Once Upon a time

Larry's Boots

2008-10-29T09:45:00.009-04:00

Larry's boots are the boots of a working man.

The yellow leather is deeply etched with scrapes and scuffs. The coloring is uneven, splotched, water-stained. His sparsely furnished room is redolent with the earthy smell of the old leather of his boots. He pushes aside the stale smoke of his lucky strike from last night, the cold dead butt still dangling out of the ashtray by his bedside as he rises and stumbles his way to the open water closet door. There on the cracked, chipped, rust-stained pedestal sink, sits a flatfish of Fleischmann's whiskey. His preferred brand of "mouthwash". He pops the people-proof top off of the bottle of aspirin which resides right next to the bottle of Fleischmanns and hurriedly grinds three of the pills between his molars, chasing it with a bit of the hair of the dog. He splashes a handful of cold water on his face and then raises it to look at the pathetic slob who stares back at him every morning.

"Hello."

A pleasant young man smiles brightly out at him through the grime of the mirror and holds his gaze.

Larry closes his eyes tightly and then forces them violently open, the way one does when trying to wake from an obvious dream.

He looks again at the mirror.

The young man, his blond hair tousled as from a fresh shampoo and toweling, is wiping away the greasy streaks from his side of the mirror with a bit of toilet paper, tsk tsking as he wipes. When he has finished, he tosses the moist wad of paper toward the wastebasket under the sink where it lands, on Larry's side, with an almost indiscernable "whiff" sound.

Larry stares at the paper in the basket. He shifts his gaze to the empty cardboard tube hanging in the holder in "his" bathroom. Then he looks at the almost full roll hanging there in the mirror image.

"What the...."

"Heck." the mirror man interjects. "We need to talk".

"We?"

"You and I. We need to talk about the direction your life has been taking. Or more succinctly, the direction you have been taking your life. I'm not at all pleased."

"F*ck me, my brain's fried." Larry moaned, dropping his head into his moist shaking hands.

His breath was coming in and rushing out in short ululating gasps. "I've finally done it. Must be the damn DT's." he muttered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"What the hell do I do now?"

Tap. Tap. Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap. Then, the unmistakeable sound of glass crunching.

Larry lifts his head. There in the mirror is the pleasant young man, staring wide-eyed at the knuckle of his middle finger as he pulls his right hand away from a star pattern of cracks in the mirror. There is blood on the knuckle. He shakes it into "his" sink. Bright red splotches appear in Larry's sink.

"I didn't know I could do that." the young man mutters to himself.

"Do what?"

"Bleed."

Larry hurriedly turns on the hot water and rinses the blood down the drain.

"Thanks" the young man muttered absently.

"OK, I get it. I've gone nuckin futz. How long does this damn show go on? Or do I just wait until somebody comes by and tosses a net over my head?"

"Are you ready to listen?" asked the unperturbed young man.

"Listen to the voices in my head? Sure. Cool. You're not going to make my dog talk or anything like that are you?" Larry said, rather intrigued by the growing sense of calm that was overtaking him. "If I am freaking out, I might as well enjoy the ride" he thought.

"My name is Steven. Do me a favor. Grab your toothbrush and start working some of that yellow paste off of your teeth."

"What?"

"Larry, you're fine. Really. You are. You're a little "adrift" right now, that's all. The chaotic interruption to your life that I am, is making you feel unsafe; outside of the comfortable cocoon of a life that you've created. Doing something "routine" will help you to get your bearings. Trust me on this one. Up and down frontsies, side to side backsies. Take your time because what I've got to say may take a while. The toothpaste is over there on the floor behind the toilet. I'd rinse the tube before opening it if I were you." Steven raised his eyebrows and then softly chuckled to himself. "If I were you...."

Larry did as he was told and began to go through the motions of brushing his teeth (something that he hadn't done in several days). "Mmmmmm minty" he thought.

Steven waited for several beats in order to allow the tediousness of the dental ablution to work it's magic on Larry's reeling psyche.

The taste of mint toothpaste and salty blood from his neglected gums commingled on his tongue eliciting an unexpected pleasant response from Larry.

