L U P S C H A D A . C O M                                      an exercise in self-indulgence

If eyes are windows to the soul, then words are windows to the mind...

I like to spend most of my free-time with friends, but all play and no work makes Jack a dull girl.

Or something like that.

As our esteemed government has thoughtfully pointed out,"What a waste it is to lose one's mind." How true, indeed. And so, of course, I would require something to keep my mind on its toes.

Or something like that.

So get comfortable, pull up a monitor and maybe a caffeine-drink of your own specifications, and enjoy my poems and stories.


    Once upon a time, there was a big, bad wolf. Well, he wasn't really so big, or so bad, but everyone in the forest thought he was, and he always did his best to uphold his reputation. The wolf's name was Lupschada.

    Lupschada lived in a shack made of wood at the edge of his forest. He loved his shack very much. He'd hung decorations on the walls and sewed himself a luxurious bedspread to make his shack beautiful.

    So, one night, as he rested in his big, bad bed, Lupschada fell into an uncharacteristically fitful sleep. The branches of the trees outside knocked on the windows, and the wolf entered a nightmare. He dreamed that he was standing in the forest outside his belovèd shack. The trees were very, very tall.

    "Lupschada," said one of them,"That's a lovely shack you have there. Of what is it made?"

    "Wood!" he answered proudly, without thinking.

    "Well, damn you to a shack made of wolves!" said the tree and kicked Lupschada in the head.

    At this, Lupschada awoke with a start, bathed in wolf sweat. He made himself a big, bad mug of Sleepytime tea and tried to fall asleep, to no avail.

    He had the same nightmare the next night, and the next, until in desperation, he brought out his axe. He wept and spoke sweetly to the shack, but then he crossed himself and hacked down its walls.

    He went out to collect stones, and in the mournful hues of dusk, he rebuilt his shack. By the time he was finished, he had grown quite fond of his stone walls. "Oh, you'll do," he said, patting the stone structure. "You'll do just fine."

    Lupshada climbed into his big, bad bed and fell asleep. No sooner did his breathing slow than he was dreaming of a mountain. It opened its huge, stone mouth and said,"Lupschada, you've made such a lovely home. Of what is it made?"

    Smarter now, Lupschada answered, "Straw."

    "Liar!" said the mountain, kicking Lupschada in the head. Lupschada awoke in terror once more, and as soon as it was light enough, he knocked down the new stone walls.

    Lupschada didn't know what to do. He needed a shack in which to put his big, bad bed and hang his M.C.Escher prints. He'd loved his wood shack and his stone shack. What now?

    Then Lupschada had a brilliant idea. He put on his loveliest dress and paid a visit to a nearby boarding school for young ladies. He returned that evening and constructed the best shack yet, made with little girls' legs.

    That night, Lupschada slept like a log. Or a stone, as it were.

    And it were.

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