The Angela Babcock Super Natural Bookshelf

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05/16/2026

“The Legend of Manager Chadwick Clipboard III”

In the cursed land of retail-office pain,
Lived Chadwick Clipboard III, ruler of stress and disdain.
A man allergic to laughter, joy, or chill,
Who treated one bent sticky note like a federal bill.

One crooked label? One cart outta line?
Boom — emergency meeting by quarter past nine.
PowerPoint loaded, dramatic sigh deployed:
“Today we discuss… Why Excellence Has Died.”

He’d spawn from thin air the second you sat,
The moment you breathed or adjusted your hat.
You’d sit for one second — just barely to lean —
Then echo the prophecy:
“If you’ve got time to lean—”
CHADWICK. PLEASE.
The building’s unwell and morale’s on its knees.

My spreadsheet crashed, the printer threw hands,
Aisle seven’s on fire — not part of the plans.
Brenda’s in receiving emotionally fried,
And somehow I’m hearing how standards have died.

He timed bathroom breaks like detective noir,
Acting like Sherlock of Bodily Law.
Clipboard in hand like he’s solving a case:
“Three minutes too long… explain this disgrace.”

Yet Chadwick himself? Oh, the workload was tragic:
Three-hour coffee holds. Pure management magic.
He’d wander around with one eyebrow raised high,
Then whisper dramatically:
“Crazy day,” with a sigh.

Sir.

You answered one email.
Wrong. It bounced back.
Then blamed the whole staff for the system attack.

02/11/2026

Still We Bloom
We have known the language of slammed doors,
of silence stretched thin as winter light,
of words we wish we could gather back
like shards of a dropped plate.
We have stood on opposite sides of the same storm,
each certain the other held the umbrella,
each soaked to the bone with hurt
too stubborn to name.
There were years stitched with tight seams-
curfews and slammed brakes,
tearful goodbyes at bedroom thresholds,
love disguised as rules,
freedom disguised as defiance.
Me, Mother-
with my hands smelling of onions and soap,
counting pennies and prayers at the kitchen table,
building a life from sheer will
and sleepless nights.
You, Daughter—
all sharp edges and borrowed courage,
mistaking your fear for doubt,
your caution for chains,
aching to be seen as more than fragile.
We have said things that left bruises.
We have swallowed apologies like bitter pills.
We have circled each other
like wounded animals who recognize
their own reflection in the other’s eyes.
But love-
love never packed its bags.
It waited in the hallway
outside hospital rooms and heartbreaks.
It hummed in the car during long, wordless drives.
It showed up in sliced fruit left on the counter,
in late-night texts that read,
“Are you home safe?”
It was there in the way
your voice still softens when you say my name.
In the way I still reach for you
when the world feels too large.
We are not perfect.
We are patched and mended,
scar tracing scar like a map
of where we’ve survived.
And still-
when I look at you,
I see the woman who I taught
how to stand,
even when your knees shook.
When I look at you,
I see the girl I once carried,
now carrying pieces of you
into rooms you’ve never entered.
We have been through the fire
and come out smelling of smoke,
but somehow—
still blooming.
Rooted in the same stubborn soil,
reaching toward the same forgiving sun,
mother and daughter,
not unbroken-
but unbreakable.

02/10/2026

Nanny

Nanny’s heart is a house with the lights always on,
Kettle warm, door open from dusk until dawn.
In her laugh lives the echo of years gone by,
And the softest kind of “it’ll be alright.”

She loves with her hands-through baking and braids,
Through stories retold and the games that are played.
Every scraped knee, every dream, every fear,
Finds a home in her arms, safe and clear.

Three grandkids, her stars, her joy, her song,
She’s loved them fiercely their whole lives long.
In their smiles she sees tomorrow begin,
In their hugs, the whole world pulls in.

More than anything, more than words can show,
Nanny’s love is the truest thing they’ll ever know.
A love that stays, that teaches, that’s true-
A forever kind of love, wrapped up in you. 💕

02/09/2026

Still, We Choose Each Other

They have been through weather
that bent the spine of days-
nights that asked hard questions,
years that didn’t answer kindly.

They learned the weight of silence,
how words can bruise when thrown,
how love can ache like hunger
even when you’re not alone.

