Beware Of Dog

Beware Of Dog

Beware Of Dog


Ian fixed his gaze across the table at Marsha. And who could blame him? She was possibly the most beautiful woman ever created. Soft skin, pearly whites, curly hair running down her back, and not to mention the rack of a goddess. Tonight she wore a pearl necklace, a red dress, and heels to match. Sure, she has more hair on her arms and legs than most women, but nobody’s perfect, right?

“Ian.” Ian blinked out of his trance. “I’ve caught you staring at my chest all night, this is the fourth time.” Marsha said from the other side of the table.

“Sorry, I can’t help it, you’re so gorgeous.”

“You’re just dating me so I can be some showgirl on your arm. Is this what this is about? asked Marsha, glaring at him from the other side of the table.

Marsha was indeed beautiful, but Ian had been asking questions all night, trying to get to know her better. Maybe she didn’t trust him on the first date? But how could she not trust him, they had been coworkers for the last five months.

Ian fidgeted in his chair nervously. He needed to think of something to calm her nerves or the situation could get hairy. It had taken him so long to ask her out, there was no way that he’d ruin this opportunity. Ian put down his shish kabob. He had an idea.

“Look Marsha,I think we’re really connecting together. You know? We have great food, great conversation. Check this out, I have another treat for you,” Ian pointed a finger up at the night sky. “It’s a full moon tonight. What’s more romantic than a full moon?”

Marsha’s eyes grew  wide at that moment.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go.” Marsha said, quickly grabbing her coat and purse as she left the table.

Ian took a while to react, but rose out of his chair just as quickly. Why did she just get up and leave? Was it something he said? Ian juked past the other tables as he tried to catch up with Marsha. He paid no attention to the angry waiter cursing him out for not paying the bill. When he got outside, Ian saw Marsha hurrying down the street at a blistering pace.

“She moves so fast for somebody wearing heels.” Ian  said aloud, already a block behind her, panting under his breath.

After two more blocks of cat and mouse, Marsha made a left, turning into the woods. Ian didn’t know why a woman in heels would go into the woods, but followed her inside anyway.

Inside the forest was dark and quiet, the air still and chilly. Ian slowed down, hoping to catch his breath after what felt like an Olympic race. Twigs and leaves cracked beneath Ian’s feet as he dodged branches from nearby trees. There was now a pain in his chest, like a stabbing knife, but he kept moving. He looked around the forest, trying to figure out where Marsha could’ve gone. He heard a rustling in the nearby bushes and turned his head, trying to see what it was.

Through the shrubbery, Ian saw an alarming number of yellow eyes, glowing in the moonlight. He turned away from them, avoiding the bushes and noticed  a path of footprints ahead. Maybe that was where Marsha could’ve gone. Ian sprinted down the path, inspired by the new hope in front of him.

There was a figure standing in the open part of the forest, staring at Ian as he ran up. Ian stopping dead in his tracks, frozen by fear and curiosity of what he was looking at. The figure was about six feet tall, with a long torso and arms extending to its knees. It was wearing Marsha’s red dress, along with the heels and necklace. It has the face of a wolf with claws, teeth, and thick black fur covering it body.

By this time, other figures began emerging from the woods, forming a circle around Ian. Just like the first creature, they were covered in fur, wearing human clothing, and had the heads of wolves. Drool dripping down from their snouts, they walked menacingly towards him. Ian’s eyes darted left and right, looking for a way out, like a fly in a spider’s web.

“M-Marsha. I-is that you?” Ian asked the first figure.

He would never get an answer, The last thing he saw was the first wolf raise a clawed finger to him and the others leaping on top of him. He heard howling, followed by the sound of tearing flesh. Then everything went black.

©  Daevone Molyneux, 2013





Sweat dripping, legs shaking, maybe the shedding of a tear

These are all side effects of a disease we call fear

The fear of spiders, strangers, or swimming in the ocean

There might not even be a more damaging emotion

You’ll end up regretting your hesitations tomorrow

Abandon fear and with it the regrets that may follow

It makes us doubt all that we know, even our credentials

We are frozen in time and never reach our potentials

Everybody has been there, blinded in the confusion

The next time you doubt remember that fear’s an illusion

When we get older we see the other side of the fence

Then we laugh about how those fears had never made any sense

It’s fear that finds me, fear that blinds me, it’s not what it seems

It’s fear that shakes me, fear that takes me away from my dreams

– Daevone Molyneux

Leaving The Past

leave the past

Do you ever find yourself clinging to the past? Have you ever wished you could forget what happened and move on with your life?

