whispers her adoration
for the rain
into the crevices
of my mind
sleep with death
Every night I wake
The darkest time of night
Maybe my body instinctively knows
This is the time the demons play
Waking me up with their whispers
The only time of day
Their voices can coax you
Persuade you to do their bidding
Most cannot hear them
Not like I can
Hundreds of voices
Oozing with lies
Always thankful for the numbing silence of the night
When I open my eyes
Waiting for 4 am
When the Angels talk instead
An unnecessarily-loud laugh
A cold apple
A bag of hot lime Cheetos
Someone kicks you in the face by accident and you are too tired to complain
3 AM, the darkest time of night
Can be lightened by a smile.
The Witching Hour
It's three in the morning as you are dragged, yet again, from a restless sleep. You stare into the dark of your bedroom and sigh. You know it's futile to try to go back to sleep, now. That one street lamp across from your window seems to cast an overly bright, blue light through your curtains. You don't hear any cars on the street below you window.
It's three in the morning: the witching hour.
You know it's just a superstition, you know that there are no such things as ghosts and witches, but once you think that about them, you start to see the world differently. Suddenly the shadows in the very corners of your room look suspiciously human. The sounds of boiling water running through your out of date radiator are much more sinister. You know there isn't someone behind you, but you press yourself just a little closer to your head board, and wrap your sheets just a little tighter around you. You try really hard not to think about green old women with large noses, funny hats and warts, but then you have the image of them in you head.
A shiver runs down your spine.
You tell yourself you're being ridiculous, and reach for the lamp on your nightstand
There's a faint clicking outside your door.
You're suddenly terrified. There are so many what-if's running around your head that you can't pin-point one worst case scenario.
The clicking stops and you hear a soft thump and a low groan.
You very carefully peel back the covers and grab the nearest hard object to you. You flick the lights on and reach for the door. You grasp the old squeaky nob. You turn it. You fling the door open. You're fully prepared to face some paranormal beast, instead, you're faced with the droopy eyes and fuzzy face of your dog looking up at you from it's position curled up outside your room.
You dog stands and trots around your frozen form, making for the bed, it's toenails clicking softly on the wood floor. Your doge jumps on your bed, circles three times, and flops down with a soft groan.
After staring at the furry creature for a few moments, you close you door and turn out the lights. As crawl into bed you think you see something out of the corner of your eye and...
Summer Is Coming
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These winter nights chill me, it is difficult to write while my hands shiver so violently, but I cannot move from this spot, it is safe here, they cannot reach me here, and the dawn will warm me when it comes. My whole being cries for heat and the dim glow from my candle affords little enough warmth to still my hands as I cup them around the flame.
I keep telling myself it is impossible, that my mind is in such a state that it is manipulating the reality that lies about me, it is impossible, but I saw it happen and I heard it.
On the floor below I hear the old clock chime the hour, such a majestic thing, but it's song has a different tone as it moans along the corridor to where I crouch, no, cower.
Three o'clock, it is three o'clock. My god above how long have I left? My breath forms a sullen mist that plays before me, then drifts to nothing as outside the wind curses and the curtains flail crazily in reply. Then, to my horror I see movement, and my heart judders, I quake at the sight. My eyes widen and my senses, taut with fear, reach out into the dim lit room before me, my mind screams at me to get up and throw myself from the nearby window to escape but I am frozen with fear and dare not move.
I watch with mounting terror as a heavy wooden chair slides across the worn floorboards, and with gathering pace crashes into the wall close to where I judder in fear, it comes back to rest on its cracked legs and I am so gripped with terror I urinate. I'm shaking now and have long ceased my efforts to write. A shuffling sound reaches me as my teeth chatter at the mix of cold and horror and I hold my breath as my candle's dwindling wick breathes its last and I am left alone with no comfort as the nightmare unfolds before me.
