Prompt 28
Added 2024-10-20 17:19:50 +0000 UTCOnce upon a time, in land underneath your very own bed [and where monsters are very real, indeed]
In land underneath your very own bed [where monsters are super real]
Lives the Snoogletoad who grows old mold and wails a billowy squeal
There are Nightmare Hens and Dreamy Cocks who make Hopeful Broken Eggs
And don't forget the Sleep-Shomp-Sheep with 300 spider legs
Parasitic-anthropomorphic-diametric Desires
Run around telling nasty jokes and starting tiny fires
Hoordamps stain the carpet and Slootzies' skin is prickly
And the seven tongues of the Munchadora is somehow dry AND sticky
There's the old perverted Wezelwant who listens when we fuck
and the large eye of the Kiro [that has lips and love to suck]
So beware the land below your bed, beware this true decree!
Best to stay under the covers safe and sound with me :)
[Prompt 35 is next]
Comments
(I still have my Billy & the Boingers t-shirt [mainly bc my dad bought it for me đ„č])
Margaret Peffy Margie Maggie
2024-10-21 18:06:43 +0000 UTCI forgot to say how delightful your response is this week Doc. Seussifissian almost. Also this prompt reminds me of an old favorite Bloom County cartoon (from before many/most of you were born). The anxiety closet was well known in the land of Bloom, but in this particular strip they discussed pipe dreams residing under the bed. Perhaps this was the inspiration for my response đ. The references are quite outdated, but the cartoon was soo good! https://www.gocomics.com/bloomcounty/1983/01/12
Jamie
2024-10-21 18:00:44 +0000 UTCSpooky season indeed!
siesta_maven
2024-10-21 13:30:30 +0000 UTCDelicada opens the door to the ward, late, excited to read her prompt for this week. Smile on her face melts away when she notices, she is taking spooky season way too seriously. Sheâs dressed as ghost, not a cute ghost like Casper⊠sheâs got a ripped nightgown, makeup done so she resembles Linda Blair in that one movie. âAh shitâ she tells herself as she sees everyone else is dressed to impress. She listens eagerly to her follow Patrients. Sheâs laughed, gasped, and felt empowered. She feels grateful to be here. Fuck, itâs her turn. âHi amazing Patrients.. she looks down at her paper (yes, she still uses pen and paper), clears her throat.. and begins: Once upon a time, in a land underneath your very own bed, where monsters are very real indeed, there lived a man whose soul had long slipped beyond the grasp of life. His name was Francisco, and he had been infatuated with the youngest sister of his wife for as long as he could remember. A wolf in sheepâs clothing, he played the part of a perfect husband and father, all while his desire for her burned at his core. He would make subtle, creeping advances to the sister when no one was looking. One day, he confessed his feelings for her, she quickly refused, disgusted by him. On his deathbed, his voice was weak but clear as he beckoned the young woman to his side. âIâll haunt your firstborn for rejecting me,â he whispered, his breath tainted with death. She quickly walked away in horror, hoping she dodged his hex, but his words clung to her like a curse. Years passed, and the memory of Franciscoâs dying promise faded to a distant corner of her mind. She married, had kids, and life moved on. Her first born daughter, Ivette, was now in high school. There was the obvious change.. her parents now divorced, and her mom moved out.. but strange things were happening too. Things Ivette could not explain. Her room would grow inexplicably cold at night, so cold her breath would hang in the air like clouds. Some nights she would awaken to the sound of a man humming of the âGo to Sleepâ lullaby. A dark shadow, tall and menacing, loomed in the corners of her room, watching her. One night, as she lay in bed, she felt the whisper of a breath against her ear. âShe rejected you.. just like she rejected me,â the voice said, low and menacing. The room plunged into a deep chill, and the humming grew louder. Ivette sat up, trembling, and saw the shadow standing at the foot of her bed. She felt his cold presence settle over her, but somehow, she knew who it was. The stories her mother had once told her.. oof a man obsessed, of his dying curse.. all flooded back. Franc- Delicada, stops reading, she looks up, eyes wide open full of fear. The room is colder, she exhales, a delicate cloud forms. The lights in the ward shut off, with an eerie, audible âclickâ. Darkness engulfed the room. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. They all hear it.. faint at first, but unmistakable. The lullaby.
