Funny, the things that bug her II

I'm sure that I have a pantheon of folks "up there" who like me, for no sooner had mom let out the screech that was certain to be followed up with a swift smack to the kisseroo, then the elevator door opened.

I tossed down the gloopy Palmetto mess, a sort of gauntlet that I knew would slow her up, and flew down the hall, key in hand. I was in the front door in a quantum moment and safely planted on the other side of the now closed door to my room by the time the fire-breathing beastie entered our apartment.

"You are so going to pay for that!" she snarled, setting the budgies in the cage by the living room window aflame with her dragon breath and laser-cannon eyes. Well, maybe the birdies survived, but you get the picture. She was, "miffed", shall we say?

"You know those things freak me out!"

I knew if I replied in any way shape or form, it would only make things worse. Instead, picture me nodding my hearty agreement, with my back pressed firmly against the door to avoid any surprise advances from the enemy.

A beat. Another. An audible intake of breath, and then a decided change in tone.

"Look, I'm not going to DO anything to you, so you might as well stop this nonsense and come out and help me. We've got a thousand things to do before tonight."

Did I mention that my mom is a world-class treaty breaker? Her change from red-hot, to cool burn textured every square inch of my skin with goosebumps. My eyes darted about the room for some avenue of escape other than the door that I had re-inforced with my body (excellent choice). The window. Yeah, right. It's 10 stories up. What am I supposed to do, grab a broom and fly out? (The blasted thing is in the hall closet, on the OTHER side of the door). Message to self, you are not Harry Potter (instructions: repeat until you feel better about this grave injustice).

"OPEN THIS DOOR!"

"You've grabbed the kitchen knife, haven't you?" I shout over my shoulder through the now too-thin door.

"Don't be such a jerk." I noted that her voice's edge was sharper than the blade that I hoped was still in the butcher block stand on the counter.

"Tell me that you love me." Honest-to-God tears in my eyes.

"That's my job, now open the door."

"I think I'll wait for a couple more storm clouds to blow out to sea."

Chunk! Chunk! The door rocks against my back with the force of two strong blows.

"MOVE IT MISTER! I am not going to be late for the party"

She packs a mean whallop, even through the door.

Then, I feel it.
Warm, hot, sticky, and stinging like a bitch.
I stumble away from the door and spin around to look over my shoulder into the mirror on my dresser to see two rather large, open running wounds. I turn my head and see their twins in my bedroom door.

"Mommmmm! I can't believe you did that!"

"OH, I see, it's alright to torment me with those ghastly bugs, but you go all whiney over a couple of teensy weensy stab wounds. You know Halloween is an important night for me, and you think nothing of getting me all out of sorts on the big day. Now, stop being such a wuss. Recite the healing incantation and get out here and help me put the razor blades in these cupcakes for the kiddies tonight."

I told you, she's a tough old witch.

Funny, the things that bug her I

“Kill it!”

Mom was scrunched up in one corner of the elevator, trying to compact herself into as small a space as possible. For a moment, I thought she was going to supernova or something. Yes, it was no small thing when mom encountered one of them. As a matter of fact, it was usually a rather large production, complete with singing (screeching), and dancing (clawing for higher ground) and a cast of thousands (all of the sundry folk in the surrounding area suddenly appearing to rubberneck at what must have been the scene of a murder, rape or flogging).

“I got it ma, c’mon cool out!”

Her hands were in front of her face, shielding her from all sensory input other than sound.

To satisfy some primal 14-year-old genetic programming, I picked up the now mangled beastie, with it’s innards all artfully spread on it’s out-erds, and asked her “Is this what you were all freaked out about?” whilst waggling the offending ex-bug in front of her. She had pulled her hands down and away from her face just in time to catch the dead-bug-ballet. I knew that I was a walking dead man now, but it was worth it. I’m pretty sure that she was due for a panty swap-out at this point.

Mom’s a tough old witch, but the one thing she cannot abide was now dripping it’s sqooshed guts down the side of my fingers.

Water Bugs.

Think of a cockroach’s mutant big brother, only bigger and messier and noisier when they get crunched.

Green Contemplation II

...calms the tremors that rise from my roots as I see them approach once again.

A useless display of arrogance unheard of in seed beds. Unthought of in deepest forest converse. Unbelieveable to me.

A somber party of meaty warm ones, plodding along like children unsure of themselves, which in essence, they are, approach the gate.

One more somber than the rest, clutches an abomination close to his breast.

A Book.

A tree with the life ground out of it, ground into a fine paste, which was then formed into uniform rectangles stained with minerals and water from which these pathetic creatures draw comfort.

Stitched together.

Bound.

A good way to describe the subjugation of the noble life that preceeded.......the book.

Iron pins in iron hinges yelp in pain as they grind one against the other. The gate swings inward. The assembly shambles forward, trodding on my toes as they approach.

