She sat at her grindstone, slowly and carefully pulling and sharpening her knife. When it sang, she knew it was sharp. Nose to the grindstone, she thought. That’s an interesting idea. Maybe next time.
She held the knife up and watched the blade gleam in the flickering candlelight. She got up from her worktable and turned off the music. Rossini’s “Thieving Magpies.” She loved the exuberance of the music, the playfulness of the birds before death. She selected her victims with care. Alone, vulnerable, each with a secret in her past. It was the secrets that bound them. Her last kill was perfect. Quick. Out. Away. She had thought of Grieg’s “Hall of the Mountain King” before killing. A sense of doom. And, Grieg’s “Morning Song” when she was done. A perfectly blooming morning after blood and death. She was already planning her next kill. It was the birds who saw her And circled And called And told The day started slowly. I woke up to a world wrapped in a gray fog blanket. Damp tendrils of mist drifted in the air. Droplets of water clung to leaves and dotted the windshield of my car.
I warmed my hands on my hot cup of coffee, breathing in the fragrant steam and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. The newspaper lay unopened on the table. I would get to it later. It was to delightful to sit and sip my coffee while gazing out the window at the cool, damp, peaceful landscape. That was the beginning. In my reverie, I didn’t hear the footsteps creeping softly up behind me. I didn’t notice the quiet breathing on the back of my neck. Or feel the prick of the gleaming, sharp knife as it slipped between my ribs and pierced my heart. Then, I was floating on that blanket of fog that somehow came into the house. Drifting slowly, ever slowly upward. Watching the scene in the kitchen unfold below be. I saw my body, slumped and bloody on the kitchen chair. The floor below the table was slick with blood. Rivers of red filled the seams between the floorboards. Red footprints led out the back door. I followed them, drifting just below the ceiling and through the wall. It didn’t occur to me that drifting through a wall isn’t possible. I saw a figure bending over to take off the hospital style booties that covered red running shoes. Pulling off surgical gloves and folding everything together. Then she stood and looked straight at me. I saw the face of my killer. She looked exultant at what she had just done. In love with the act of killing. She would do it again. And I would follow, watching. A silent witness. She joined the birds A dimorphous spirit “I saw,” she said The birds accepted her They joined in a circle in the sky My wings are clipped, and I fall
I brace for impact But I fall through the earth I land in a dark room lined with soft blankets I pull one around my shoulders, but it disappears like mist False comfort Shelves are lined with chocolate, dark and rich Melted cheese sandwiches and potato chips Bottomless glasses of wine But they taste like cardboard They offer no nourishment for my soul False comfort A seductive voice calls Look at your pain and behold its exquisite beauty Caress it, love it, embrace it Stay, sleep, the seductive voice whispers The world won’t miss you You’re not good enough Its tempting to stay in the dungeon of despair Hiding from life, hiding from light But there is only false comfort here I can’t stay I need light I need life I claw my way up towards the light Pulling myself hand over hand up the dark walls With agonizing slowness My fingernails are lined with earth My muscles burn But I’m out I collapse on the ground, exhausted Still raw and in pain But craving true comfort I stand on shaky legs Not sure I can make it Not sure I’m good enough I don’t want to ho back into that dungeon With its false comfort and false promises Lies Up here Pain fades, happiness grows, light glows Real comfort Come to my house in the dark of the moon
On the night when the veil grows thin Enter, and see what waits within A blood-curdling scream Silent wings glide by A raven, an owl, or a ghoul? I sit on the porch with my madly carved grin My candle lights the way in To my house in the dark of the moon Guests come creeping along the ground Slithering through the leaves Staggering down the walk Do you hear that skittering in the yard? Is it leaves being tossed by the wind? Or something more sinister, stalking? A pale face swims out of the dark with round black eyes and very sharp teeth She’s waiting for you Is your heart pounding in your throat? Can you run? Can you hide? Do you have the breath to scream? Ignore the tingle on the back of your neck The shiver along your spine That sense that someone’s watching you Look over your shoulder There’s nothing there Or is there? Are you brave enough to walk up the steps? Come through the door to see what waits In my house in the dark of the moon Lipstick
I lick it off It dries my lips It tastes like wax It makes me feel garish When I choose a bright color Like walking lips Surrounded by a body My mom liked bright pink Coral, or cherry red No eye makeup Just lipstick I wear lip gloss With a soft tint When I remember It doesn’t last I used to wear eyeliner and mascara But not lipstick Not any longer Now my face is unadorned, invisible Some women use lipstick as armor A shield A uniform to don to face the world Not me I am in awe of those who face the world With perfect paint And perfect hair And perfect clothes I would worry if my lipstick was on my teeth Instead of on my lips I would smear it around my mouth and look like I just took a bite of something bloody Perfection Adornment That’s just not me My lips are bare Weightless is how she thought she would feel the first time she changed – and flew as a bird. An owl, winging its way through a darkening sky. But strong is how she felt. Strong chest muscles beat her wings, creating lift. Rising through the air, soaring. Dancing on a breeze. Cool fingers of fog caressing her face as she raced through the sky.