I have that same problem. It’s hard for me to learn to let go. I try to move forward in my life, but something stops me. Something holds me back from the progress I so dearly desire.

I frequently think about former friends and past situations I’ve been in. It’s to the point where I’m not just thinking about them, I’m also imagining those scenarios. I even listen to music and daydream about those moments. Those memories and times together mean a lot, bur I focus on them too much and neglect what’s going on right now.

I tried an experiment last week where I focused on making myself more present. My goal was to pay attention to everything that was currently going on. Since then, I’ve interacted with friends more, paid closer attention to song lyrics, focused on the taste of different foods, and it’s all paid dividends. I’m especially noticing a difference in my friendships and they’ve become stronger. For the first time in a long time, I feel alive. I can finally move on and live my life.

All too often, we find ourselves in situations where we’re stuck. It can seem impossible to escape, but there’s a solution for all of us – You have to leave the past behind you. Now, it’s easier said than done, but here are some things that helped me:

1. Focus – Let go us your stress. Breathe deeply and close your eyes. Now open them. Pay attention to the sounds you hear, what you see, and most importantly – feel what’s going on around you.

2. Appreciate – Think about everything you have. Think about your family, your home, your hobbies, and your friends. Take notice of how certain foods taste and how gifted you are. All those things have helped you become who you are today.

3. Repeat

In order to make the future, we must leave the past. Forget about what someone may have said about you, forget about your bad experiences.

C.S. Lewis said it best – “There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”

Coffee Shop Surprise


Louis’ button-down was wrinkled, and his face unshaven. He stroked his bird’s nest of a beard thoughtfully with one hand. In his other hand was a pencil, scribbling across the notebook in front of him. He had been sitting at that table for what had felt like forever, experimenting with ideas for his new novel.

The numerous paper balls next to him represented his failure. Writer’s block. As much as he hated the term, it was time to admit that he was a victim.

He scratched his head, mumbled something, and wrote down another idea that came to mind. Soon enough, he tore out the sheet of paper, crumbled it up, and tossed it to the side.

“Excuse me sir.”

Louis flipped to another page in his notebook.

“Excuse me sir.”

He had an idea. His hand moved faster than he could’ve imagined. One word at a time, he jotted down this brilliant idea.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted his progress.

“What the fuck do you want?” He shouted, and turned around.

The waitress flinched and nearly dropped the tray in her hands.

“I’m sorry sir, but your cappuccino is ready.” She handed him the steaming mug off the tray. He snatched it with a dirty look and turned back to his work.

Louis took a sip from the cup and tried to gather his thoughts. The characters were forming, but his plot was still a bit shaky.

“Come to me.”

Louis glanced around him. There was nobody within speaking distance. Who said that? Shrugging, he went back to his work.

“Come to me.”

There it was again. Louis looked at his cup. Was that where the noise was coming from?

No. This was surely his mind playing tricks on him.

“Come to me.”

Finally, Louis put down his pencil and peeked into his cup. Staring back at him was a man. Not his reflection, but an actual man, standing in his cup, looking back at him.

“Give me your hand.”

Was Louis going crazy? Surely his imagination was running wild. Abandoning his beliefs, he put his hand into the steaming cup, anticipating the burn.

Strangely, there was no burn. But even stranger than that was the man grabbing Louis’ hand and pulling him inside the cappuccino’s depths.

Louis blacked out for a moment, but he woke up with his hands and feet hog-tied. He was somehow inside the cup, but there was no coffee surrounding him. It was like a room, and when he looked up, he could see the café outside of the cup. The man who had pulled Louis inside was standing over him with a grin.

“A life for a life.” He said, and leaped out of the cup.

Louis watched the man leave and walk away from the table where he sat just a few minutes ago. He wanted to chase after him, but felt the ropes around his hands and feet.