Delicada19đ«
2024-10-21 12:11:37 +0000 UTCDoc, ya got me with that last bit đ„č so cute. I love reading all of these from everyone, every week. Thank you.
Delicada19đ«
2024-10-21 04:48:07 +0000 UTCPassing notes, love it! Reminds me of the dryer monster stealing things.
siesta_maven
2024-10-21 04:42:41 +0000 UTCSHE GOT SEXY WITH IT. Yeah, I'm all-caps-ing you and using your full legal name, Margaret Peffy Margie Maggie, Queen of the Nighttime Cuddle Heat. Good gods, woman. I love your use of the prompt at the end to tie this bit of honey together. So happy you put your feet [words] out â€ïžâđ„
caroscope
2024-10-21 04:37:12 +0000 UTCGuys, it's been a while since I got sexy with it. I roll over, awake. Again. Canât sleep to save my life tonight. I know Iâm too warm and I need to stick my feet out from under the covers, but I canât â the monsters will get them. A grown ass adult still afraid the monsters will get her feet. Ridiculous. I take some slow, deep breaths, and gradually, I relax again, my blood pressure dropping, the screaming in my ears along with it, though Iâm still wide awake. Now I can hear your breathing, soft, slow, even, and I hate to wake you but I canât resist snuggling into your back (I do love being the big spoon sometimes). I wrap my arm around your waist and slide my hand up your belly to your chest, winding my fingers into the hair there, familiar and soothing. I can both hear and feel your breathing pick up a bit now. You groan softly; âcanât sleep again?â I burrow deeper into you and hold you tighter by way of reply, and place a kiss between your shoulder blades. You inhale deeply and roll towards me, wrapping your arms around me tightly as you do, snug and safe and comforting. You kiss me â once, twice, thrice, the third somehow soft and firm at once, sending a little electrical thrill shooting from my lips to⊠well, my lips. Your hand roams slowly, lightly down my side, tickling my skin, the side of my breast, my waist, my hip, until finally you cup my bum and pull me closer, sending more electricity through me. I can feel your cock now, hard against my soft belly, and my cunt tingles and becomes slick. You groan again and your hand moves between my thighs, your deft middle finger teasing the wetness out of me; I sigh as you glide it between my lips and over my clit, my body spasming at your delicate touch. My hand trails down your body now, following the same path yours took down mine, but comes to rest between our stomachs, and I lightly caress your dick, feeling it jerk and grow harder as your breath does the same. You kiss me again, more urgently this time, your tongue parting my lips as it seeks mine. I wrap my other hand around the back of your neck and wend my fingers into your hair, kissing you more greedily as I continue stroking your hardness between us, as you continue stroking my wet cunt and my clit, both of us rocking our hips back and forth to get that good friction, both of us breathing faster, harsher, moaning, gasping, feeling each other getting closer and closer to that glorious release, stomach muscles clenching, riding wave after wave of tingling, delicious sensation; you know Iâm close because my face scrunches up like it does when I have to sneeze, and I know youâre close because your hips are jerking fully outside of your control, both of us groaning and whimpering now, stroking and touching and kissing until we explode into stardust. We stay like that, clutching each other, letting our orgasms fade gradually and our breathing calm, for some time, glowing in our little blanket cocoon, warm and safe and comfortable. I realize my feet are sticking out from the blanket just as you ask me, âdo you want me to tell you a story?â âAlways,â I reply, as I drowse against your chest. âAlways tell me stories.â âVery well,â you say. âOnce upon a time, in a land underneath your very own bed [and where monsters are very real, indeed], there lived a âŠâ âReally? Are you serious right now? I have my feet out and everything!â
Margaret Peffy Margie Maggie
