hand, he scrubbed away the wetness. “Somebody hid it,” he whispered, not trusting himself to speak aloud. “What’s that, Sir?” asked the colonel. Then louder this time, but not absent of trembling, he repeated it. “Somebody hit it. This book. Down here in this basement. Buried it deep in the dirt and then poured in concrete thick enough to support a herd of dinosaurs.” “Dinosaurs?” somebody asked, but the general just smiled and opened the book. Squinting he read aloud, “If I Ran the Circus by Dr. Seuss.” “The Circus?” “Circus McGurkus,” said the general, then put a dark hand to his mouth and laughed into it. He flipped through the pages; it was if he were alone and none of us there, wondering about the book he was reading. The first book I’d ever seen. Any of us had ever seen. I couldn’t even imagine what a book looked like and here it was, in the hands of General Madison Monroe, who had found it, by accident, here in this basement where we had taken cover from an onslaught of artillery attacks by the small army of Old-America’s soldiers. We had survived and returned fire and conquered, but the basement of the old building lay in ruins. We had to dig from the fallen walls much of our supplies and three of our comrades who had died in the attack which had torn through the concrete basement floor, down to the dirt where the general found the book. It was a miraculous discovery. Madison Monroe raised his hand for silence. He read from the book: “’He will plunge with his hair still combed neat / Four thousand, six hundred / and ninety-two feet! / Then he’ll land in a fish bowl. / He’ll manage just fine. / Don’t ask how he’ll manage. / That’s his job. Not mine.’ We all listened intently, but we had as much of an idea about what the general was reading as we had about anything at all learned from books. This was our first encounter with the world of books that had been destroyed by fire so many years before all of us were born. Now here was the general sitting at the table, calm as we’d ever seen him before, without a care, totally focused on whatever he was seeing in that book about circuses. He was our commanding officer, so we kept the silence and waited. “Here is the Juggling Jot,“ said the general. “He juggled twenty-two question marks. And here’s the Harp-Twanging Snarp.“ I asked Colonel Bracken, “What’s a snarp?” And the colonel shrugged his shoulders and ask no one in particular, “What’s a harp?” So it went until the general had read to us all sixty-odd pages. When he was done, he turned back to the beginning and read it again, this time completely to himself, as though he wanted to commit it to memory in the event that book, the only one in America perhaps that had escaped the literary holocaust of an old, sick regime, got lost or stolen. “Dr. Seuss,” he said now, his finger marking his place in the closed book. “This was the man who wrote the only book any of us has ever seen. Did he write more? I don’t know. The EN-Chip speaks of history, not Literature. But I’d like to believe the man was a genius who knew how to make people laugh and feel good about themselves. To feel safe, moving from word to word in the books he wrote. Was his first job to heal people? Did he write when he wasn’t saving people’s lives or was it the books he wrote that saved people?” The general for a long moment looked sad. The war had tired him; after all, he was our leader. He had tirelessly fought the good fight and we had won, but all of us there in that huge mess of a basement suspected the book had caused his sadness. Not the book exactly, but the fact it was the only book and how many times could he read it, over and over again, without feeling first sad and then angry and then-- “But wouldn’t it be grand if we could go back in time,” General Madison Monroe was saying, “back to the days before the Book Burners came to rule this land. We’d lynch the lot of them! We’d roll out those fire barrels and instead of the books they ordered tossed into them, we’d toss every last one of those bastards into the flames and laugh till our bellies hurt while they screamed their last words. All those printed words? You think if they could’ve screamed out, they wouldn’t have? All those books that gave knowledge and joy, that opened doors, that gave hope, that made us civilized?” What could we say? What was done was done. There was no machine that could make everything right again. It was up to us to make sure it never happened again. History would be written and saved and protected, and damnit! We New Americans would see to it no one will ever become that powerful again! “Listen to this again,” spoke the general. “There’s the Zoom-a-Zoop Troupe from West Upper Ben-Deezing. And there’s Mr. Sneelock who steals the show!” Outside it was quiet. Phoenix was a burned city. The White House I saw fall with my own eyes. The general had said, “Out of its ashes a New America will rise and fly again!” And we believe him. Madison Monroe finally stood from the table, tucked the Dr. Seuss book into his side khaki coat pocket, and announced he had work to do. When we knitted our brows at him, he smiled. “Get yourselves good strong shovels,” he ordered in his old gruff voice we’d come to know so well, “and lend me a hand here. If we found one Dr. Seuss, who’s to say that brave book-loving citizen didn’t bury some more down in this hellhole!” Dreaming of buried treasure, we followed him with our shovels into the dark basement. |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss ellenkhatcher@adelphia.net |
