Chained

“Let’s play a game,” Alturis said.

“Let’s,” Megan answered.

“We’ll ask each other questions.”

“Great.”

“I’ll start,” Alturis told her, and leaned forward.  “So tell me, Megan Cooper.  What part of yourself would you most like to kill?”

Megan had the feeling he asked all of his victims this before he killed them.  Even so, she answered honestly, “My memory.”

Alturis sat back in his chair.  “That would be too bad,” he replied.  “Because your memory is the only thing in life you own.”

“I’ll sell it to you for cheap.”

“Fine.  Sell it to me.  Tell me why I would want it.”

“Because it might amuse you in between murders?”

“But surely I must have a sample first, correct?” Alturis said.  “For instance, when did you first realize you were in love with your neighbor?”

Megan shrugged.  “I never was.”

“Then why do you look longingly at his house?”

“Just remembering,” she answered.  “That’s all.”

Poison

Forgiveness will infect me

slowly.

Poison for me to swallow.

Oh, but how much better

I will feel.

How much better I will

feel.

Hate is nothing precious,

nothing scarce.

And my love for you,

so unreachable.

This love I have lost for you,

I never hope to find again.

Yet, let forgiveness color

my memories.

Let it color my

reality.

Because it surely will.

For now I will remember,

because one day I will

forget.

And when I am surprised

once again,

never worry—

you never need to worry.

Forgiveness will come.

Disconnect

Photo by C. Hornby

This is a fool’s story warped into submission

Say what you want to say?

No one wants to listen

No one will help us sleep at night and

no one can save that kitten

No one wants to know if it is spring

or winter

Or whether the stars were bitten

Faithful

time is a monster                     asleep under the carpet

so easy to trip up on                to cover in never

with purples and yellows                    not just for pictures

but her yesterday sees            

her tomorrow remembers

The Witch & the Doll

Her glassy eyes drove me mad.  In a fit of rage, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife.  She said something in that dull, mechanical voice of hers as I slapped her down on the counter, but I refused to listen.  Instead I raised the knife high in the air and crashed the knife down across her neck, like a human guillotine. 

Her round plastic head jerked back, separated from its body.  It balanced on the edge of the counter for a long second; she cast me one last glassy-eyed look before her head then hit the floor.  It seemed to roll forever, until it finally came to rest underneath the sink.

I laid the knife down on the counter.  With some uncertainty, I pushed my fist into her dolly stomach, but nothing happened.  She was silent at last.

I had killed it.  I had killed the doll.

Waking up

I woke up just as my foot hit the grass.

I felt around next to me, but the dog who smelled like cake had gone.

In fact, I was no longer in the woods.  I was in a bed, in a room. 

Not the room, however, in the Great Hall.

I felt my back.  The fairy wings had gone.  

The Oily Puddle

I slipped inside of the

oily puddle today.

Even though I knew it

was there.

The twig you threw was good

enough to save

itself, barely.

Still, it was the strangest thing.

While I was waiting,

suddenly I had this tree.

Not much moves me,

but I had to move for the roots.

They were so big.

It burned inside, I know it.

The petrol had to burn the

branches inside,

had to leave scars that

never turn white.

The explosion would have

horrified you,

had you waited to see.

Oil does that—

it explodes.

And then there is nothing left.

Not even a twig.