The world is violently dark right up until the moment it glimpses the paper boat in its mindless slumber. Eyes snap open, and there the boat materializes in front of it, along with a small, ghostly arm wrapped in a yellow rain-slicker and the cacophonous sound of the flood pouring through the grate. It smells the fear shivering off the boy’s chilled skin and raised nerve endings. Tongue slides across sharpened teeth. Even the bicuspids, razor sharp. White gloved hands pluck the paper from the gush of the drain. And the child’s fear hangs fragrantly as it offers up the boat. The hesitation is palpable and mouth-watering. It’s salivating as a smile plays across the red stained mouth. Oil crayon smeared with years of the caked on blood of terror. The boy pulls back, and it realizes it may have come on too strong. It may need to play the tortoise rather than the hare. Its eyes flicker with the realization and the desperation to hide the uncontrollable need to feast. Fangs like porcelain shards drip with the urgent need to devour and defile. To desecrate and tear. Perhaps something shiny to sweeten the deal? And a red balloon floats into the scene. Then green, yellow, and blue follow. And the small face is entertained just enough to drop his guard. The small fingers reach back in, and before they can retreat it seizes its moment. Jaws lined by fanged, yellowing smile crush through tissue and bone. The screams are a storm of trepidation. Blood coming so fast that it is black until it hits the now red torrent cascading into the gutter. And the horror and insanity fills it not quite but almost to the bursting. The only thing strong enough to fill it, the greatness of fear. And just before it is satiated, the boy bleeds out. His heart stops, and it is almost full. Almost. But the boy gave up too soon. The boy is drained before it can gorge on enough terror to drench its gluttonous palate. His lungs and heart unable to pump oxygen through his tiny frame. It discards the debris of now rotting flesh, letting it float up and out of its storm-drain home. And it can almost taste its next victim. It can almost feel its heart fill up with horror and fright as it drifts back into contented sleep.

Stephen King - obviously not his style, but playing in his world

Listen to the rhythm

of ocean’s heartbeat,

awakening my longing

as my lips follow

the shape of shivers.

My soul overflows,

buried deep within

aqua waves -

a whispering hiss

of worries carried

away by sea surges,

strings of pelicans

strung in V’s

single blue crayon line

where ocean meets sky.

Voltage jolts with

breaths of salt air.

wildness unrestrained

as calmness settles

like residue on skin

touched by silver fingers

of the unfathomed sea,

ocean crests protecting

like warm wombs,

stars mobbing sky

in evening blackness,

drops of myself

left in grains of sand,

salted kernels sifting

through my soul.

And yet, I am afraid,

in abject awe,

of the paralyzing power

the ocean holds

in grasping hands

over my head.

(Homage to Rod McKuen, late poet, song-writer)

Summer breeze and roses fading, autumn chill my heart pervading 

When the call to see your fading light punctures my hopeful soul—

   To your doorstep long untrodden, footfalls ne’er to be forgotten

Carry me to see your fading light before you breathe no more.

Curse my mind for loving vainly; in my hand I take yours plainly—

Simple was my love for things of little matter now abhorred.

   Weak and scattered is your mind, but in your eyes I long to find

The beauty—no—the love my daughter held for me in years before.

   Empty are your angel eyes—blind to my playboy disguise, 

The one I’ve tossed aside to see my precious girl too long ignored.

   Chest now aching from the beating of a heart aware of fleeting

Moments till your blood will pulse within this angry world no more.

   “Damn my life, my selfish choices! Take my flesh!” My throat devoices— 

Rip my heart to give her life again! Please let her live once more!

   No. Too late for prayers and pleading—Wicked were my days, now seething.

Loathe remembrance of lost time with one who’ll love me nevermore.

***

Edgar Allen Poe has been my favorite author since childhood. His rhythm, rhyme, and dark content captivated me and have held my appreciation all these years.

I’m Anonymous! Who are you?

Are you - Anonymous - too?

When nobody knows your name

You can forfeit your ticket to fame!

Let the Public Ones be judged!

Let them drag each other through the mud!

Frogs, all of them.

And those Celebrities, battling trolls.

What a shame!

#emilydickinson (I’m Nobody! Who are you?)