#8 of 15 Runner-up |
| 802 | |
| It was winter and darkness came early. I picked up my
key ring and marched laboriously up the steep staircase to the attic. I
inserted the key into the keyhole and turned. It had been years since I had allowed myself to enter this room, so I was surprised when the lock turned easily. I closed my eyes and braced myself for my first look inside. I pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. Boxes, labeled “Daddy’s things” and “Christmas decorations” and various other categories, were stacked in neat rows along the side of the room. To the left was an old library catalogue cabinet. You know the kind. Rows of little drawers full of index cards. I walked over and pulling open the first drawer, I had to chuckle. My husband had been the neat freak to beat them all. He had listed every box and its contents and cross-referenced them so if you wanted to find your old baby book, you would look under “books/baby/your name” and it would say box A11 or some such thing. God help anyone who didn’t put something back in the appropriate box. I dropped my arm to my side and turned to look at the far corner. It had been enclosed with those room dividers to keep the contents separate from the rest of storage. I knew what was behind the dividers, but still hesitated. My daughter, Kaitlyn, only six years old, had been killed in a boating accident. Her father had taken her out on the lake to fish. He had put a life jacket on her, but when he turned to get in his tackle bag, she reached over and pushed the throttle on the motor. The thrust catapulted her into the water and her jacket strap got caught in the blades, pulling her under. Her daddy shut off the motor and jumped in but couldn’t free her to get her head up. He climbed back into the boat to get his knife but it took so much time with the boat tipping and threatening to turn over, it was wasted effort. By the time he got back and cut her loose, she was gone. I demanded that all her things be removed to the attic. I couldn’t bear to look at them, so my husband constructed the mock bedroom in the corner. I didn’t think I could ever forgive my husband, but time trudges on and we eventually resumed our life together. We had a son, Waggoner, who had married and recently presented us with a granddaughter, named Caitlin, after the sister he never knew. I wanted desperately to treat this child the way a grandmother should and determined the only way to do it would be to face the demons of her namesake’s abandoned room. I pulled aside the divider and my knees turned to quivering noodles. I rushed to the bed to sit before I fell. The corner of the attic looked exactly as Kaitlyn’s room had looked when she died. Straight ahead was her toy box, beside her dollhouse. The dollhouse was fully decorated with play people peeking out the windows. I turned a little to my left and saw the bookcase. It was shaped like a house with each floor a different shelf, and each shelf on a different level, all jig jagged. No shelf went all the way across. Kaitlyn had loved her book case. I loved it, as well. I glanced at the various books and stopped short at the Dr. Seuss books. The hours I had spent reading those books to her. I kept looking for one in particular, but couldn’t find it. I started pulling the books out of the shelves in a haphazard fashion. Books lay everywhere in piles. I almost cried. I ran to the catalogue and looked for the title. It wasn’t there. Fury rose in my breast. Not only did he kill my baby, but he didn’t keep our favorite book. I lowered myself to the floor and sobbed. I had wanted to introduce my new grandchild to Dr. Seuss. “This what you’re looking for?” I whirled to look at my husband. He stood there with “the book” in his hand. Oh, The Places You’ll Go, by Dr. Seuss. “Why did you take it?” “Honey,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I was afraid it would make you cry.” “No, it gives me hope. He talks about all the roads we go down in life. Some good and some bad. The bad road was when Kaitlyn died. The good road is having Caitlin now. I want to share this book with her.” He handed me the book. “Let’s go down all the roads together—good or bad.” “That’s what I wish. Let’s be careful not to lose the works of Dr. Seuss.” He propped it up on the top shelf of the bookcase and together we cleaned up the scattered books. |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss AuthorPete peter@bcpl.net |
#9 of 15 |
| 224 | |