2024-10-21 04:28:17 +0000 UTCOnce upon a time, in a land underneath your very own bed [and where monsters were very real, indeed!] Can you think of the last time you heard from them? Theyâve been your only point of contact for a minute, do you think theyâre okay? Matter of fact, do they know if youâre okay? So you decided, âthis is the time, my first time to check.â Exploring a world youâve heard in your sleep, you see in your dreamsâ your mind might be playing tricks on you. How sinister. You pull a note off of your nightstand. Itâs a miracle you could even make out the message, chicken scratch pen scribbles on an old restaurant napkin from⊠months ago? *We live in peace*, it read, *you do not need to check on us, do not worry. We take good care of your stuff*. The first message you ever got from them. You decided to leave them alone against your better judgment. *How long have you been here*? A simple sentence you wrote back, the note left on the floor by your nightstand. You had no intention of going to sleep that night, and your anxiety about this thingâ âdonât check on usââ these *things helped keep you up. Until you woke up the next morning. A simple gift. Shoes. The same shoes you got for your birthday thirteen years ago. You didnât even wear them once before they disappeared physically and soon from your memory. First, joy hit you at seeing the shoes again, then you were stuck harder with dread. *Just how much have you lost to them*? Olâ brain lost gas towards the end there, lol. Asterisks are indicative of italics!
Jay
2024-10-21 02:56:09 +0000 UTCOof, the trident of anxiety, trauma and self-doubtâŠthat one hit. So relatable. This was really beautiful.
libby (feral.libra)
2024-10-21 02:15:23 +0000 UTCDoc! I love this! So much! Apologies for the stream of !!! but wow what creatures. As much as under the covers safe and sound is heaven, Imma go questing. Also, Hopeful Broken Eggs makes me want to cry, but I am a romantic little sapling, so itâs to be expected. Fantastic offering, thank you!
caroscope
2024-10-21 01:52:02 +0000 UTCWe call Maxâs apartment Club Decrepit because it is exactly right. A perfect name. Like a bookstore called Forbidden Fruit or an erotic voice actor called drRapture [teehee]. The attic flat is a mess, but it is long cherished. Exposed rafters, uneven floors, furniture collecting invincible gray city dust and new memories. Tonight, it sounds like our hostâs booming toast: âHereâs to the great American bird: the Swallow!â And my mind recalls the Monty Python bit about the âairspeed velocity of unladen swallows,â while a naughtier me canât help but think of the rewards of giving head. [oversexed American bird, Great Tit(s), yeesh]. A momentary flash of distraction. Anyway, Max has a thick, wiry mustache that looks like the heel-toe of Louisiana. Itâs the kind of mustache that makes you want to call him an old timer, but heâs 32. You donât have to know this, but itâs a strong look and one worth writing home about. The apartment smells like mulled wine and Roseâs oud perfume, clinging to her architectural black outfit that summons both bright and dark days, and Natasha Lyonneâs birthday suit in Russian Doll. [gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get home before the morninâ comesâthanks, Harry Nilsson]. City Steinbeck and jet-haired Natasha Lyonne hover in the corner on the sagging crimson sofa, talking animatedly in a flash of silver rings. I perch in an armchair in a needed moment of quiet, my own hands resting on stockinged thighs. But Iâm not alone in my own skin. Iâd prepared for bed alone the night before. This I know. Will was away for the evening and apart from that, everything was normal. Iâd embarked on rituals of long, deep stretching, a bit of reading [doomscrolling]. Appraisal of the laundry crisis [unsatisfactory], meds, skincareâŠis that a new freckle? [sighs in redhead]. Routine was shattered when I felt the monsterâs hands grip my feet. Parents âlookâ for monsters when weâre little and we fear for our bare ankles during the chasm leap between floor and mattress. But each monster changes with time and learning, adopting the terrors tailored to every suspecting tiny ankle as we grow into unsuspecting adults. Bigger ankles, other fears. When I crawled into bed, its furious digits sank around me with spikes of heated lead. I wrenched my feet away as fast as I could and burrowed under the covers. But it had made its way to my heart, taking the fast pass through femoral veins. My brain warned of this five-alarm fire whooshing behind my eyes and catching in my throat like smoke. This evil form of the Creature