The man carries his mistakes
like stones warmed in his pocket,
the woman bears her scars
with a grace she never asked for.

They have broken, separately,
and sometimes in the same place,
yet somehow never shattered
the fragile truth between them.

Because when the world went dim,
they still recognized each other-
in the way hands reached out
without needing to be told.

Their bond is not perfection;
it is choice, again and again.
To stay. To listen. To soften.
To love without armor.

They know now:
love is not the absence of pain,
but the quiet vow to say,
Whatever comes, we are not strangers.

And so they stand-
scarred, honest, deeply connected-
not untouched by tribulation,
but held together by it.

02/08/2026

Full Measure

Life asks not for caution,
but for open hands-
to catch love mid-fall
and let it bruise us tenderly.

Drink the days like sunlight,
walk until wonder wears you thin,
because a heart that dares to feel
has already learned how to live.

02/07/2026

Still, I Choose You

Time grows old, but love stays young,
A quiet song the heart has sung.
Through changing days and endless years,
It holds through laughter, holds through tears.

No final page, no closing door.
Each dawn, she loves him more than before.

02/06/2026

A Hunger That Learned Her Name

She wakes where endings failed,
breathless but not empty,
stitched together by moonlight
and a memory that wouldn’t fade.
Her skin holds winter,
cool as marble left in rain.
Veins glow faintly,
not with blood,
but with want.
She does not rot.
She lingers.
Time circles her like a wary animal,
unsure whether she’s prey or god.
Once, she had a heartbeat
that rushed toward love,
toward danger,
toward every beautiful mistake.
Now her chest is quiet-
and somehow louder for it.
Graves open politely when she passes.
Candles bow.
The dead recognize their own.
She walks through nights
wearing shadows like silk,
eyes bright with borrowed starlight,
smiling a smile that has survived
every ending.
People fear her hunger,
but it isn’t flesh she wants-
it’s warmth,
it’s meaning,
it’s the echo of being chosen.
She is undead,
not unfeeling.
Not broken.
Just rewritten.
And if she kisses you,
you’ll feel it-
that chill,
that spark-
the reminder that death
is not the opposite of life,
only its darker twin
holding out a hand.

02/05/2026

She Who Answers The Moon

Under a moon stitched white with scars,
she loosens her name like a coat at the door.
Bones remember older grammar
the wild syntax of running,
of breath tearing free.

By day she is quiet as a held secret,
fingertips smelling faintly of iron and rain,
eyes carrying forests they won’t explain.
People pass her and feel watched by time,
by something patient and kind.

But night calls her truer title.
Silver climbs her spine,
fur blooms where fear once lived.
She does not become a monster
she becomes honest.

Her howl is not hunger.
It is a hymn for lost girls,
for teeth dulled by silence,
for hearts taught to stay small.
The moon leans closer to listen.

She runs not away, but toward.
Through bramble and myth,
through blood that finally remembers
how strong it is.

And when dawn comes, soft and apologetic,
she gathers herself back into skin,
leaving pawprints in dreams,
proof that power can be beautiful,
and beauty can still bite.

Beneath The Bleeding SnowWhen the snow falls too fast, it’s not just a storm—it’s a burial.Angie and her friends escape ...
12/09/2025

Beneath The Bleeding Snow

When the snow falls too fast, it’s not just a storm—it’s a burial.
Angie and her friends escape to a remote mountain cabin for a winter getaway, but the silence of the forest hides something ancient and hungry. What begins as laughter by the fire turns into a nightmare of blood-soaked sheets, claw marks in the floor, and mirrors that whisper lies.
Trapped by a blizzard, they uncover a journal filled with warnings: It wears your face. It speaks in your voice. It makes you forget who you are. As the creature hunts them—shifting shapes, stealing identities—the line between reality and madness shatters.
From the chilling Navajo legend of the yee naaldlooshii to a cave lined with human skins, The Last Season is a relentless descent into terror, where survival demands sacrifice—and even death may not end the horror.
Because in these mountains, the snow is not your enemy.
It’s the lullaby that wakes what should never wake.

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Fair Oaks, NY
32208

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(845) 866-0062

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