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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
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Prompt: You decide to buy a horror writer's mansion, but what you find there is out of this world or is it?
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It is not really a mansion but such a nice wood-frame house, three and a half stories high, painted white with blue shutters and a wraparound porch; Victorian I think. Nice well-kept yard, too. I imagine myself curled up with a good book on a chaise lounge on that porch. Oh, what a heaven it will be!
Our broker Kathy leads the way up the paved driveway, and tinkers with the hanging box at the side door. She finds a key inside and we walk to the front. At the front of the house are large double doors. The doors are so large that I can picture them in front of an airplane hangar.
“We call this a mansion for the land around it and its guesthouses. but the house itself is not much. It is just another big house like the others in this neighborhood,” says Kathy. She takes a breath in, hesitates a moment, and adds, “The insides may surprise you, though.”
Sales pitch, of course. What can be there inside that is so spectacular? I already know the house once belonged to a writer who suffered from agoraphobia.
“Just follow me and keep your cool! The staircases may creak but they are strongly built and adapted to the latest code.”
Keep my cool? Just what does she mean by that, but hubby and I enter, after her, into the house through a large corridor that could become a mudroom where I mentally place my foyer bench-and-coat rack.
Kathy turns right to the hallway, tiptoeing. Why? The owner of the brokerage must have sent his weirdest employee to show us this gem of a house, which after seeing the porch, I am already willing to sign the contract.
After taking a peek into the kitchen and the dining area, we go up the creaky stairs to tour the bedrooms. Why the place is perfect, much better than what I guessed it would be from its looks on the outside. To begin with, someone had to have spent a pretty penny to fix the interior plaster and trim, as the walls, woodwork, and the ceilings are ornate and beautiful, reflecting the flora and fauna, such as hydrangea and tulips we had glimpsed outside. There are a few pieces of furniture inside the rooms, but not too many. I can easily fit my stuff in with them. In one room, the air feels musty although a window is open and a gray fog hangs over the ceiling fixture. Kathy closes the window, making excuses to us for the company that did the cleaning.
When we are in the master bedroom, my husband holds and squeezes my hand, but then, I realize he is not near me. He is standing in front of one of the windows, pointing to a maple tree outside while he is talking to Kathy. If he’s there, who squeezed my hand? I turn around to see the cover on the four-poster bed move.
“Something’s happening!” I call to Kathy.
“Keep your calm,” she says. “Just a draft from the attic. Maybe we go down again.”
“Can we take a look at the attic?” hubby asks. “I might consider renovating it.”
“It is too dirty now,” Kathy says. “And the stairs going up there are full of spiders. The owner promises to have it all cleaned up before you move in.”
We go downstairs again, but as we turn toward the front of the house, the front door bangs shut. “Oh, Dear,” murmurs Kathy. “Changing the inside locks are on the owner’s to-do list. We can let ourselves out from the side door. We need to go through the dining area.”
We enter the dining room to find a wonderfully set table with hot and cold plates of food and a splendid floral centerpiece on it. On the centerpiece, there is a sign that says, Welcome to your abode, Joy!
I turn to Kathy. “Did you do this? This wasn’t here a while ago?”
Kathy’s face is chalky white now. Not to fall down, she leans against the wall. “HHow ccould I?” she stutters. “I was with you all the time.”
How lovely!
I take the initiative and sit at the head of the table and motion hubby to sit across from me. “We might as well accept the hospitality,” I say.
Kathy screeches, “I’ll wait for you in the garden.”
My husband who can’t pass up a meal or anything edible immediately takes his place at the other end, without questioning what is going on.
And what is going on needs no questions.
I am not a scaredy cat, and I can sense a good deal when I see it. After all, the first owner was a horror writer. He might still be here and willing to share his place with me, in spirit. Maybe his talent, too. Just maybe.
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