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Sunday, August 7, 2011

Road Kill

This story was published at Pagan Friends on April 30th, 2011.

Road Kill

The lights were crashing by with incredible noise, breaking the water in sheets that spread out like wings. Humphrey emerged from the bushes timidly. He blinked slowly, but did not look both ways. A vicious urge drove him forward. He had to move. East, over the plain, there was somewhere he needed to be. Directed by his instincts, his individuality was obscured. He was now primal matter, invested as a force, soulless and driven.

The deadline drew near, for his destination was time as well as place. He had to go forward despite the danger from the roaring lights. He placed his foot on the unyielding surface. His knees buckled as the ground refused to give way beneath him. Each step felt as if he was kicking up rocks.

A set of lights roared up and over him. The massive bulk behind the glowing eyes became visible like a can rising to the surface of a pool. He tried to pull his head in to protect himself, but he was struck anyway. Violently he was smacked around and thrown aside. His blood oozed everywhere, his limbs splayed and broken. Agony electrified his frame, pulsing in convulsions.

Car after car drove by his shattered body. The lost life at the side of the road meant nothing to any of them, but it meant a great deal to him. As his vitality waned, so did the need that had screamed through his flesh. He was restored to himself; the heavy hand of his ancestry left him to face his death alone.

A Mouse's House and I Hate Italy

These two pieces were published at Danse Macabre du Jour on April 19, 2011.

A Mouse's House

Outside, the rollicking pale waste,
Shadings of black and white clouds,
Softly waves over the sky.

The balloon floats, waiting for its fall.
Chiaroscuro textures form gently
Across the smooth curve.

A couch lies, lost, sitting, waiting.
It’s left for taking at no cost,
Perched over the curb until…

Leaping, the cat moves slowly,
As if suspended in time,
Through the vacant glass.

A drip, dripping,
Echoes through the house
Clearly, with resonance.

A breathless impression of sound
Comes heaped in a jacket pile
With stillness from the ears poking out.

That gentle sobbing sigh,
Nearly lost in ambient noise,
Hides, one with rooms and buoys.

All is betrayed from order:
Over, under, wrinkled, torn,
Scattered, barely worn.

Fool! Brushed the drooping curl,
Peaceful in parallel slits,
Now, rhythmic venting winds.

I Hate Italy

I hate Italy; Italy hates me. It’s as if I’m a returning Etruscan King; the land itself rises against me. Heat and humidity are sent to dull my wits as I come to Milan. In Venice, whilst I plot its demise, the ancient winding roads conspire to confound and irritate my companions and I. We are but three wise men following a star to our destination; why are we dealt with so harshly? Is this not the home of the faith? Is every new pilgrimage such a threat? I feel fortunate that I did not leave without some spoil, or else all would be in vain. I gladly walk from this place in my new boots of Spanish (an aesthetic adjustment to the truth, they’re actually Italian) leather.