THE NIGHTMARE ON MANGO STREET

The night was dark and stormy-like. As stormy as Washington gets anyway (...*drizzle*...)

The rain pattered down on the roof of the small, creaky house, and on the leaves of the four dead trees on the front lawn as their twisted branches raked against the windowpane, throwing ghastly shadows on the wall...

Blood-stained trails on the street cried out, and sounded throughout the neighborhood as the sound of children screaming and crying, Piles of shoes littered the ground, where children used to play, now gone forever.

The house was disastrous to behold. The windows were broken, and the insidious black sky oozed through the broken glass. Mice covered the floors, and the minor tune of a dusty music box pierced the air.

The shadows remained as I shut my eyes, as if they were imprinted on my brain. The dreams came back. Dreams of ferocious trees biting the sky with violent teeth. Of the red clowns' thick-tongued laugh. Of three stalker-women who smelled funny.

The ape was no longer within the orchard, as it was long retired from that rotting pile of false hope and sorrow. No one ever goes there anymore. That would be a bit of an understatement, though. Truth is, no one ever comes out. But really, what's the difference?

I sip some papaya juice laced with vodka. They always told me there were sweeter drinks. Now I believe them.

I hope for escape from the sad red house of horror. I hope that one day I can fill my attic with an army of bums to protect me from the laughing clowns. But I know that I cannot out. Nothing can save me now. Mango will never say goodbye.

Signed,

BLUE Sky

RED Balloon

and GREEN the X.

Analyze THAT, fools.