This would’ve made a great story. If only he was able to write it…

© Daevone Molyneux, 2013

Expectations Can Be Childish



LeBron James or Michael Jordan? Tom Brady or Joe Montana? Lionel Messi or Pelé? For some strange reason, we as people constantly find ourselves in a game of comparisons. And there’s nothing wrong with that. However, one common debate is the argument of who is the Greatest Of All Time (The G.O.A.T.).

These arguments have taken place in bars, streets, classrooms, cubicles, and even churches. But this comparison game isn’t limited to sports. I’ve heard it take place on the subject of presidents, chefs, magicians, designers, and whatever else you can think of. Here’s my take on the subject, there is no Greatest Of All Time.

Let’s use basketball as an example. For us to say that LeBron James needs to win six championships just because Michael Jordan did is crazy talk. That template of “so and so must do blah blah blah to be like so and so” is disrespectful. We could be talking about a young woman having to live up to the expectations to be as successful as her mother, or a writer pressured to be the next Stephen King.

People are like snowflakes. Every one is different and no two are the same. Snowflakes are beautiful in the first place because they are unique.

There can truly be no “Greatest Of All Time” because time never stops, it continues. There are different circumstances and challenges for each generation brought into this planet. To say something like “Your Nobel Peace Prize doesn’t count because twenty years ago there were more genuine leaders” is both infantile and incorrect. Each generation or era has its own unique set of challenges.

To say something like “LeBron wouldn’t be as effective during the 90s” is also incorrect. Just because LeBron James plays in a different era than the 90s doesn’t mean he wouldn’t adapt to the physicality of that era. He likely would’ve adjusted his game accordingly.

I don’t believe there’s one great person who stands head and shoulders above the rest. I believe there are great people accomplishing goals in their respective fields, none significantly above the others.

Don’t get me wrong, comparisons are fun. I love them just as much as your average earthling. But they can be stressful to the individuals currently in our lives. We as a people must learn to put aside this childish game of “I’m better than you” and learn to appreciate the individuality of those in our lives.

We live in a special time, surrounded by special people. Appreciate the talents of those in front of you, before it’s too late.

What Fuels Your Writing?


This morning I woke up and glanced over at my bedside table and the notebooks on top of it. Inside those notebooks, my characters, plot, and story structure live and breathe. I’m still in the planning stages of my novel and I feel an unexplainable hunger to just get it finished already. Some days the ideas don’t flow, but other days can be like an ocean. Most people probably would’ve given up by now and thrown away those ideas, but not me.

My main character is talking in my ear 24/7 and lives inside my head. He and the world he lives in call me to the page. I am their magician, their warrior, their god. They call upon me to create their world and direct their lives.

That’s part of the reason why I keep going. That hunger to create new worlds and lives on the page drives me. Novel writing is a bumpy ride, but I’m enjoying the journey. That’s the fuel I’m powered by.

Enough about me, what about you? What fuels your writing?

A Bloody Masterpiece


I am the female Pablo Picasso. At least, that was according to a news headline on my wall. It was just one of many I had all around my sleeping space. I had everything from medals, trophies, certificates, and other braggerific stuff like that. On this particular day, the Channel Five news was coming over to do an interview, so I was on the floor finishing another painting. One stroke at a time. Up and down, down and up. I was in my zone man, nothing could break my focus – nothing.

At least, that was until I heard glass shatter and my parents shouting from upstairs. I tried my best to stay on task, but the noise kept teasing me. Doors slamming, shoes stomping, constant banging. As I put down my paint brush and stood up, I could feel my legs aching beneath me. A genius like myself shouldn’t have to put up with such distractions.

Oh great, I could feel a headache coming on as well. I took a look around my room and realized something. My recent paintings were totally different than the ones from a few months ago. The past few months had been putting such a damper on the quality of my art. The fights between my parents were getting under my skin. Almost everyday there was an accusation, a pointed finger, or something like that. Come to think of it, times were much simpler before dad got laid off. Since the day he heard that the factory was letting him go, he was never the same. He began to drink, get high, and even leave the house at 2 in the morning without saying a word.

I took my eyes off the paintings and went into the living room to clear my head. Going in there didn’t help at all because waiting for me were dozens of overturned beer cans, disarrayed seat cushions, ashes left and right, and a musky smell in the air. Ugh. I walked across  the living room, sidestepping the mess beneath me, just trying to find some peace, somewhere. I found it when I looked at the mantle. Well, not necessarily at the mantle, but more so at the pictures perched on top of it.