| I looked out the window and bombs I did see, they covered the sky, like a swarm of mad bees. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. They fell like rocks, bombarding the ground, shaking my house and the things all around. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. I hid in the closet; I covered one eye. I prayed for my life; I prayed not to die. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. Then all of sudden, a great noise I did hear, a flash of bright light accompanied my fear. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. The bomb sent me flying, I didn’t know where, I woke up in the distance, lying next to a chair. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. My arms and my legs, all bloodied and raw, my body in pieces, I couldn’t move, not at all. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. I lay there so peaceful, my heart nearing its end, “why me?” I asked meekly, as I passed over the bend. I did not like them, not at all; I wanted to run, I wanted to bawl. |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss roger@cowboylogic.net |
#10 of 15 |
| 293 | |
| Roger the Writer was dazed and confused. His books and writings were ample you see. Many and varied both finished and mused, Were read and debated and scoured with glee Shorts and novels and poems for sure, Were stacked in his closets, drawers on floor. Were rolled into bundles and packets secure. Stuffed into hard drives, databases and more. Pouring from his brain came oodles of words, Rocked to the socks with unusual schemes. Roger the Writer was an inch from absurd. His brain pan was dripping with literature dreams. "Why can't I publish?" came his mortified plea. Are my stories to deep, to shallow to weird? Are my periods placed where commas should be? Are my stories just boring or stuck in my beard? Do I write in bunches from eating green grapes Or perhaps I mumble. Can you do that in prose? Do I deliver in hops that leave readers agape. What is the reason or is this how it goes? Should I self publish and sell from my trunk? Should I sell out and accept 7 years at AP? Should I stamp my feet and be silly and drunk? Perhaps I could take a course for a fee. Maybe my own words could be the answer. I think that could at least help me rhyme. A writer like me could be a Wordancer. A career like mine could presplode just in time. Perhaps I have found the wordancer rule Just when you think undone has just come, Your career presplodes in a wonderful kajool. Your writing is read and Potter does cool. Maybe, just maybe my kajool spring has plinged. Could it be that the blossing of this wordancer beckons? I feel it now so my keyboard sings. My muse is aflife and my fingers are frugguns Thank you Ted, your inspiration is gold. This may be timing but my kajool is on fire I will be blossing now before I grow old. Anyone need a Wordancer for hire? |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss magazel@cox.net |
#11 of 15 |
| 54 | |
| In the news or on the air They could be just about everywhere On the ceiling On the floor Do I have to name any more? In plane Flying high Well be looking for it all of our lives Look around, put your eyes to use To find the missing works of Dr. Suess |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#12 of 15 |
| 134 | |
| My stories are silly and very clean But there's a few you've never seen Everyone has secret desires Harbors the need to light their fires A saw a girl, just what I needed She passed by and I was unheeded I soon caught up and made my plea She looked about as if to flee I explained my situation And got a look of trepidation But to my little house I walked her The pretty girl and kindly Doctor My lasses must be over eighteen Lest you're thinking something obscene Despite my impeccable sharp apparel I won't be confused with Lewis Carroll This will be oh so fun I tell her Then took her down into my cellar Stood her up against a board And tied her with a silken cord Came the time of anticipation Now the final humiliation You may think it's cruel that I am As I made her recite "Green Eggs And Ham" |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#13 of 15 |
| 110 | |
| TOP YOUR POP Gulf War? Once more! Succeed where daddy failed before! Towers fall? Changes all! Retribution- heed the call! Terrorist? Make a list! Axis of Evil must exist! Attack? Iraq! We just have to fudge the facts! No reason? That's treason! When the Patriot Act's in season! Invade? Pursuade! By the U.N. not delayed! W.M.D.'s? Patience, please! We haven't checked behind the trees! 'Mission' done? Not this one! That banner was just put up for fun! Saddam found? In the ground! Take that mad dog to the 'pound'! Prison abuse? No excuse! A few bad eggs are on the loose! Bagdad fell? That went well! Since then things have gone to hell! What's the score? Civil War! An easy ending's not in store! Stay the course? Of course- of course! For democracy and an oil source! War without end? You got it, friend! Until the next time you get fooled again! |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Effervescentlady@aol.com |
#14 of 15 |
| 1905 | |
| Marcie sat back in her chair and stared at the blank
screen of her computer in disgust. “Aaarrrrgh, I could just scream! What
kind of a writing prompt is that! ‘The Lost Work of Dr. Seuss,’ I can
barely remember the titles of his books, much less what they are about.”
