I’m a bot made of strawberries, fighting crime

My berries activate, systems come online

When an evil robot’s on the run

I just pound him with my seed gun

Until the robo miscreant’s serves jail time

I’m on the trail, tired juicy servos whine

Part technological

Still biological

Against this avocado foe I’ll be fine

Oh no, my seed gun sight’s misaligned

The enemy’s seed nicks my skin

My juice trips t...

This poem is an anchor line

Be patient and give it time

Time to see how the lines rhyme

And what makes this format rich

Did you see what was written?

The first two lines rhyme and then

For the third we rhyme again

But for the fourth line we switch

You see the pattern I bet

The first three lines are a set

The fourth’s like an epaulet

Weaving a uniform stitch

What do we get exactly?

A sense of st...

“Sir, the cable’s out. You’ll have to… static… it’s the only way. Over.”

“What’s the only way?” I jab the walkie-talkie’s call button frustratedly.

“The Air Crawler. Static… you’ll need to… static… It’s experimental, but… static…”

“Fine. I don’t want to spend another second stuck on top of this building.”

“Static… now, sir. Over.”

It doesn’t take long to learn what now means. A la...

Click me convenience

Once in a lifetime offer

Email’s hidden hooks...

I sit in my chair, scrolling through my phone, as my eyes drift to the massive window in front of us. Our plane gleams faintly at the gate under the heavy October sky, its white body contrasting sharply with the swirling gray clouds overhead. There’s a weight to the air today, something strange I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Look at that guy,” Brian says, nudging me with his elbow.

I glance up...

Francine descended the stairs, her spirits lifted by the aroma of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. Mark, her husband, stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease while their seven-year-old daughter, Gloria, giggled at the table, bouncing to the sound of a song blaring from the Amazon Echo:

This is the song that doesn't end.

Yes, it goes on and on, my friend.

Francine chuckle...

Oh what suspense, the bomb’s about to blow

The timer ticks, my heart puts on a show

But here’s a Tide ad—gripping, apropos

I’d rather be clothes washing—how’d you know?

Last minute confession before they’re through

Wait! Farmer’s Dog dog-food service debuts?

Sorry Fido, your old favorite must go!

I love subscriptions it seems—how’d you know?

The hero leaps, the plane begins to dive

Wendy’s new F...

A relentless figure, with a three part name separated by dashes, stalks his prey, while offering a strange, otherworldly dish. Through eerie rhymes and unsettling encounters, the story unravels into a chilling game of manipulation and dread. Watch as our plucky protagonist resists, leading to ever darker settings, more insistent offers, and the climbing price of refusal. Will they escape the night...

I strolled one night beneath the moon

A zephyr played a little tune

When from a portal it came near

A figure strange, yet oddly clear

Not someone else, they said to me:

I’m you, from 2043

Their face was lined, their hair was gray

But still they smirked in my own way

Shouldn’t you warn me? I inquired

Of cliffs and traps, of paths required?

They laughed and shook their head with ease

_You wo...

Greg Caputi sits in a steel chair bolted to the ground, while a single bulb swinging from the ceiling causes the shadows to dance restlessly over the concrete floor. His body is tense, his hands gripping the armrests as though they are his last anchor to reality. Before him, a figure kneels, shrouded in a burlap sack, their identity concealed. The figure is utterly still, save for the rise and fal...