Blood in his mouth. The memory of the bones of a strange fist mashing his too thin lips against the front teeth of his lower jaw. Yeah, that's a familiar taste. Kind of like it. Releases all of that pent up anger. Not the getting hit part, the hitting part. It's good for what ails you.

The whole damn world gets in your face all day long and all you want to do is curl up a fist and hit something. Hard. Harder. Harder. Sh*t, I let one through. His mouth fills with the taste of blood and his tongue quickly checks for loose or missing teeth. But the other bastard is on the floor, damn near out cold from the return combination to the temple and jaw. "Not good enough, not by a long shot".

He sways for a moment, unsteady from the steady diet of whisky he had been taking on all evening. He looks down at his boots. "These could use a shine." he thinks to himself. He pulls the leg way back and lets loose with a vicious kick deep into the ribs of the supine, semi-conscious man at his feet. He feels and hears the crack of the two broken ribs. He kicks, and kicks until he feels much better, and the man on the floor has a steady trickle of foamy blood gurgling up and out of his mouth. He turns and stumbles out the front door of the bar, before the bouncer has a chance to "escort" him out.

Larry didn't recall a hell of a lot after that. That is until he woke up this morning into this screwed up 70's acid trip that he was now riding.

Steven continued "You know that you killed that man last night."

"The hell I did." Larry slurred, wiping a line of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth.

He detected the faintest glimmer of a smile from the pleasant young man. It disappeared in an instant.

The young man continued, "You've led a life that is little above that of an animal. You see to your needs without regard to anyone but yourself. You care for no one and no one cares for you. To top it off, you poison yourself with a steady diet of alcohol, fried food and nicotine. What is the purpose? Where are you going? What goals have you set and achieved? Why do you settle for stasis in a cesspool?"

Larry glared at the pleasant young man for a moment, then, as if in answer to all of his questions, he put down the toothbrush and spit a putrescent glob of brown muck straight into the eyes of the mirror man. It sailed through the glass surface of the mirror as if it were water. The sputum splatted dead center on the bridge of his nose and slowly dripped it's way into both lacrymal sacs of the pleasant young man.

He continued his discourse unhurriedly, undeterred.

"You've stopped showing even a glimmer of a possibility of rehabilitation or eventual reconciliation with your humanity, your true self. In the movies you could expect some teary-eyed series of events that I would walk you through, hoping to show you a better way. You would get that second chance. Sorry to disappoint you, but that's not my job. You should think of me more along the lines of a two minute warning. You've been judged. You've been found wanting. Your ticket has been punched. No ringing cash registers and angels getting their wings. Just and end to your useless existence."

Great disembodied muscular arms appeared at his wrists and ankles and locked him in their icy iron grips. Then they began to pull in four different directions. There was a rather prolonged wrenching scream, then several loud pops. The mirror was instantly covered in a fine red mist. And then there was silence.

The pleasant young man's face appeared in an expanding spot in the center of the sanguinary coating. More toilet paper and tsk tsking as he meticulously cleaned the surface of the mirror off and tossed the bloody refuse into the basket below the sink.

He looked once more into the "real" bathroom. There were Larry's boots, one propped on either side of the toilet.

Then he turned his back and walked out of the frame.

Things that go bump in the night

2008-10-27T16:58:00.004-04:00

No matter how many times I tell myself that there's nothing down there, I still get a chill that travels the length of my spine whenever I turn my back on the cellar and start to climb the stairs back to the main level of the house.

I've only lived here for two years or so. We're still getting to know each other, the house and I.

It's totally irrational, I know. But, it's a gut-aching, shivering, shaking, why-am-I quaking moment every time I start that ascent from the subterranean soul of my maison d'etre.

She's a cozy old cape, with doghouse dormers, a single-car garage, white aluminum siding and a deck out back. The cellar should hardly be a creepy crawly habitation for things that go bump in the night.

And yet, I can never turn my back on her without feeling that she's going to follow me, silently, right up those stairs, her dead waxy eyes with the pupils blown waiting right behind the last trailing wisp of hair on my head as I hurry up the unevenly spaced risers. If I were to turn my head, she would most assuredly reach out with bony fingers and mouth agape, whispering incomprehensible nothings to herself as she dragged me back down to the blackness that is her native abode.