Then she appears, gliding out from behind the open door. The temperature within the room plummets at her approach, her weathered clothes, once so beautiful now drape her skeletal form and drag along the floor as she wafts before my eyes. I am defenceless and have no cards to play as she drifts toward where I cower and weep at the end I must face. Then I look to the window and from somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach comes a surge of energy, and I know what I must do.
I leap to my feet as the hag nears and in a single bound I fling myself out into the blackness as deathly shrieks fill my ears. I fall through the open window and howl in desperation, the release is immediate as I plummet to the grass below. As I hit the ground I feel something in my shoulder dislodge and crack but there is no pain. I rise to my feet and without a backward glance I sprint to the gate and out into the road, as above me the first glimmer of approaching dawn breathes disbelief at my escape.
I listen for her breath in that initial moment of dark-blindness. I let the soft sound guide my blindness toward her and wait with baited-breath of my own. Wait as the seconds slip by like years, waiting for my dark-vision to slowly form. Wait for the first evidence of the contours of her flesh contrast against the darker bed. I listen to her breathe.
I listen to her breath as my eyes adjust. I listen as I watch the curve of her body move ever so slightly with it. A ivory wave against an island of dark. Hypnotic, alluring, innocent. I listen to her breathe.
I listen to her breath as the room comes into complete black & white focus. Her body the only thing sharp, everything else a buzz of blurred dark. Her body that blended with mine hours earlier. Her body that stirs me to want to blend again. Yet, the loveliness of her sleep and breath gives me pause to stir her awake. It is a sweet torture to listen to her breathe, and watch.
I listen to her breath while my imagination paints the colors that should be there in the dark. Alabaster skin that now seems to glow. Ginger hair that seems aflame in certain types of light. Crimson lips that most would swear must be painted, unless you have been lucky enough to kiss them. Breasts tipped with the lightest of pink, so light if her flesh were any darker you would not be able to see where flesh ended and areola began. Now it is just torture to watch and listen to her breathe.
I listen to her breath and watch her suddenly reach out for me. Her hand fumbles its way in the sudden dark-blindness of being awake. Her touch connects, burns, and heals. Her ankle finds me next, her calf skims my own. Soon she is pressed against me in the darkness of 3am. The presence of her flesh melting against my own, suggesting, inquiring, not sure if I am even awake. I let her listen to me breathe, I let her listen to my answer. I watch her smile in the dark as she melts us together again.
We listen to each other breathe...
The clock struck three, hickory dickory dock
The lonely ones come out at midnight.
The ones that howl when they see love.
They will drink themselves to sleep, hoping that their first sight when they awake, will be the beautiful girl that left them years ago.
The partiers come out at 1 am.
They will dance like their life depends on it and they will laugh with such a fervor you have never seen before.
They will sit on laps
They will spill drinks
They will mumble clumsy words screaming how they truly feel,
Only to be waved off.
The insomniacs awake at 2 am.
Praying to God that they can get rest tonight.
Hoping that maybe this day will be better than the restless night.
Wondering why the lavender scent in their room has yet to carry them to sleep.
3 am is the darkest hour, yes, 3 am.
This time of day is as empty as a lonely mans heart.
It is as hollow as a partiers laugh.
It is as hopeless as the insomniacs dreams.
But still, you will find yourself awake at 3 am one morning,
And wish you had better things to do.
I sit and wait,
for them to come home.
My mind fills with thoughts of what could
I pace back and forth, deciding to go out and search.
Wondering the streets, I search.
"Silly children, right?" I speak to myself.
I walk home, give up.
I search in the rooms, to find them
3 a.m is indeed the darkest time of the night.
Feeling my hand tightly clench the rubber handle, I flip on the switch of my old flashlight. I look with weary eyes at the dusky bark of trees, shooting straight up and branching all ways, masking the moon's shine. Last I checked my phone, before the battery perished, it was around three. I curse myself, wishing I'd just gone to sleep. I take another step, the crunch of the decayed leaves beneath my feet intimidating my fear. The unease overwhelms me, I shut my eyes and imagine myself somewhere more upbeat. I relax in stance, letting the illusion take me away, when I hear the echo of a howl behind me.