The bearer of the book stares deeply into it, mumbling an incantation which causes all to bow their heads in response.
All except for the frightened, rabbity, tall thin one standing in their midst.
He is bound, arms behind him. His eyes are wide, darting all over this place. His breath is shallow and fast; sweet smelling, fear-filled; an oration of denial.

Tree does not fell tree willfully.

Flower does not bear malice to bush.

Grass seeks not the death of vine.

Yet these take onto themselves the power to determine the method and time of the demise of one of their own.

It is not natural.

The somber one, who caresses my brother, "the book", closes it and nods to another in the gathering.

I feel the old familiar slippery feel of rope being pulled across my arm.
One end in the stout hands of 6 or so strong men, one end attached to the rabbity one.
Then, there is a burn in my shoulder as they pull the new weight with their pathetic string, which jerks and bobs and sways for a time.

And then it is still.

The children pick up their toys, and amble away.

And I am alone, once again, free to contemplate the setting sun.

Green Contemplation I

A black, wrought iron fence, with ornamental spikes bares its teeth at the setting sun that is rushing through its ribs.
Silent fire, orange and red bangs noiselessly between the bars.
Razor-flakes of paint erupt outward from the metal it was supposed to protect.
A dusty, uneven, abrasive orange skin shows through where naked iron should sleep, protected from the ravages of oxygen.

A tree exhales, and iron dies.

Fitting retribution that, for untold generations of axe-bite.
Sharp, cool, and merciless, they are........axes.

I've seen the stupid finches lay dead twigs and grass in your sterile branches, cold and ugly.

No grace in metal, it knows not how to dance the slow dance of days into weeks into months into years.It doesn't bow in respect when brother wind rushes by.

No.

Metal is stubborn; perhaps proud. I couldn't say for sure as I've never heard even a whisper from it's haughty lips in the still of an evening, after sparrow song is done.

Sparrows.

I love how they tickle as they fly in and out of my arms that were made for their abiding. And the song of their babes in their hunger ....

The Loons II

A flutter of movement in the brush by the shore pulls me away from far away and long ago.

Early mornings have always held a fascination for me. Was I awake before and am I now dreaming, or is it the other way around?

“Sleepers awake!”

Rise through layers of existence that separate those who sleep from the rest of us.

When I wake, I'm like a drowning man, in sodden, tattered, clothing, in the cold, inky deep. I see a faint light, far away and above, nothing more than a concept of warmth in an all-enveloping tactile darkness which seems to sluggishly pulse in my veins, blotting out the ability to think, to be. I Kick and claw upward, lungs afire with the effort of keeping a spoonful of air in and all else out. When I break the surface, I scream backward into my lungs as they noisily fill with great handfuls of air. The light of the sun, which I sought out with such vigor is traded in an instant for the gloomy glow of a dim light on the dresser across the room. I'm awake, returned, once more, from “La Petit Mort”, the little death.

Resurrection is but a twitch of the eyelids, a languorous stretch that begins at the base of the spine, an oxygen-saturated yawn to stoke the fires of being.

That moment; that border between lives, is as fragile as the grip of dandelion seeds to the stalk. A puff from a child’s cheeks on a summer day and its journey to death and rebirth has begun.

I gets dreams and life all mixed up.

The Loon lets out a soulful cry.

It’s cold.

I looks down into the bag that I realize I am now holding open in my two great hands.

The glint of her cold dead eyes reminds me of the way she used to look at us when she would iron my trousers on the cold early mornings before school.

A loud splash breaks the calm of the moment, and a frightened loon takes her flight.

The Loons I

Quiet.

A Loon murmurs to itself as it paddles from the spot where a huge trout slapped the surface of the water after a frolicsome jump.

Quiet again.

It's cold; no, crisp.

That's how mom would describe a fall morning; not freezing, not warm. The grass would soak the cuffs of your pants if you walked on it on "crisp" mornings. The birdsong had a mournful quality on crisp mornings because there would be less of them now. You could hear individual chirpeggios echoing in the empty, sullen morn. The dog would stop and lift his nose, patiently attending to the sound, the smell, the soul of early autumn air.

The scent of bacon and eggs, white toast and butter and Lipton's tea suffused the fabric of the comfortable little nook in a corner of the kitchen. By the time we'd get downstairs, Dad would almost be ready to go out the back door, never the front, on his way to work. We would still be wiping the sleep sand out of our eyes as we hugged him and kissed him goodbye for another long day.

After breakfast was a ritual of inestimable soul-comfort. We went to a parochial school, my sister and I. We wore uniforms, that mom ironed on a "hide-away" ironing board, which mysteriously appeared from what looked to be a cupboard in the kitchen. She'd press the crease on my grey dress pants, and I'd slip into them quickly to indulge in the ecstasy of warm clothes on a cool morning.

Simple pleasures are the best.

I'm cold.

No, crisp.