Throwing her glasses down on the table and running her fingers through her long
brown hair, Marcie laughed as she realized that she was talking aloud.
“This thing is driving me crazy. Now I am talking to myself. Blank, blank,
blank, that is all my mind is seeing. I can’t think of a thing to
write.” “My daddy used to say that talking to yourself was okay, it was when you answered that you were crazy,” a deep masculine voice said. “Damn it, John, you startled me. I thought you were taking a nap,” Marcie said as she turned to the doorway expecting to see her husband standing there. He did that sometimes. He thought it was funny to sneak up on her, as she was engrossed in her writing, and goose her or startle her in some way. He liked to see her jump. John wasn’t standing in the doorway. In fact, Marcie could hear him snoring in the other room. I must be hearing things, she thought as she turned back to the computer. I think I will play a game for a while and try again later, she thought as she started to close down the word processor program and search for an online game to play. “What in the hell do you think you are doing? Get off your lazy ass and write,” said the same masculine voice from before. Marcie jumped from her chair and ran to the other room to catch John in the act. She just knew he was playing a joke on her. She found him stretched out on the couch, snoring loudly. “Okay John, it isn’t funny. Quit pretending to be asleep,” she said as she nudged her husband. “What,” he said as he turned on his side and started to go back to sleep. Marcie punched him in the shoulder and said, “quit pretending to be asleep.” “Pretending? I was asleep. What in the hell are you babbling about? I was having a wonderful dream before you woke me up,” mumbled John. “You didn’t stand on the other side of the door and tell me to get off my ass and write a minute ago,” asked Marcie? “Not guilty,” replied John as he shut his eyes and went back to snoring. “John,” Marcie nudged her husband again. “John, if it wasn’t you, then who was it? “How in the hell should I know,” John replied. “I was sleeping.” “Well, get up and help me check the house. Someone told me to get off my ass and start writing. If it wasn’t you, then someone is in the house.” Marcie said. “It’s just your imagination, Marcie. Why would someone break into the house just to tell you to start writing? That’s silly! Now let me get back to sleep,” replied John. Marcie knew that John was right. It was kind of a silly thing for someone to do, but she couldn’t help checking out the house anyway. Nothing . . . she checked all the corners, closets, doors and windows to make sure they were locked, everything, and no one was in the house except her and John. With an imagination like mine, you would think I could come up with a story easily, Marcie thought shrugging as she sat back down at the computer. “You do have an excellent imagination and you can write, if you just let your imagination go,” said the voice. “Okay, who’s there,” Marcie whispered. Shaking and shivering with fear now, Marcie swiveled her chair, looking all around the room and trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. “Who are you and where are you?” “Give you a hint, Drama Queen . . . who always told you to get off your ass and write?” The voice seemed to be coming out of the shadows of the corner of the room. “Only one person,” whispered Marcie. “But he’s dead.” “So?” The voice contained a familiar laughing quality to it. “So, you can’t be him,” replied Marcie. “Well now, how many people call you Drama Queen?” Drifted from the corner. “Nobody . . . Nobody but Louis ever called me that,” Marcie said. “So, be open minded and use your imagination. Look and see what you think isn’t there,” answered the voice. Nope, I’m not gonna do it. If I turn and see Louis, then I will know I am crazy, Marcie thought as she slowly turned towards the sound of the voice. “Always the drama queen . . . how come you only ever showed that side of yourself to me?” Marcie heard as she saw a shape emerging from the shadows of the room. “Louis . . . Louis . . . is it really you?” Marcie’s voice quivered with tears as her hand reached out towards the figure. “I told you I would never leave you totally. You didn’t believe me. You never believed me. You didn’t believe me when I kept telling you that I felt like my time was short. You didn’t