As I walked towards it, a bunch of photos caught my eye. Specifically the ones of mom, dad, and I laughing together at Disney, and the ones from our trip to the lake. No matter the setting of the photo, there was a constant theme – happiness. This new dad was a stranger compared to the man I saw in the pictures. He doesn’t shave, his breath smells, like Vodka, and with that new gut, he looked just as pregnant as my mom. I felt cold tears streaming down my face as I remembered what used to be. I missed those times of peace and love so much that I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew what I needed to do.

I walked over to another room down the hall and stood at the door, my body leaning against the frame as I looked inside. That room was pure in every way, from the flawless blue walls to the crib in the corner and the rocking chair on the rug. My baby sister shouldn’t come into the world with negativity waiting for her at the front door.

I entered the room, made my way over to the closet and opened it. Inside were the usual knickknacks for a baby – diapers, stuffed animals, packs of pacifiers, you know, those kinds of things. But none of that stuff mattered at that moment. I was focused on the suitcase laying on the closet floor, buried beneath a mountain of Huggies diapers. I threw the boxes onto the floor, uncovering the hidden suitcase. I reached down to open it, my hands trembling around the zipper. I flipped open the top and pulled out the one thing in its depths – dad’s PA-08 shotgun. He thought it was a clever hiding spot, a tool of death hidden in a room of life. I exited the baby’s room and walked to the stairs, gripping the deadly weapon in my hands.

One step at a time I ascended, the wood creaking beneath my feet. Mom had been the supporting wife she always was. Her love was consistent. A stay-at-home housewife who cooked and cleaned, rain or shine. She deserved better than this. She deserved better than to have a sloppy drunkard as a husband.

I reached the door of my parents’ room and stood frozen for a few minutes, listening to the screams behind it. The sounds from the other side paled in comparison to my heart, raging inside my chest. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. Like a drums-only marching band. I reached out to the door knob. My hand trembled as I turned the knob and pushed the door open. I saw a sight I would never forget.

Mom was on the floor, sprawled against the corner like a discarded rag doll. Her screams of terror echoed around the room, black and blue bruises staining the canvas of her face. Dad stood over her, yelling things that no man should ever say to his wife. I noticed broken glass on the floor, from my mom’s vase, but that wasn’t the only thing that caught my eye. To my horror, my father was stomping on my mother. The atmosphere in the room was so intense that neither had noticed me come in. I clenched the shotgun with both hands, the icy steel sending  a chill up my spine. This bastard was going to pay.

I ran towards my father and struck him in the back of his head with his shotgun. The metal clanged on contact, and there was a rumbling sound as he hit the floor. He laid there on his back like an overturned turtle, staring back at his own daughter. I looked him in the face, my eyes meeting his. His eyes were watery, like two puddles. It was as if the liquor ran out of room in his body and rented out his eye sockets. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my body and welcomed the rush that came with it.

I gripped the gun tightly in my hands once more, this time with a finger on the trigger. I steadied my hands, the barrel pointed at his head. His face showed no expression – his mouth slightly agape as he stared into the face of death. He would never lay his hands on my mom, never again. Chick-boom! Splat. His blood splattered around the room, it was the loveliest shade of scarlet an artist could ever ask for. It was over. I had done it. Peace at last.

I turned to face my mother, dropping the shotgun at my feet. Her eyes were wide and her mouth opened when she realized what had happened. I began to feel a queasy feeling in my stomach. Did I do the right thing? To my relief, she gave a smile and a nod my way. Mission accomplished.

The silence in the room was refreshing like cold water on a summer afternoon. Mom and I stayed there for a few minutes, not a word spoken between us. I helped her back onto her feet, and we talked about what we would do with the body. We decided to throw it in the closet under the stairs, since nobody used it anyway. We dragged the lifeless body down the stairs and locked it in the closet, just as planned. It was now time to clean up all the beer cans and not to mention the blood upstairs. The news crew would be here soon.

An hour later the door bell rang and we welcomed Suzie McMahon and her cameramen inside for the interview. Mom and I stood there smiling at them, a mother and her artistic daughter. Everything was picture perfect.

