Hello all you wild orchid lovers!
The 2021 season is starting in the northern hemisphere.
Be on the look out and you can post them on
YouInventedMe wrote a poem that we're challenging you to match with illustrations!
Brothers and sisters, let me set the scene
for a nightmarish creature so foul & obscene
that penning this poem makes me want to scream,
but the timing is perfect — for it's Halloween.
So, if we must, let's just start at the top
of his oversized skull with his unruly mop
of so-called hair the no-color of dust
on a fissured scalp peeling & leaking out pus.
His locks wind 'round horns, they're teeming with germs,
and look more like the husks of a million dead worms.
You've heard of bats in the belfry?
Well, it's not just a phrase;
small ones nest in his curls to hide from the sun's rays.
One more word on his noggin, for this must be said:
it's ten times the girth of a normal-sized head.
And if I haven't yet made the case for distaste,
let's move to the horror this thing calls a face.
Skin's the color of pumpkins dying a slow death
or a failing sun breathing its very last breath.
Brows like hairy slugs perched on orangey dough
crown flat yellow eyes peeking out just below.
Those beady orbs nestled in pouches and folds
of flesh home to all sorts of fungus and molds.
I suppose that's a nose next up on the list,
but it's rotting & roaches peer out through the slits.
Lips: scaly twin creatures all coated in muck,
like two lizards who crawled in some mud and got stuck.
Yes, his mouth is a marvel of nature's mistakes.
He has not one tongue — he has twelve made of snakes.
Oh, that slithering nest-hole just can't resist
striking at themselves as they writhe and they hiss.
And it's best if we speak even less of his teeth,
but they're green as the serpents who sleep underneath.
Now, we've seen enough here, so we shall begin
to speak of the mess under his bulbous chin.
And what appears next is not what you'd expect,
but two giant flaps like his neck... ate his neck.
His dermis is saggy, his guts are all stored
in a carcass that's shaped like some mutated gourd.
Yet he wears tailored suits, expensive and fine
that cling to limbs clunky and elephantine.
At the end of each arm is a claw like a crab.
The horrid appendages pinch and they grab.
He keeps them well sharpened and shined to a sheen,
but they are so small they can hardly be seen.
This would be almost a humorous twist,
if only this beast didn't really exist.
His mountainous legs suffer from the same flaws,
capped off in feet as tiny as his claws.
His whole frame reeks of sulfur.
He's covered in grime.
He leaves a lingering trail of malodorous slime.
This journey, I know's been an unpleasant one.
Dear reader, hang in there. We are almost done.
He lives in the depths of an ill-smelling bog,
shrouded at all times in a venomous fog.
Lit by giant mushroomswith an unearthly glow,
a sick, swampy kingdom where twisted things grow.
A pestilent monarch, he squats on his throne;
sips gallons of blood from a goblet of bone.
His subjects are legion, they flock to his side;
all manner of ghouls that the heart can't abide.
There's a pale hateful zombie,
who's bedecked in flies,
and humanoid shape that has fanged mouths for eyes.
There's a three-headed harpy who screams at the sun
and a man-eating frog that weighs nearly a ton.
One could spend forever
trying to describe
the monsters that make up his hideous tribe.
But our time draws to a close,
my stalwart friends.
Lock your doors, say your prayers
—for this is THE END.