The trees are still, no wind.

Banshee II

A pale glowing miasma of yellow, rimmed with red, an unconsecrated halo backlights her.
Her eyes, all white, her breath foul, her voice, the wailing of a thousand damn-ed souls.
Her lips, two earthworms all segmented and crusted, wriggle upward into a Joker's grin.

The sound of their breath is all Tara can hear; phlegmy, burbling, popping hyperventilation of the unholy circle. A box of pups with head colds.

The regulator clock has stopped it's tick-ticking. The filter on the fish tank is holding it's breath. The radio is blinking "12:00".

"Tara...."

The voice is shrill and high and soft and subtly painful. The opposite of kettle drums being beaten by trolls.

"Come play with me, my sweet ."
She hisses and sighs the word "sweet".

"Momma, Momma, MOMMA!"

Tara can hear the words in her mind, banging against the top of her skull, looking for a way out. Her lips quiver like a heart out of rhythm. They will not make the shapes, and even if they could, her throat would not feed the empty words formed by her mouth with the life of tickled air.
She pinches her arm and imagines forcing her eyes open to leave this place and wake in a warm bed.

There's a soul-searing shriek from the Banshee's portal. A clawed, bony hand thrusts forward toward Tara. All the wee scritchy-scratchy folk have turned, their circle broken, their eyes wide now with rage. Their tiny feet claw for purchase on the bedsheets, the rat-like familiars rush forward toward the head of the bed......and Tara.

She tries once more to open her eyes and........

Grandma is standing by the side of her bed, smiling. She runs a hand through Tara's hair and asks her if it was a bad dream. Tara grabs grandma's night gown and buries her head in the folds of it.
"Grandma always smelled of lilacs." she thinks to herself.
"Honey, can I get you a drink of water? Perhaps that will settle you down a bit."
"Yes, please."
Grandma takes her hand and leads her out of the dark bedroom into the light of the hall.

Early the next morning, Tara's mom, coming into her room to wake her for school, noted something unusual.

With all the recent problems Tara had been having with nightmares, the sheets of her bed would invariably end up at the foot of her bed, bunched up into knots with her blanket. This morning however, the sheets were as crisp and fresh as when she had made the bed yesterday morning.

Little Tara was lying quite still. Centered and alone in the large bed.
Her arms were stiff, straight on either side of her, the delicate palms pressed down on the mattress. Her white cheeks had a translucent milky-blue porcelain quality. She wasn't breathing.

Her mother bit her lip, took a deep breath, and slowly sat at the foot of the bed. This wasn't a surprise. She knew it was coming for some time. And, here it was. The doctors said 3 to 6 months. She went early. Two months, three weeks, and this was the morning of the third day.

"First my mom, now my sweet little girl. At least there were no nightmares last night. She left us in comforting familiar surroundings. That's something"

And then her facade of strength crumbled.

The howl of the Banshee filled the room for a second time that morning.

Banshee I

Tara is five.
Her eyes are very large.
They've seen many things in those five quick years.
They take in the details and do not release thoughts.
She clings to them as she clings to her furry, musty smelling stuffed bunny in the dark chill of the night.
In the morning, Momma asks "How did you sleep honey?"
Tara has learned that the proper answer is "fine."
She scares momma if she tries to tell her about the scritchy scratchy sounds that start after the clock strikes "elevensies and a half".

Momma looks at her funny if Tara tries to tell her about the little red glowing dots of light that skitter this way and that two by two across her bare wood floor.
Momma says "Sounds like you had a bad dream."
"But Momma, that's not it..."
" Oh honey...."

Tara has learned that Momma doesn't believe her, so she doesnt' try to tell her anymore.
The red dots, the eyes that see in the dark, the red dots that illuminate sharp white teeth that malevolently smile at the tear-filled terror stricken eyes that Tara cannot force to close.
"They" jump onto the foot of her bed and cackle and bounce and scratch at the comforter.
Her tummy goes all pins and needles and ice cubes. A hundred centipedes race up and down her spine. The goose flesh between her shoulder blades presses inward and causes her breaths to come in faster and shorter. She wants to scream but her throat won't obey. She wants to turn on the lamp by her bed to chase them away, but the switch doesn't work.

She pulls her feet up and presses her back to the headboard. Her knees are against her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them, her head tucked down, her eyes on the unholy gathering.

Darkness is their home.
They will not go.
They delight in her terror.
They drink it in like wine at this black feast.

The leaping and the screeching and the jumping stops and they join hands in a circle at the foot of her bed, staring over their shoulders deep into her large eyes.
Their gnarled, red, hairy hands with yellowed nails unclasp and clap a tattoo in time with the regulator of the old-fashioned "wind up" clock on her dresser.
The red dots of light go out as their eyes close in an ecstasy of the moment.
Their faces are uplifted.
A low humming from their throats fills the room .
And suddenly, Tara sees her.