The dark shapes of tall fir trees loomed, limbs outstretched, waiting for her to land. Home. A skittering through dry leaves caught her eye. A mouse scurrying home for dinner. Maybe it would be dinner, she thought, her golden eyes gleaming. Sharp beak, soft fur, warm blood, the crunch of bone. No, she decided, I’m not ready for that. The mouse can live another day. From her perch high in the tree, she watched the ribbon of river catch the last glimmer from the setting sun. Sparkling on its slow journey to the bay. Sharp scents of dry leaves, soil giving up its warmth after baking in the afternoon sun. A breeze fluttering by. The unearthly white glow of the rising moon. Full tonight. Bathing the world with its cool, soft light. Lighting the way home. Sighing, she spread her wings and floated through the soft night air to land in her garden. Folding her wings, she stood again as a woman. She turned and stretched her arms towards the moon in supplication. “Thank you, mother,” she said, “for showing me life from a different perspective.” She turned and walked into her warm kitchen for tea. Not mice. Fire frightens me
It hasn’t always I used to marvel at its beauty Its energy Its dance and its sparkle But now, fire means violence Death Destruction Its dance, a terrible choreography Eating everything in its path without discernment Now, fire means loss of life Loss of home Loss of security Loss of purpose Now, fire means smoke Unbreathable air that can cause cancer Stinging eyes Masks Coughs Now, fire means despair Devastation Massive damage Unfathomable repair That takes forever Fire also means heroes Who give their strength, their time, their dedication To secure lives, homes, families Selflessly I am thankful I’m lucky Fire didn’t eat my home My neighborhood My loved ones But it frightens me She ran, stumbling over rocks and tree roots. Her breath came in ragged gasps when she remembered to force herself to breathe. Her skin felt clammy. Fog was creeping in to blanket the cold, white light of the full moon. It misted her thin sweater with droplets of water. She didn’t notice.
She shivered, not from cold, but from fear, from abject error. Terror with a sharp taste. She didn’t know what chased her, but she knew it wouldn’t stop until her battered body lay dead on the ground. What chased her was relentless and evil. She burst through the trees and saw it. A spare, white building lit by an unearthly glow. Its dark, peaked supported a cross. Tall arched windows looked like eyes keeping watch through the night. Could she reach it in time? Footsteps padded behind her, getting closer, ever closer. She sprinted towards the doors of that small church on the glen. Her feet left wet tracks on the meadow grass. Her heart pounded in her chest. She pushed frantically on the thick wooden doors. They wouldn’t budge. “Who locks the doors to a church?” she thought. “And, why?” Crying now, she pounded on those doors with what was left of her strength. “Please,” she sobbed, “Please someone come. Open the doors. Let me in!” She heard a low growl behind her and turned. Bracing her back against the church doors, she faced her pursuer. Long, sharp canine teeth, saliva dripping in anticipation of the bite, dark matted fur, gleaming yellow eyes. Its fetid breath steamed as it panted. She was trapped. No hope. She braced for the attack… And fell into the foyer in a heap when the door creaked open. A young man with long hair, wearing a robe with a rope tied around his waist, held up a heavy cross. “Stop. I command you!” he ordered. “This one’s mine.” Carlo was sweating. Not from the heat. It was cool backstage. But he was a large Norway rat and he was nervous. He shifted his bulk so he could see upstage. The roof rats who were his principal dancers were warming up. Turning their focus inward, reviewing the choreography in their minds, trying to get into the zone for performing. The mice who made up the corps de ballet swarmed backstage. They were everywhere. Carlo wanted them out.
He signaled for his runner. She scurried over. “Tell the mice the house is open. We need quiet backstage. In fact, tell them to go back into the dressing room until you call them.” “But, their cue is right after the show starts,” the runner tried to explain. “Controlling those mice is like herding kittens. If they go back to the dressing room, we’ll never get them all onstage in time.” “No excuses,” Carlo muttered. He wanted to scream, but the audience would here, and the house was full tonight – of cats. Carlo knew his troupe would have to perform their best to keep the cats entertained. “Places in 15,” he said into his headset. “Only principal dancers backstage.” The music started. Carl cured the stagehand working the main drape, counting down 3-2-1 Go. The stage lights came on and the three principal dancers began their glissades and pirouettes. The crowd roared in approval when they performed pas-de-chats across the stage. Carlo allowed himself a smile and a sigh of relief. The cats were entertained. Carlo cued the corps. One of the younger mice ran onstage and froze, eyes wide with terror at the theater full of cats. Tears welled in her beady, black eyes. “I forgot my steps,” she whispered. “No excuses,” Carlo hissed. “Just dance. The audience won’t know if you make up your part. Just dance.” The mouse just stood, center stage, staring, her mouth quivering. The cats hissed and waved their paws, claws extended, in the air. Tails twitched. “The cats are getting restless,” Carlo said, mostly to himself. “Cue the next piece,” he ordered. “We need to keep the show moving.” Then he froze in horror as 200 cats jumped onstage and began to swat and bat at his dancers as they scurried around. The sound of purring reverberated when some of the cats captured their prey. It was mayhem. A roiling sea of terrorized mice surrounded by hungry cats. “We didn’t dance well enough,” one of the principal dancers moaned. “We didn’t keep the cats entertained.” “No excuses!” Carlo bellowed as he ran out the door. He had another show to run, and dancers to recruit to replace those he lost every single night. His audience was cats. What else did he expect? Late season heirloom tomatoes
Are ripe and lush And incredible robust The ends drip juice through my fingers when I pick them up from the cutting board And slip them in my mouth Eliminating the evidence of tomato cuttings |
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