believe me when I told you that you had talent. You didn’t really believe me when I told you that I loved you. Did you?” asked Louis. “No, I didn’t. After all, we never met. We knew each other through the computer. I was just one of many that you knew and talked to. Besides, you did leave me. You died. I was devastated when I found out. I needed you and you left me alone in a world that was crashing down around my ears,” replied Marcie. “I know dear heart,” Louis said. “I have been here with you. I was beside you every step of the way. I suffered when you suffered and rejoiced when you did. You see . . . you kept me alive. Remember how I told you once that if something happened to me that within a year you would forget me?” “Yes, and I told you that I would never forget you. You were my dearest friend, the only person that really knew me. I could talk to you in ways and about things that I could tell anyone else,” Marcie said. “And you didn’t forget me. You have kept me alive and with you all this time,” replied Louis. “I have tried so many times to make you aware of my presence . . . “The touches?” Marcie asked. “Yes, I wrapped my arms around you in a hug many times,” Louis said. “I tried so desperately in so many ways to make you see me. Finally, when John was in the hospital, you opened yourself up to God, and to the many people around you that you thought were gone. “Mom & Dad?” Marcie questioned. “Yes, they are with you too. Not all the time, we come and go as we are allowed,” Louis said. “Allowed?” Marcie inquired. “Yes, we are only allowed to come to you during times of great need.” Louis answered. “So, why are you here now then?” asked Marcie. “This isn’t a great need. I just want to write this piece for this group I am in.” “You, you, you, does it always have to be your great need?” Louis asked. “Well . . . I just thought . . .” Marcie stammered. “Well quit thinking and listen,” Louis said. “Seuss and I were talking . . . “ “Seuss?” Marcie squealed! “Dr. Seuss is here too?” She asked as she leaned to look around Louis and almost fell out of the chair. “No, silly,” replied Louis. “Would you hush and listen?” “Well, excuse me,” Marcie huffed as she crossed her arms across her chest and sat back in the chair. “See . . . drama queen.” Louis said with much exasperation in his voice. “Anyway, I was telling Seuss about the dragons that I made for your kids. We talked about the many things that we regretted not accomplishing. We were discussing how fantasy and fun are being lost. One thing led to another and we got on the subject that you are writing about.” “You mean there really are lost books of Dr. Seuss?” Marcie asked. “Well, in a way,” Louis replied. “There aren’t actual books, but stories that he never got around to writing.” “What a loss!” Marcie exclaimed. “Yes,” Louis replied. “This is where you come into the picture. We both think you can do it.” “Do what?” Marcie asked. “Write the stories, silly.” Louis said. Marcie suddenly burst out in peals of laughter. “What’s so funny?” Louis asked. “Oh my God!” Marcie sputtered out between bursts of laughter. “A ghost writer for a ghost. You want me to be a ghost writer for a ghost!” “I hadn’t thought of that,” Louis remarked. “But yeah, that is kind of what we want. Seuss and I will draw characters, and you will use them as a writing prompt.” “I can’t write in the style of Dr. Seuss.” Marcie responded. “We don’t want you to, silly,” Louis said. “You have a wonderful imagination, a sense of fun, and the child is still within you. You don’t like to follow the rules. You can see rainbows with red in them; dragons that blow bubbles instead of fire, and worlds that are askew. This is what Dr. Seuss and I saw and wanted to get out there but didn’t get to finish. This is what children need to see and experience again, through words, not through the television or video games.” Marcie propped her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. Sighing she said, “Louis, you know how I am. I have trouble finishing things. I get started writing and then never can finish the story. I can’t find the endings. You of all people know this. I never finished the novel we started.” “That’s the great thing about this, Marcie,” Louis replied. “It will be a collection; a collection of short stories for kids. You can do short stories.” “Well . . . yes . . .” Marcie said. “Then when you do this, it will