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Hello all you wild orchid lovers!

The 2021 season is starting in the northern hemisphere.

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4 min read

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.

Noggin Decay

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.

breathing its very last breath

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.

Anger in a Willow
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Creatures from the Woods by organicvision, journal