Anticipation prodded my chest with its trident of Anxiety, Trauma, and Self-Doubt. I squeezed my eyes and fists shut and steeled myself for a night with the Creature. And the next morning and day until 8pm, when Maxâs text had requested my presence at Club Decrepit for an evening of strangers and one challenging reunion. Wearing my best armor of curly updo, sleek dress, and my favorite dangly earrings, Iâd arrived with my plus twoâsâWill and the Creatureâin tow. It's two hours later now, when I sit in this armchair. I take my glasses off for a moment and close my eyes. Iâm surprised to feel the Creature ease slightly, slowly withdrawing its fangs from the nape of my neck and its claws from my stomach. I think this has something to do with a martini or two and the comfort of a well-worn cushion. But really, itâs deeper than that. Rose had broken my heart once. And itâs on this particular life event that the Creature had fed since last night. Will knows all about Rose, and he knew it might be hard for me to see her. She hadnât meant to be cruel, but she hadnât meant to be kind either. Now here we were, chatting casually like we hadnât held one another for a storied year with a grim end. I still remember how soft she is and what her lips feel like on my temples and elsewhere. And the bad things too. But I know my heart is changed. Thereâs so much more room for something like love for myself today. And for him. So weirdly, seeing Rose has given the Creature less to feed on. I starve it a little more by gripping Willâs hand in my own. He gives it a squeeze. And itâs funny, but the Creature really does let go. It whispers âwell doneâ in my ear as it releases. And it sounds sincere. I know Iâll see it again. Different anticipation, different catalyst, different difficulty. Thatâs the promise of those who live under the bed. But it wonât have the same thorns. Weâll go home soon, I think. Iâll crawl into bed and maybe my lover will touch my ankles instead. Fingers crossed.
caroscope
2024-10-21 01:50:47 +0000 UTCSteve sure can cause a sneezeđł (and can thieve)
Jay
2024-10-20 22:28:38 +0000 UTCFancy tea cakes have great power. So do girls!
Jamie
2024-10-20 22:20:00 +0000 UTCYour poem is so cute. [My brain is not wording today so here is some nonsense that made me giggle.] Once upon a time, in a land underneath your very own bed [and where monsters are very real, indeed]⊠There lived a dust bunny named Steve. Who really was quite a dweeb. He traveled with a pack. Gave you an allergy attack. Then tried to steal your friend Steeb.
siesta_maven
2024-10-20 20:28:59 +0000 UTCSpeechless
The Lady Is A Tramp
2024-10-20 19:36:54 +0000 UTCOnce upon a time, in a land underneath your very own bedâwhere monsters are very real, indeedâthere lived a creature made of shadows and whispered fears. It was not like the other monsters, the ones with teeth that gnash or claws that scrape. No, this one was different. It knew your secrets, the ones you tried to bury deep beneath your skin. It thrived on your whispered doubts, the dark thoughts you wouldnât dare utter aloud. And though it frightened you, it never showed itself fully, always lurking just beyond sight, feeding off your sleepless nights. One evening, you heard a voiceânot from above, but from below. "Why do you fear me?" the voice asked. You hesitated, clutching your blanket like a shield. "Because you know too much," you whispered back. The shadow shifted, rippling like ink in water. "I only know what you give me," it said. "Every doubt, every wound, every lie you've told yourselfâI hold them because you wonât." It was strange, the idea that this thing, this creature of nightmares, was not made of malice, but of fragments of your own soulâtorn, scattered, and hidden. "What do you want?" you asked, voice trembling. "I want to show you something." The floor beneath you opened, not with a crash but with a gentle sigh, and you tumbled down into the land beneath your bed. The world there was not dark, as youâd imagined, but glowing softly, like a forgotten memory. There, in the heart of it, was a gardenâa garden of broken things. Cracked mirrors, shattered vases, wilted flowers that seemed to pulse with a faint, dim light. In the center of it all stood a tree, twisted and ancient, its branches heavy with glass-like fruit. "This is where the broken