“What happened to your face? Are those bruises? Are you okay?” asked Suzie McMahon to my mother.

“Oh, I have a terrible allergic reaction to cats. It’s nothing really.”

Suzie McMahon shot my mother a look of disbelief, but then shrugged her shoulders. Whew, we dodged a bullet right there.

The night went smoothly. We finished the interview and the crew did a segment on my latest art work. It felt great to be acknowledged as they showered me with praise for my latest creations. The interview ended and mom and I let them out of the door with a smile. I couldn’t help but feel sad that they wouldn’t see my latest masterpiece. Locked under the staircase, never to be seen by the human eye. What a shame. It was an absolute work of art.

– © Daevone Molyneux, 2013

What did you think of my story? Let me know in the comments below if you’d like to see more. Thanks for reading!

Dream’s Evil Twin


Nightmare is the name of Dream’s evil twin. Like Yin and Yang, Beavis and Butthead, or day and night. You know the template. Really really good and really really bad.

Dream is a helpful friend, while Nightmare is a deceiving enemy. Dream makes you a celebrity on the red carpet. Nightmare pulls it from right under your feet.

Nightmare’s henchmen are notorious and well-documented. Everything from cold sweats to raging heartbeats have bullied countless people since the birth of time. Nightmare would make us skinny dip in the ocean with no oxygen supply, just for the hell of it.

Not only is Nightmare evil, he absolutely loves nothing more than to toy with out emotions. If you’re a person who is not only afraid of spiders, but also has an irrational fear of big noses, Nightmare will find a way to merge them together. Even if you try running from the 40 foot nasally rich tarantula and its bulging nostrils of doom, Nightmare will make sure you don’t run fast enough.

Or you may be running at regular speed, only to find yourself swallowed down a hole that came out of nowhere. Plunging into the abyss, destined to fall forever. I’m sure that I’m not the only one who hates those nightmarish falling experiences.

I think we can all agree that Nightmare deserves a well-placed kick to the crotch. What do you think?


Our Dreams


Dreams are an unexplainable phenomenon. They allow us to travel to places we may never go and bind us to them. Blurring the lines of what is possible and what is not. Our dreams bring us face to face with our greatest desires, reflecting our wishes before us.

Listen to me. Go kidnap that old guy walking down your street. Yeah, him with the green jacket and closed-toe sandals. Now interrogate him and ask him what he dreams about. Although he’s held hostage by a stranger, he’ll get that look in his eye. That look of hope and belief. That look of aspirations and child-like enthusiasm.

Just ask anybody you meet and they’ll say they have a connection to the land of milk and honey. That is because our dreams force us to believe when we doubt. They are the mirrors of our imaginations, portraying the vision our hearts reflect in their depths. Why else do we wake up so refreshed after a solid night of dreaming?

Let’s get serious for a second. The world we live in is a difficult place to be a part of. We’ve got bills, car accidents, jobs, bosses, annoying neighbors, and things like that. Have you ever stepped on a Lego with your bare feet? If so, then you probably wanted to escape to a cleaner, less hazardous environment. That’s where dreaming comes in!

What better way to distance yourself from reality than to stretch imagination to its limits? So what are you waiting for? Grab the comfiest pillow and sheet set you can find and catch a first class flight to Dreamland.



Misunderstood Robot

robot monster

Robot monster, robot monster oh please spare us your pity

On these scared people running as you rampage New York City

News reporters think they know about you, they don’t understand

They claim you’re a weapon of destruction from the Taliban

But I think you’re a gentle giant searching for your worth

That might be the real reason why you’ve been wandering the Earth

Fear has spread all over the city and it has gone so far

That a frightened person drove off the bridge, speeding in their car

I think you’re an intriguing robot that I should try to tame

That’s why I ignore my mother’s screams and climb your metal frame

The people start shouting and pointing their fingers in dismay

I stand atop your hand looking into circle eyes of gray

A robotic creation just searching for someone to love

The nobility of a lion, but gentle as a dove

You then look back at me, giving a kind smile nevertheless

Then and there something catches my eye, the button on your chest

When I press that button, something happens to surprise us all

Our giant robot monster shrinks down to the size of a doll

The newspapers say I saved us from a robotic menace

But today I made a friend, the toy robot I named Dennis

-Daevone Molyneux