Consolation

I met an ogre on the Merry Go Round
Merry-Go
Merry Go
Round
Go-Round

Long after Merry-Go-Round time

In the dusty light and iron air
He spoke

"I ate a child today.
And I worry that tomorrow there will be none."

I answered

"I broke a heart today
And tomorrow I worry I will have no love."

He said

"A heart is meant to be broken
New love is born everyday."

So i consoled him

"There will be more children
New ones are made every day."

Behind Avalon

Behind Avalon is a place we have built

Leftover from myth and gossip

We have split reason and peas on the edge of a dream

And live under a thatched roof of endsummer.

It's never day
And it's never night
And we never feel like sunrise is coming.

Windswept and windtorn
Winddrawn and winding down
Withdrawn and with hopes
That the end won't come
without a beginning.

Behind Arthur and Morgaine,
Behind Jaweh and Pluto
But just beyond Bulfinch and Gutenberg

We sup upon wine pressed
from
factual desire
and cheese made from
every last
breath

We wake to vows written across the sky
Holding hands as we read it aloud
Loudly proclaiming
Debating
Where the emptiness begins.

Night never comes
but sleep often does
And when it does, we raise our spirits the best we know how

Because we are all seated
on the end of all days
Forfeiting Past for the Now.

"Dine with me,"

she said, just as I did, a fraction of a second later.

She sat down at the table as I did. In complete silence, we ate for several minutes. her with her right hand, I of course, left-handed, leading with the sinister side.

I opened my mouth to speak, looking up at her, her eyes catching mine, and I could see her lips parted, a word frozen on her lips. We both stopped, watching each other, like cats on a windy ledge, unsure as to what particular social nicety was to be observed.

Finally she laughed, her laugh bright and tinkly, like rain hitting a window pane. She brushed a wayward strand of hair from her forehead as she looked at me, one finger delicately playing at the rim of her plate, a stray swab of marinara coming precariously close to her pale, cotton-white skin.

I brushed the hair out of my face and matched her laugh, fingertips drumming against the flatware, not caring what sort of mess I risked.

This was the moment, and we felt it, with the moonlight streaming in from the window behind her, illuminating her figure--the one she thought was too much, but that I found particularly well matched to my own. The moon drained the color from the room, washing the space in its own brand of lunar tones--mare yellow, refracted blue, and hemming every edge in a peripheral haze of ultraviolet rainbow.

She looked down demurely. I followed her eyes, briefly glancing at my own shadow, laid out in front of me upon the marble table, nearly touching hers.

Our eyes met. She leaned across the table, kicking her chair back. My own chair toppled back as I rose to meet her. The clatter of wood on tile, the flash of moonlight, everything was forgotten as my lips met glass. Chilled by the night, it was cold against my mouth, draining the heat from me. I imagined it drew it into her body, but I had no way of knowing. A chill shudder ran through my body--no one else could understand this, and that is what wove excitement into this night.

The gold frame was a window between us, an impassable door, on either side of which sat two identical meals, half-finished. Two moons shone through two windows, and two sets of lips met on either side of the glass. We pulled back from the silvered glass simultaneously, our breath coming out in succulent puffs, fogging the damnable surface. She pressed her finger to it, drawing it down, watching achingly as I pressed my finger to hers, following the intimate ballet across the condensated floor.

In a moment, in a week, she was done, I was done, eyes lifting from the message on the glass to stare at each other for the rest of the night. We would watch each other for hours more, but the message would last only until our breath cleared from the mirror's surface.

"uoy evol I"

Tonight They Die

By He who is unnamed, they die tonight.

I flex my fingers against the warm fabric of my bed. The satin sheet slides smoothly under them. Crimson and flowing. It is good to wake up with a goal. It is even better to wake up when the sun has already past its apex, in its dying state. It is glorious when both coincide, and I considered it a good omen.

I thought about stepping out of bed, then shuddered at the thought of cold floors.

I watched the sun through barely-opened eyes, just letting the barest flicker of its light lick across my corneas. I didn't much care for the sun, but I cared less for cold floors. If only there was a way to get the warmth without the sun.

They are warm. When I kill them tonight, they will most certainly be warm, and the blood pooling across the tile will most definitely warm it. If I killed them upstairs, then I could watch it run down the stairs. Blood running down the stairs--it was almost poetic. I considered walked across blood-warmed tile, then made a face. While it would indeed keep the chill from it, it would be hell to clean off my feet, and I certainly wasn't going to clean it up later.

Besides, the blood would cool too quickly, and never tasted as good as it smelled.

Still, they would have to die. I was bored with them. They would be slaughtered--perhaps disemboweled. I rather liked the sound of the word "disemboweled" more than the actual practice. It's a very messy procedure, and rarely worth the spectacle.

While goals are good, too much planning spoils the artistry of the act. I think I would simply sink my teeth into their flesh and see where my bloody muse took me. I stretched lazily. I felt . . . neat today. Perhaps a--

What was that?

Can Opener!
Can Opener!

They would survive another night.

Moon Nigh

I flipped open the black velvet box.