Skriiiiiiiiiitch

The sound jarred me from a deep sleep. My eyes flew open and my heart was pounding like I had just finished running the mile in gym. I stayed perfectly still and strained my ears over the sound of my heart. I shifted my eyes as far as I could toward the sound, toward the window.

Was that a face?

Whump

I flew out of bed and raced down the hall. Sixteen or not, I was getting my dad.

“Rissa?” He groaned as I desperately shook him awake, “Ris, what is it? What’s wrong?” He had grabbed my hands to still me.

“There is someone at my window. Was. Is.” I gibbered back at him.

“Ris, we’re on the second the floor. It was a dream.”

“Please Dad? Come on.” I dragged on his arm until he followed me to me room.

He walked straight to the window and pushed it firmly to make sure it was closed and looked out. Left. Right. Down. He looked in my closet and under my bed. “Okay kiddo, no monsters. Go back to bed.”

“Thanks Dad, but I never said monsters. Goodnight.”

The next morning when I woke up my room was freezing. Granted it was almost Christmas but the heat was on. I hurried from my room to check the thermostat but when I opened my door a wave of heat hit me. It was only cold in my room. I could feel the frigid air being pulled past my body and into the hall, lifting tiny strands of my hair. Like it was flowing from somewhere. I turned around slowly, praying to a god that I didn’t believe in that I was wrong.

Only about one inch, my window was open.

I spent that saturday in a haze of terror. My dad sent me to Aunt Julie’s house and he and Uncle Rhys searched our house inside and out, top to bottom. They didn’t find anything. It had snowed last night and there were no footprints in our yard. They searched the attic and basement, the rafters in the garage. There weren’t even any smudges on my window. Dad said if I was different kind of kid he would think I was making it up. It was decided I would go home that night.

Christmas was in two days.

“Good morning Marissa. How did you sleep honey?” My mom handed me a still warm cinnamon roll the next morning.

“A little restlessly. I kept hearing sounds from the roof.” I took a huge bite of roll.

“Probably just the owls Rissa, they are nesting in the boxes by the chimney.” Dad supplied

“Can we light a fire Dad? Since tomorrow is Christmas it would be sooooo nice to have the fire going while we finished the cookies and stuff. Please?”

Pretending to look entirely put out dad went and built the fire. Mom and I had just finished cleaning the kitchen from breakfast when she said, “Oh how delightful! Someone must be smoking their Christmas ham! Doesn’t it smell good Ris?”

“What are you girls burning??” Dad came running into the kitchen a few minutes later with the extinguisher.

“Walter?”

“Lulu, call the fire department, something is burning. Marissa, outside, NOW.”

I ran into the snowy yard in time to see the fire trucks coming around the corner, someone must have already called. Black smoke was seeping from our roof.

Mom and Dad ran out and together we watched them, in a matter of just minutes, save our house but completely ruin Christmas.

We had to stay in a hotel for a month while repairs were made, mostly water and chimney damage. You see, the fire report said there was a blockage in the chimney that caused heat and smoke to build up. We were actually very lucky.

The Coroner’s report said the man must have climbed into our chimney and frozen to death a couple of days earlier. Tucked against his body they found the remains of a roll of tape, two wickedly sharp knives, and a tiny gold locket belonging to a rape/murder victim from next town over. She was twelve.

I will never eat smoked ham again.

(a nod to e.e. cummings)

i swerve, then lean in-to your Ebbing and Flowing;

sensing that the moment of contact is crucial (Timing).

honed over centuries, my radar is my superhumantool

(a gift not intended).

only Now and Then is it safe to get right close and

exhale in your presence, in the slivervoid left

by your simmering tension, then

tears,

rumination,

self-pity.

they stand to stretch for a moment and I slide in next to you.

in those tiny chasms, you see me and you feed me and pet my head.

i hold that bit of You in my pocket like a treasure in case it never comes again.

E.L. James

I wanted it to be like anything else I ever wrote - simple, mindless prose.

The kind of fanfic throwaway that anyone with two brain cells and an iPhone could dictate and pass off as a masterpiece.

I had not intended for it to become the monster scandal it finally evolved into.

Ian looked at me, his need etched heavily on his face.

Standing next to the full-length mirror, he admired himself.

His expensive, bespoke leather jacket matched his kid-skin gloves; dark fabrics hugged the curves of his luscious body.

He stood there, an Adonis to my Venus.