In order to turn off the light down there, I have to close the door. The switch is on the wrong wall and as a result, I need to put myself into the black before opening the door to make my hurried exit.

Lights out. Darkness.

Darkness peopled by a hundred different exquisitely chilling creatures.

They scurry quickly with sharp teeth flashing, hungering for a bit of foot or calf.

They long for the taste of shredded flesh.

She's not there, I tell myself. There is no beastie with a taste for your demise, snorting away the hours, waiting for the opportunity to lacerate your liver.

She walks alongside me throughout my days.

I know her.

She knows me.

And yet my rationality fights against her existence.

And nonetheless, she takes my hand and walks with me up the stairs from the cold, dark, soulless cellar.

Tanya

2008-10-25T23:13:00.003-04:00

Tanya shivered.

She wasn't cold.

The furnace was busily whispering to itself somewhere downstairs in the gut of the house. Warm air was pulsing out of it's open veins into the many articulated spaces above. Oil was burning, the fan was turning, cool air sucked into it's metallic lungs was warmed and sent back out to comfort all the sleeping inhabitants of the house on Carillon way.

Tanya wasn't comforted.

Her bare feet registered the feel of the new plush wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room. It still had that "new carpet" smell.

Her eyes were wide open, her pupils nearly blotting out her normally multi-colored Irises. In the light of day, her eyes sparkled with an effulgence of colour. There were sparks of green, yellow, and blue there that would reach out and hold you, daring your gaze to go elsewhere.

Her hand rested on the light switch. She had futilely clicked it up and down 5 or 6 times. It wasn't working. Light would chase 'em away.

Tanya shivered in icy moonlight that barely could push through the thick clouds that raced across the sky outside the huge bay window that looked out onto the blackness that was her front lawn. Her whispy blond hair hung straight to her shoulder, just grazing the top of her flannel night gown. The white gown made her stand out in stark contrast to the nebulous figures, which in daylight would be the couch, the chair, the ottoman, the low table, the stone ledge at the base of the fireplace. In this nether world 'tween day and day they were giant crouching toads and wrinkled dwarves with sharp knives and bad teeth. They were wagons filled to the brimful with rotted corpses, whose mouths were agape, carrion creatures busily slithering in and out of the putrescent orifices, munching, and crunching, and swallowing; swimming in odorous brown, dead blood.

A cold breath whispered across the nape of her neck, pushing a loosened bit of her hair out of place.

She heard him.

Mmmmmmmummm, mmmummmm, mmmmummmmm.

The skin of her back went instantly taut then prickled and tickled itself into a myriad field of fleshy humps.

She clicked the light switch one more time. Nothing.

Mmmmmmummmm, mmmmummmm, mmmummmmmm.

Tears welled in her eyes.

She looked to her left at the front door. Thought became motion. Her hand was on the knob. The door was unlocked. She threw it open and rushed out into the blackness. She shrieked as inertia carried her out and across the yard. She turned, she had to know if she was being pursued.

There, at the open front door were a gathering of her nightmare musings, their red eyes burning holes in the fabric of the night. They were just standing there, staring.

Why weren't they coming after her?

The dry leaves at her feet rustled ever so slightly.

From behind her a dry whisper uttered a single word: "Thankssssssssssss"

Slowly the front door to the house on Carillon way closed.

Oh Centurion Bring out the Whale

2005-12-15T16:59:00.000-05:00

Oh Centurion, bring out the whale
in from out of the sundering gale
for the tear in it's eye
draws a sigh from my thigh
yes, the time for it's rescue is nigh

The sharp-beaked worms have been feasting on blubber that's not theirs to take
they've had plenty of cake with the truncated snake who performs 'sleight of hand' by the lake
yes, the slithery sluthering, tubes are a muttering 'When will the coffee be done?"