boost your confidence, strengthen your writing skills and you can finish the novel.” Louis said with excitement. “Maybe,” Marcie replied. “Maybe, I can. I need you with me though. I will need your help.” “I’m always with you . . .” The voice sounded fainter. Marcie lifted her chin from her hands and looked towards the corner. He wasn’t there. “Louis?” She said. “Louis, Louis, where are you?” she shouted. >>>>>>>>>>>> “Marcie, Marcie . . . Wake up! You fell asleep at your computer again.” She heard her husband’s voice say. “Should I be jealous?” He asked. “Jealous?” Marcie asked as she slowly came awake. “Yes, you were yelling Louis’s name.” John said. “It was a dream!” Marcie exclaimed in amazement. “Well, I figured that,” John replied. “Louis is dead.” “It seemed so real.” Marcie said. “When did you start drawing?” John asked. “Drawing? What are you talking about?” Marcie asked. “That!” John said while pointing at the computer. Tears filled her eyes as she saw the dragon that filled her computer screen. It was a beautiful thing with glittering green eyes, pink scales, purple wings and it was blowing bubbles. Written below it was a short verse. Bubbles, bubbles fill the air, All shapes and sizes you’d better beware, They’ll lift you up and float you where, Dreams exist to trap the unaware, In fantasy and dragons lairs . . . |
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| The Lost Work Of Dr. Seuss Lisa McDowell dnj7lisa@hotmail.com |
#15 of 15 |
| 1178 late entry ineligible for judging critiques requested |
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| “Some say it doesn’t exist.” “They also said that about Atlantis. Yet all those disbelievers were proven wrong weren’t they?” Jason dropped the trowel he was using and wiped his dirt-smeared hand across his damp forehead. The dark smears transferred and rooted themselves within the many creases of his brow. “The climate controls for the environment sphere must be failing because it’s damned hot in here.” Jason reached for his water bottle, swallowed the last of his water, and leaned back to gaze at the snow that was falling outside of the glass dome. If only some of that frozen chill would seep it’s way inside. As Jason continued to watch the snowflakes melt against the glass he continued the previous conversation that his newly appointed intern, Peter had started. “So Peter, what do you think?” Jason asked. “Do you believe all these theories of the lost work of Dr. Suess or do you believe me to be a sadly misled Archeologist who is chasing after an illusion?” Peter’s eyebrows lifted and his jaw dropped open. “I…” An amused laughter burst forth from Jason. “Don’t worry about it. No need to answer. Not many people believe as strongly as I do in the possibility of a book still existing today, and a much fabled one at that.” Peter wrinkled his pointed nose and licked his chapped lips. “But most people believe that the ‘Bible mythologies’ still exist in book form.” “Yes I’m sure that there are several of those still buried somewhere. There were still too many believers who held fast to the written set of scriptures when the last of the printed books started to phase out. But it’s the Dr. Suess book that will be the real prize.” Jason felt his pulse surge slightly as always happened when discussing the lost work of Dr. Suess. “It’s true that no one knows for sure whether or not Dr. Suess actually lived, but this is only because his stories did not survive the transfer onto the data chips. Therefore he simply became a myth, along with his fabled stories. Yet if he truly didn’t exist, then how do you explain the consistency of all these myths?” Jason watched Peter closely as he struggled to produce an answer to this logical question. Peter bit his lower lip and once again, wrinkled his nose. Jason noticed that he always did this when trying to find a neutral answer, one that would not offend one side or the other. He was certainly a peculiar intern, unlike any other interns that Jason had the pleasure to work with. For someone who was supposed to be so close to gaining his degree in Archeology, Peter had little knowledge of actual archeological skills. Yet despite his lack of skills in the field, he did know a great deal about history and technology. “I guess I can’t answer that.” Peter finally conceded after a long pause. “So why do you search for this mythical book? Many of