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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Children Stories  |  House: Booksie Classic
Oliver is a boy with a wild imagination who comes across a strange egg that rises from a lake.

Submitted: August 13, 2012

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Submitted: August 13, 2012



Oliver was a boy,

Who would stray from the crowd.

Many thoughts would he think,

But he never spoke loud.

Other kids played,

Oliver would instead,

Want to escape

To the world in his head.


Then one afternoon,

His visions came true.

He sat by the lake,

The water so blue.

It rose from the depths,

Shade pale as the moon.

A spec from afar,

Progressed into view.


"Good grief, It's an egg!"

Oliver had exclaimed.

The boy was excited,

And ready to tame,

Any bird any beast

His opinion won't change.

Even if his old folks

Would think him deranged.


. . .


So a few days had passed,

And Oliver found,

That the egg may soon hatch.

He searched all around,

For a camera to take,

A few photographs.

So he could have proof

And no one would laugh.


There then came a crack,

On one side, then two.

A beak had peeked out,

So Oliver knew,

The beast was a bird,

Not something absurd.

But when he saw a tail,

He was somewhat perturbed.


The beast had broke out.

It stood on four legs.

Two horns on its head.

And teeth that could shred.

It was a strange creature,

Like nothing he'd seen.

It hissed and it clicked,

Those noises obscene.


. . .


A new day did dawn,

And Oliver woke,

To find something truly amiss.


It wasn’t too long,

Before the hell spawn,

Delivered an answer to this.


His mother, she screamed,

And panicked out loud.

So Oliver beamed,

Downstairs and he found,

A proud little beast,

Who’s belly was round,

It picked at its teeth,

With gluttonous sounds.


What could the boy do?

He hadn’t a clue.

The monster, it grew,

And fancied him too.


Oliver gave a chance,

To this devil thing,

But couldn’t relax,

“What would Daddy think?


Perhaps we should hide,”

Said the brave little guy.

“I’ll pack all our things.”

It was worth a try.


. . .


Alone in the woods,

They sat by the fire.

Their new neighborhood,

Was ghastly and wild.


The trees twist at night,

And the wind carried whispers.

Little things bite,

And their skin carried blisters.


The monster looked up,

And howled at the moon.

A heart stopping sound,

A sinister tune..


Oliver met its eyes,

Black as the abyss.

The friendship a lie,

He realized this.


He hopped off his seat,

And started to run,

But the rabid hell-beast,

Was about to have fun.

The struggle was short.

What could he have done?

In the demons' domain,

All darkness, no sun.


. . .


“Am I still alive?

Or is this a dream?”

Oliver then had tried,

To wake from his sleep,

But the pinch to his skin,

Had him somewhat displeased.


“This isn’t my body,

Why do my words growl?”

A look at himself,

Was horrid and foul.

He was no longer human,

A demon of sorts.

His stomach had rumbled,

But food had run short.


He ran out to a field,

For something to eat,

And found himself chewing,

On helpless white sheep.


Oliver now runs free,

Looking for his friend,

A hopeless endeavor,

That never will end.

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