It wasn't a ring, but Lily wasn't a ring kind of girl. It was a necklace made of gold laid out in overlapping links folded elegantly on a black cushion. At the center was a cross with a diamond set in the top arm, making the gold bend around it.

She'd love it. Or so the surprisingly masculine man at the jewelry store informed me.

I flipped the box back shut and tucked it in my left coat pocket. From the right pocket, I pulled my cell phone and checked the time--4:00. I had just enough time to pick up flowers and get to the restaurant before Lily did.

The afternoon was a bit gray. It had been misting all day, which I didn't much car for. The steps down from my studio apartment were slick and I gripped the green iron railing to keep my stiff knees from stumbling down them. The sidewalk was likewise wet, but I'd be fine.

I was in the middle of texting my roommate to be out of the apartment tonight just in case everything went according to plan, when a dog jumped at me.

Barking and snarling, the black lab was held in check only by a red leash anchored to a fire hydrant. Dogs hate me for no apparent reason--they hate me for reasons that aren't apparent. The damn thing was pretty much foaming at the mouth.

"What the hell are you doing to my dog, you bum?" shouted a business-type woman bursting out of the Starbucks.

Now I was dressed up for my date with Lily tonight. I was no bum. I was wearing a sport coat over my nicest shirt and slacks. I was even wearing a tie, and tying things is generally not my strong suit. My hair was slicked back and I had seen to my complexion. Maybe it was the general air of scruffiness that always surrounded me.

"Up yours!" was my enlightened response as I scooted around the bitch and the fury.

Certain doom avoided, I made it to the flower shop. Coming out of Al's Flowers I was nearly sprayed by some jackass in a Hummer. His blasting drive through a curbside puddle raised a literal wave, and I ducked back just in time. It wasn't just that I was dressed to date, I hated getting wet.

Thankfully no more psychotic dogs or ridiculous cars barred my way to the restaurant. DENIAL was fancy, new, and expensive, everything that Lily liked. Yes, she was high maintenance, but I liked that in a girl. Luckily, some prudent investments left in the bank for a very long time provided enough interest money for even Lily's appetites.

The sun was down on the horizon now--the giant ball of fire had been shoved from one side of the sky to the other. It lit up the sky behind DENIAL, catching the marble roof with orange flames, turning the retro-deco building into a half-pyramid nightmare of sunset colors that would make Frank Lloyd Wright turn over in his grave.

The interior of DENIAL was much more reserved, in both senses of the word. I'd had to reserve a table for two three months in advance, and then had it moved four times. I fidgeted with my tie, loosening it and tightening it and scratching at my neck and fidgeting in a hundred other different ways. Before I knew it, it was 7:00, and Lily was there.

Oh she was beauty incarnate, olive skin and ebony-black hair, gathered back behind her head in a loose ponytail. She had slim wrists and a longish neck, and wore her makeup heavy, but I liked that. She wore a chic white dress, and set her pocketbook on the table. My god, her eyes were mesmerizing.

"Hello, Moe," she said. I immediately stood up to help her into her seat.

"You look beautiful, Lily," the words tumbled from my lips, the first thing I could think of--luckily, they were the right words. Lily blushed lightly and I scratched behind my ear.

We made small talk, and sipped wine for twenty minutes. DENIAL was pricey, but it was worth it. Good wine, good atmosphere, lit softly with amber light, and bread with honey for dipped at the table.

"This is really fantastic, Moe," Lily commented, over the edge of her wine glass.

"Well I wanted tonight to be special," I answered, scratching under my chin.

"Are you alright?" she asked, frowning. "You need to stop that--this is a nice place."

"I'm fine--really. I just wanted to ask you something," I said, fumbling with my pocket.

"I don't think you're fine, Moe," she said, recoiling. "Your skin is peeling."

"My skin is what?" I asked. I dropped the velvet box to the ground and pulled out my cell phone. I stared dumbly at the date for a moment. How could I have been so stupid? Months in advance, but they moved it, didn't they? They moved it like four times--no wonder I lost track. I glanced out the window, where a cloud slid from the moon, revealing it in full, alabaster glory.

"Oh hell," I muttered. I hooked my fingers under the loose skin and began to unwind it from my face. It was more grotesque if I allowed it to fall off on its own. Once the flesh was off, my face wasn't really all that horrible--just gauze, nice and white, too--I'd long since discarded the musty old wraps. But Lily was already screaming, as was the rest of the restaurant. I simply sighed, dropping my head to my chest.

Sometimes it just didn't pay to be a mummy in love.

The Best Medicine

"Can you hear it?" Grandmother asked.

"Hear what?" I was too busy working a nail out of the cracked wood of the porch. It was so weathered that you couldn't even tell what used to be surface and what used to be inside.

Firefly light lit Grandmother's face as she turned to look down at me, smiling. "The Feathered Men are coming, Susie."