your peers ridicule your efforts. Wouldn’t it be easier to just search for what is known to exist” “It would certainly be easier, yes. But finding this book is my life-long dream. To give up on that, would be like death itself.” Jason smiled broadly, “Just to hold it in my hands and know that it truly exists, I could die a happy man.” Jason sighed deeply and then once again swiped his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Okay, I’ve had quite enough of this damned heat, I feel like I’m trapped in a tomb.” Peter smiled at this jest. “I’ll double check the climate controls.” As Peter slipped the climate microchip from its hidden place inside of his vest pocket, and inserted it into the control panel attached to his wrist, Jason resumed his digging. “The control settings are properly set. There must be a glitch in the system.” Jason grunted. “Figures. I guess I’ll need to see if I can fix…” Jason stopped abruptly. He dropped the trowel he was using and quickly reached for the brush. “I’ve found something!” Jason’s hand shook with anticipated excitement as he pulled an ancient box from it’s resting place within the dirt. “This is it.” Jason breathed. “The lost work of Dr. Suess.” Jason’s mind reeled with the incomprehensible possibility that he had indeed found it at last. “Are you sure?” Peter asked. “We may not even be digging in the correct location.” “There’s only one way to find out.” Jason stated. Carefully, Jason opened the antique box he held in his hands. Loose dirt spilled from the lid as he opened it and clouds of dust filtered into the air. There, resting inside was a book. An ancient book covered in a thick layer of dust. Yet on the cover, visible through all that dust, was a picture of a funny looking cat with a mighty tall hat. The words “The Cat in the Hat, by Dr. Suess” was scrawled across the cover. “You’ve found it!” Peter shouted. “I can’t believe you’ve found it! “It truly does exist.” Jason’s heart beat faster and his pulse raced with excitement as he leafed through the fragile pages made of the now outlawed material called paper. Unique artwork and whimsical phrases spread across each page. “We need a drink to celebrate.” Peter laughed. “I have something in my bag, I’ll go get it.” As Peter raced away, Jason clutched the book between his fingers. The feeling of euphoria was indescribable. Here it was, his life-long dream clutched in his hands. He could hardly believe it himself. Peter returned to the site with a small decanter and two glasses in his hands. “This is my own beverage, I made it myself.” he said as he poured the red liquid into the glasses. “To your success!” Jason raised his glass and then swallowed the red liquid. The taste was bitter and it burned as it slid down his throat. He could feel every inch of liquid as it passed into his stomach. Jason shook his head in an attempt to subdue the burning within his throat. “Wow, that has some kick to it. What’s in it?” “Poison.” Peter stated calmly. Jason laughed at Peter’s joke. “You’re certainly a strange one sometimes Peter. Really though, what’s in it?” “I’ve already told you. In fact, you should start feeling the effects any time now. It’s a fast acting poison.” Jason did not know what to think. “But you drank it to,” he laughed uneasily, “you wouldn’t drink poison. If you don’t want to tell me what’s in the drink, just say so. There’s no need to joke like that.” “I didn’t drink it.” Peter smiled. “I just made you think I did. Don‘t worry, it‘s fast and painless.” Jason felt his vision beginning to blur and all his muscles relax as he tried to stand. His legs refused him. In fact, all his muscles refused him; he could not move. The lost book of Dr. Suess slipped from his fingers as Peter slid it easily from his weak grasp. “Are you feeling it now?” Peter asked. “I can tell you are. Well, it won’t be much longer. This book will sell for millions on the black market. I’ll never have to work another day in my life. I guess I should thank you for that.” Jason’s blood seethed and boiled with anger, yet he was unable to do anything. His whole body had failed him. Even now he could feel an enveloping darkness overcome his will. The last words he heard before slipping into darkness were “Hey, at least you now know that the lost work of Dr. Suess really exists, you can now die a happy man.” |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club