My forbidden lust rose in me, unbidden, as I remembered our most recent debauchery.

A slight grin crossed my lips as I recalled his commands, and my innate need to satisfy my Master.

My cheeks still were flushed and red from his riding crop.

I had been disobedient, insoucient, a brat - and even, dare I say it, irascible?

My insolence had been rewarded by severe remonstrations from him, accompanied by repeated strikes of black, hand-woven leather, oiled with the most sensual essences available to mankind.

To create these rare treasures, exotic beetles from the Amazonian rain forest had been crushed into delicious paste, their frail bodies squeezed, until they yielded their secret fragrances.

Then, the remnants of these had been bottled and put for sale in the cosmetics aisles of all the best stores in Manhattan.

Stores owned by Ian, and his fratbro cohorts.

Stores that made them billionaires, as scores of woefully inadequate women sought to hide their inner pain, and empower their lioness within.

The irony of all of this was lost on me, as I knelt there on the marbled tile, my ass still stinging from my lesson in humility.

“What do you think you are doing, El?” Ian asked.

“I found some innocent, amusing thing on the web, something to pass the time. May I read it to you?” I inquired.

Ian’s stern look made me quiver with unbridled desire, and I salivated at the thought of an upcoming test of my love for him.

“Go on,” he insisted. My heart skipped a beat...

“It’s a writing contest, on this website. They do these challenges. This one is to imitate the style of one’s favorite author. I submitted an entry, under a pseudonym. Am I naughty, do you think, Ian? Me pretending to be me? When I am really me?” I spat out, rapidly cadencing my words for best effect.

As I watched my Master, I noted the bulge in his leather chaps that meant I had done my duty.

My innermost secrets throbbed with ecstasy as I knew I had managed to achieve my hidden goal.

Even though Ian thought he was my Master, and I his Slave, the reality was far more subtle.

I finished typing my entry, my red-glossed nail polish slick and shining as my fingers tapped out their symbols on the tiny smartphone keyboard.

Satisified I had managed to at least confound the Universe once more, I rolled over, exposing my soul to my one, true Master.

As Ian approached, I turned my attention to the small screen, that showed the President of the United States standing next to the Russian Premier.

Ian’s first lashing with the cat-o-nine tails bit into my soft flesh, and I cried out as I listened to the most powerful men on the planet control my Destiny.

The first time I saw her~ trying my best to think of something to say to her. But..then I felt like I was going insane. Her- she, became my constant drive. I long to always be right by her side. She is my universe. My entire world. Each breath I take, am grateful for it, because then I know I still have more time to get to be with her, or even at least see her.

Oh, my heart sings and leaps for joy- at every sudden moment I see her, or listen to her sweet voice, & dream about her. I shall need to find courage to say, maybe ev’n a couple words to her. I shall do all I can to get to know her. Ah, I know our paths will surely meet again.

What can I say to her, so that she’ll remember me. It will be from the heart. And I will do my best part. Yes.

Now, I believe that I’m going mad. Yeah, so mad in love with her. And all from only seeing her that day. Ever other person, my friends and family...can also see that. I’m goig to stick to my plan, and still going to make my move. I hope it doesn’t fail. Then, I really will keep on trying. I’m not going to give up, not one teeny bit.

#ThePlan.

Homage to #KhalilGibran.

Of summers night

in the pale moon light.

Sat an old man asleep and dreaming

with the horror he dreamt he was now awake and screaming.

A crack in the window left a cold breeze blowing

And from the corner of his eye he saw a cuckoo clock showing.

Ticking furiously amongst the halls in the old town house

The old man thought the clock to be maddening like a scurring mouse.

Stepping forward immersing in the uproar

the old man stepped, step by step out the door.

Reaching upon the wall the old man grabbed the clock

and curiously it quieted with neither a tick nor a tock.

Though nothing could halt his exertion

The clock was the only agitation.

With aggression he tore the clock away,

Hoping that the calm silence would stay.

The clock shouted with aggression

And at that moment the old man

smashed the clock with a passion.

All was silence and the man was cheerful

But for a moment he felt a pain, and yet he suddenly felt fearful.

As the ticking ceased from the clock that dropped,

Within the same moment a cry was heard and

suddenly the dear old man’s heart….had stopped.

Homage to Edgar Allan Poe.