Her voice was like honeyed branches breaking, and after my name the wind picked up. It bent the willow trees at the edge of the property, the two that flanked the gravel path to the sidewalk. Across the street Jennifer Azman's house slumped, as drunk as Jennifer's Dad, who left the TV on again. Whenever people asked about him, Jennifer would say he was sick, and that was why he couldn't come out. We all knew the truth Jennifer and her mother lied around, but we were polite enough not to say anything. We could see the poison-blue tv-light flashing from inside the house like a warning in reverse.

Wind again.

The overgrown weeds bent in modest supplication to the night breeze, tickling the toads that squatted at their roots. They croaked in protest, and the fireflies, alarmed, took off into the moonless night.

They threw green-lit shadows over the front porch, where Grandmother and I sat, her in her chair, I on the faded Hello Kitty beach towel next to her. Grandmother considered a rocking chair far too fancy for her tastes, but the ancient chair made of the same wood as the rest of the porch rocked and creaked all the same.

"Who are the . . ." I began before Grandmother put her hand to my mouth. It smelled of canola oil and trout--Jim and Travis had caught fish today and Grandmother and I were left to cook them. They were unreliable big brothers at best, but their habit of spending a day doing nothing coincided well with fishing.

"Shhhh . . ." said Grandmother and the Feather Men came.

I saw them by streetlight and nothing else. In the orange light, they walked, taller than Mr. Tremaine down at the grocery store, who could reach our gutters with no ladder. They didn't walk like Mr. Tremaine, though, who, though eighty, was as spry as he was when he was twenty, according to Grandmother. They walked like Joseph Hardy, who came back from the war missing a leg and his smile.

Slump-bump. Slump-bump. Slump-bump.

That was their rhythm. Slump-bump. One long leg would come down, bent with one more knee than normal, then they were stop for a second, hunch over, then bring their other leg over. They walked from the edge of town down our street, from the left to the right, coming from the west. Coming down Hansen Street.

Slump-bump. Slump-bump.

They wore formal coats, that must have once been fine. Grandmother keeps a coat like that in the attic. She says it belonged to my Grandfather--I've never met the man, so I can't confirm. Unlike the attic coat, which was dusty, but had a shine hidden deep in the threads, these were covered in feathers.

White feathers, black feathers, brown feathers. Here and there a red feather, a blue feather. Their coats were covered with them, from the tails that flapped in the wind to the cuffs that they held up close to their chests. Their faces were simple things, like painted-over cereal boxes, black and square, with holes poked in their broad sides for their eyes.

Slump-bump. Slump-bump.

They walked in single file, in perfect order, walking in perfect time. The toads stopped croaking, but the fireflies still swirled, though they kept their distance from the Feather Men. In front of our house, where the streetlight was out, the Feather Men disappeared for twelve steps (I know because I measured it myself the next morning). They came back, still marching in perfect time under the next streetlight.

I felt something sting my arm, and I swatted at it on instinct. The mosquito was a smear when I lifted my hand, my blood a black smudge on my forearm. The Feather Men stopped as one, and one, the one nearest to the willow tree on the right turned to look at me. I saw something move deep inside its box-hole eyes, and something inside me went cold. I remembered the day when I came home and I could hear the water running upstairs in the apartment. They day when Mother didn't come downstairs. The day we all came to live with Grandmother. In those cereal-box-hole eyes, I saw what I saw between the blocking bodies of my brothers, under the arms of the other adults that kept me from the room.

I felt Grandmother's hand on the top of my head. The distraction was what I needed to break away from the Feather Man's eyes. I looked up at Grandmother, who was frowning at the Feather Man. Slowly, like the hands moving around a clock, it turned back to its fellows and they began their walk again.

They crossed the street in a single line. No cars came down the street--the cars knew better, even if their drivers didn't. They disappeared at the double-line, but came back on the other side, just outside of Jennifer's house. They walked up the garage path, and to the front door. The first Feathered Man put a gloved hand to the doorknob and it turned under his grip. One by one, the Feathered Men walked into Jennifer's house.

I didn't know why, but I started to sob. Jennifer wasn't a close friend. I went to school with her, and didn't really know her. But she had the close association of living next door, which to grown-ups, made her a friend, though children know better than to mistake proximity for affinity. When the last of the Feathered Men walked inside Jennifer's house, Grandmother picked me up, towel and all, and held me to her bony chest. Her arms were thin but strong, made iron-like by years of packing fish into cans.

When the Feathered Men came back out, I was done crying. Two of them carried bundles in their arms, wrapped in the same feather-covered fabric of their coats. I saw the people inside. I didn't want to see them as they twitched and jerked, but my eyes were stuck open with dried tears. I saw them walk back down Hansen Street, all the way down to where there were no streetlights and they disappeared, bundles and all.

Slump-bump. Slump-bump.

Jennifer didn't come to school the next day. Her mother wasn't seen at the grocery store. Three days later, the police came for Jennifer's father, and took him away. They school came alive with a hundred buzzing rumors, each told with more gruesome gusto than the last. None of them were right. None of them knew about the Feathered Men.

Slump-bump. Slump-bump.

To Begin With

I hate the "rule" of not ending a sentence with a preposition when the "correct" way ends up being clunky and dumb.

Also, I'm starting a challenge for myself. One short story every day.