Oh Centurion bring in the whale
he's been out long enough
to have purchased sweet snuff
which he'll stuff and he'll schnuff
through the hole at the top of his head

Bye the bye, muscle boy
sit by me, share my joy
can you see in the tree
an avuncular squirrel with her tail all a'twirl
expounding on Bach to the tick and the tock of a clement night clock
in a frock with a shock of white hairs showing through where the muscular toads have been hiding

All the night she's been chattering
incessantly nattering
demanding the grass grow more slowly
while the bulbous-eyed hoppers
are sharpening their choppers
and dreaming of flies with red meat on the wing

Oh Centurion BRING ME THAT WHALE!
I desire to converse with his tail
bring a pad, bring a pen
and come into my den
there are thoughts he and I will exchange
no, forget it
it's out of your range

The Cold Place III

2004-10-20T10:16:00.000-04:00

"THEY TORE MY ARMS OFF", the freshly pruned oak tree howled.

"Get off, it hurts!" the individual blades of grass wailed as the Morgensens terrier leaped this way and that, it's comical little mouth soundlessly snapping, drowned out by the cacophany that now filled Kyle's ears.

Inconsolable grief disguised as song drew his gaze into the branches of the relentlessly moaning oak. There in it's branches, danced a mother bluebird, shouting her fury and her loss to the winds and the leaves and the insensate rocks down below, where her fledgling's broken body lay, out of the nest too soon, and now, never to return.

Kyle pinched himself. Hard.

Nothing.

When the cold place called, there was no him, only this...

An ear to hear pain that is blithely ignored,
an eye to see rage in the eyes of a stone,
a mind that can grasp the fury of clouds,
an awareness of the seething red storm that is omnipresent,
ever beating against the gates of reason with hands worn raw and bloody.

The Cold Place II

2004-10-12T17:40:00.000-04:00

The hairs on both his forearms suddenly rippled like so much grain being kicked about beneath an angry thunderhead.

Cold.

"No. No, not yet. Not yet dammit!"

Kyle picked up the pace, not quite a run, no longer a brisk walk. He was beginning to panic.

The ambient sound all around him started to smudge around the edges, as if some gigantic pastel-dusted thumb was taking the individual sounds, one by one...

(the roar of a jet overhead became a gnat's buzz)

and pressing them to the ground,

(a terrier in the Morgensens front yard became all motion, no noise)

breaking their membranes

(the buzz of passing cars faded into inconsequential motion)

forcing their liquid, glistening essence

(his respiration was heard, but as through thick cotton)

to overrun their natural boundaries

(the soft feet-on-wet-sand crunching of blood beating against the stretched flesh of his tympanii - marched over the hill and was gone)

and become indiscernable.

Silent.

Cold.

His sense of self was draining out of him, like water racing out of a hot tub on a cold day.

Cold.

The cold place I

2004-10-05T16:20:00.001-04:00

Humming a tuneless little ditty, Kyle rolled his eyes at the scenery passing by.
His blond, straight, thin bangs occasionally took flight as he marched with a purpose down the sidewalk toward his home.

Another school-day, gone.

Another afternoon begun.

This one will be much like the one that preceeded it, and the one that will follow.
Homework books are squeezed onto the top of a pile in his backpack which works every day to change the curvature of his young spine.
They'll be ignored.
Unless, of course, someone asks "Did you do your homework?".
That should be around 10 o'clock tonight, so we're golden.

Kyle doesn't hang around after school.
He doesn't fit terribly well with any of the "in" crowds.
He's not a jock, not a head, not an artist, not a freak, not a.....
Kyle bites his lip to pull back from the cold place.
His lower lip bleeds a little, warm and salty.

The cold place.

Cold and dark and cavernously solitary. There, a single step could take a thousand years. Or a thousand steps, up a Mayan Temple could pass in an instant.

Kyle never could find words to describe what it was that happened when he would go there.
Go. That's a joke. More like being dragged backward by sharp, merciless steel hooks embedded in his sternum. There was no volition involved, when he would suddenly be "elsewhere".
And, the more he would try to make people understand that he was alright, that he had just "checked out" for a bit, the more they would look at him as if he had grown a tentacle right out of the middle of his oily pre-pubescent forehead. A thick, clammy, sticky, glistening, festering, wriggling, whip-cracking tentacle.

Funny, the things that bug her II

2004-09-30T08:37:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-28T22:53:00.001-04:00

“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

2004-09-28T13:07:00.000-04:00

...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

2004-09-27T16:08:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-26T21:22:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-24T13:00:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-22T09:28:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-20T23:18:00.000-04:00

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.