As a child, I had a marvelously glum acquaintance who loved her tears. Her name was Myra and she cried every chance. Once I witnessed her standing completely still, staring into a Gothic mirror hanging in our parlor. It was a gift from my father’s Great Aunt Bromelia of Lizzard’s Point and was ornate far-fetched macabre. Myra was so entranced, watching a single salty drop mosey down her cheek that she stood there for a quarter hour. It made her sigh deliciously. The following is her very own Kreeplet entitled Misty Myra Miserable.
Brazillia R. Kreep