pieces of you come," the shadow whispered, standing beside you now, no longer something to fear, but something almostâŠfamiliar. "They do not disappear. They wait." "For what?" "For you." You stepped forward, drawn to the tree. As you touched its bark, you felt itâa pulse, a heartbeat that echoed your own. And suddenly, you saw it. Each piece of fruit held a fragment of yourselfâmemories, hurts, things youâd hidden away because they were too painful to carry. But here, they werenât ugly. They werenât terrifying. They wereâŠwaiting. Waiting to be seen. Waiting to be acknowledged. "You donât need to fear the broken things," the shadow said. "You need to learn to hold them." It wasnât easy. It took time. With trembling hands, you reached for the first piece of fruit. It was cold, heavy, but as you held it, it began to warm. The glass softened, turning to light in your palm, seeping into your skin. And with it came the memoryâa sharp, bitter pain, but alsoâŠrelease. One by one, you took the pieces of yourself back, no longer hiding from the things you feared, but holding them, mending them, making them part of you once more. And as the garden grew brighter, so did you. When you finally climbed back into your bed, the shadow was still there, but now, it was small, no longer looming. It curled up at the foot of your bed like an old, familiar friend. Not gone, but no longer something to fear. "You are whole," it said. And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.
libby (feral.libra)
2024-10-20 19:11:52 +0000 UTCOnce upon a time, in land underneath your very own bed [and where monsters are very real, indeed] lies the true story of the 12 Dancing Princesses. History (generally written by men) tells you they escaped under their beds to dance into the night with the princes of their dreams. A tale easily woven by the number of seamstresses, cobblers and haberdashers running in and out of the palace. But the truth is far more interesting. The eldest sister was smart and no-nonsense. She had become the Lady of the kingdom after her motherâs passing in childbirth. As eldest, she was also her fatherâs heir and surrogate parent to her younger siblings. One night, when the youngest was nearly 3, the Eldest heard a rattling below the bed. Palaces are known to be creaky, full of drafts, and often echoing. But this was different. This was the night she discovered phantoms live below the beds of children. They sneak out during REM to feed on dreams and leave nightmares in their wake. Not willing to let this stand, the three eldest siblings decided to do something about it. And they did, descending below their beds and into an underworld determine to protect their kingdom. They added to their numbers as each sister grew. You see, phantoms reproduce faster than bunnies so it was a full time job keeping them at bay even with a full group of twelve. Rumour has it, if you go to the kingdomâs capitol, in the markets around the palace, youâd still find evidence of the cobblerâs split-sole boots (to navigate narrow and steep paths with finesse), the seamstressâ triple padded doublets and breeches (to withstand sharp claws), and the haberdasherâs caps (to cover their long locks and give some cushion should they fall). The roles of the place armorer and fletcher have sadly been forgotten entirely - they dutifully kept the Sisters armed to the teeth. Eventually, the Princesses discovered they could stop the phantoms by stealing their sleepy sand and sprinkling it on each childâs eyes. Thus, for many years the children of this kingdom slept peacefully. By the time the Eldest succeeded her father and had children of her own, the Sisters had discovered how to seal the phantomâs lair for good. Most folklorists believe it involved sleepy sand, an elaborate trap, and some fancy tea cakes. Then there was no need to descend the underworld anymore. Over time the story of the Princesses changed, forgetting the bravery of the girls. How they hiked nightly in darkness and fought monsters to keep children safe in slumber. In the way that history does, the tale devolved into one of twelve frivolous materialistic girls fleeing into the night to party. But if you know a child who wakes with sleepy sand in their eyes remember it protects them thanks to the brave Princesses.
RĂłisĂn
2024-10-20 19:09:08 +0000 UTC
