A blog about things -- not necessarily beautiful -- that at least jolted me out of my tram-lined train of thought. They may be funny, poignant, disgusting or beautiful, but they will be personal. You, dear reader, may not give a damn about an image of a crisp packet at the edge of a river but I might think it so delightful that I cry with gratitude. And a few poems. A a book plug or two.
They flock here after tragedy this flock of souls, these sheep that bleat and moan of ‘goings on’ yet in the darkness keep their garlic bulbs and silver shot and horseshoes nailed above the door - ‘For luck,’ they say yet whisper still of iron rings for good or ill and cross themselves and every night they swear to keep the faith alight. The fires are dead, the church is full - if God allows both old and new; for who are we to make a cull when monsters are His children too?
Right on the edge of Darkley Wood stand the ruins of a house that was never no good. It burned to the ground on a night long ago when the wind was a-howling and threatening snow. The only survivor of perishing fire was a girl and her mother, but I’ll be a liar if I tell you that they never was found except in a casket, six feet underground.
Ruby flames devour and burn the manor house – it lights for miles this wooded hill but still she hears the screams and mortal pleas of those die, that used to tease and keep her from her midnight sleep and steal away her daddy’s smiles until his face would fall and turn…
It wasn’t her - it couldn’t be a little girl who tossed the match upon a bale of kerosene- soaked hay and hammered shut the doors and windows but allowed her daddy one last sight of mother’s smiles in firelight
For now the monsters all are dead and left but shadows in her head and pain within her spirit’s hall for pie for one is pie for all and into her they all had hid and whisper now of what they did so Lucy, grown into a wife sharpens well the carving knife.
Fourteen nights without sleep - her eyes are dark and heavy. An essay that has made her weep extracted fearsome levy Too many night-time creatures haunt this mansion in the wood for as she rubs at tear-red eyes she fears nothing good will happen in this cursed ward ‘til Fate takes her in hand and lets her loose with bloody sword on legions of the damned.
In a locked drawer in the study is a little leather case I know just where the key is – on the stuffed iguana’s base. Inside, for I have seen it, is a single glass syringe with seven vials of poison and a very rusty hinge. If I got the critter out and used its little sticker the Manor would be mine alone – Thanks to my poison pricker.
Cigarettes gave her cancer; champagne: heartburn. Being perpendicular gave her vertigo. The sparkle of her personality atrophied under chemo and the glimmer of magenta sanity discombobulated according to obfuscated design.