note #205

Deep below
where the bones do grow
my heart beats
soft and slow

Up above
where once I loved
new lovers meet
in swift retreat

From prying eyes
that do espy
the short-lived amour
of fickle lies

Once I was one
under the sun
until my breast was pricked
in feigned fun.

note #204

yesterday was one year since you passed away. you were like a grandmother to me, kind, gentle, and loving. i will always remember the way you smiled, the sunlight in your dining room, christmas in your living room. you were always proud of my accomplishments, of watching what i became and knowing who i was. i will miss seeing you when i go home, no longer able to visit with you for even a short while. though no new memories can be made for us, the ones i have i will hold fast to, always remembering, always loving, always family of the heart.

note #203

the ticking of a clock sounds in the old case. such is the magic of old things - they remember what they once were, what their intended purpose was - even after they have long fallen from such uses. the brass and gear, cogs and springs, are long gone. the wood painted, stripped, and aged with oiling. someone replaced a tack foot with a bigger plastic one that sets it off kilter. the writing on the back lists random dates - "1941", "95" (or is that "75"?) - and faint penciled words that cannot be interpreted. the paper inside indicates it is much older, but gives no date itself. at some point it appears that someone stuck stickers to the glass in an attempt to make the clock look more appealing and less plain. whatever history it had, it has a new future now full of a new purpose, full of new memories. 

note #202

my dark lover

comes for me

in the space 

between

the land of dreams 

and the world awakened

where I am his

for the taking

lost

alone

ready for remaking

my dark lover

sets me free

along the currents

of the sea

where sunrise gilded

and twilight sated

i with him

alone

have waited

through longest days

and darkest nights

to set the world

with our love

alight. 

note #201

the picture evoked dialog in lieu of having a title.

see how big my dick is? i need these three adoring children just to carry it.
 
bring it!
 
whoa, whoa, whoa! i'm supposed to be ravishing you, you're not supposed to be secure in your sexuality.

(for reference)

note #200

who knows how long he wandered - time had no meaning in this strange place. he travelled over rocky shores, through bleached white woods where no birdsong rang out, along grey meadows and fields where the rustle of the grasses sounded like the shifting of the dead in their graves. nothing lived that he could see.

no dead appeared in crags or hollows, left to rot until their bones became yet another part of the barren landscape. at night no predators made noises in the distance, no insects buzzed or whined at any point of day. he was alone. 

after some time he came upon a vast, steely expanse of water. he fashioned a boat from the bone-white trees and set himself adrift. at times he paddled, at others he simply stared up at the slate sky, or at the waves around him, lost between the sea and sky. 

eventually he reached a shore - the same he had left or another, he could not tell. here it was the same. he was as alone and lost as before. 

how long he wandered no one knows - perhaps he wanders still. 

note #199

slowly she moved the sarcophagus out of the case and into position, levitating it gently so as not to jostle the contents. easing it into a laying position and settling it on the slab, she prepared herself. as she removed the lid, her assistant stepped up with a skein of thick blue thread, curved needle, and shears. he stood silently and awaited her.

looking into the bottom of the sarcophagus, she steeled herself and picked up pieces of the body within. matching up pieces and laying them out a couple at a time, she turned to her assistant and took the needle. measuring out a length of thread, she threaded the needle as he cut it. quickly and efficiently she set to work stitching the pieces back together.

once all of the pieces were matched and stitched back together, she rinsed her hands and the needle in a silver bowl set next to her by a guardian while she had worked. it cleared the bowl as the water clouded with blood, replacing it with fresh liquid. her assistant stepped away and brought back lengths of bandages to wrap the body with. the guardian produced towels to lave the body with and clean the gore away.

levitating the body and removing the sarcophagus, she wet a towel and began to bathe the body. after completing that task, she carefully wound the bandages around each stitched laceration.

finishing her task, she stepped back from the slab and let the body settle into place. the guardian placed a trencher of bread and salt at its base. her assistant placed a pitcher of honey mead beside the trencher. stepping back, they bowed their heads.

the silent vigil began.

note #198

pale white
your skin tonight
reminds me of the shrouding fog
at dawn

note #197

she walks now - again - in whatever afterlife there is, even if it is none.

this is a truth.

note #196

the first year of the plagues the priests said it was god's divine punishment. they claimed it was a test of our faith and that those who succumbed were sinners. the second year the priest in our village burned down the church where the sick were being taken care of and ran into the woods yelling about demons coming for his soul.

they found his twisted body two weeks later, bloated and showing the tell-tale signs of sickness, neck at an unnatural angle from his fall down a small cliff.

slowly we returned to the old ways of our ancestors. the priest's god had not saved him and was by no means a mercy or comfort to us. the old gods, spirits, and creatures of lore were more certain and benevolent by far.

by the third year, when the spring rains brought with them news of yet more plague spreading, we barricaded the road and did not allow strangers into our village. we had fared better than most the previous years, but we refused to take any chances. while the rest of the world slowly died, we tried our hardest to persevere.

note #195

the fog lay across the city, deceptively cooling the air. the sun peaked through the buildings, rising above the hills to bring blistering heat to the day.

note #194

the walls shivered with the intensity of the nearby blast. she ran along the corridor, trying not to stumble in the dark as another blast caused the floor to tremble menacingly. a door opened and a man stepped out, looking around with bleary eyes.

run! she yelled at him, the city is under attack!

he stared at her a moment while another explosion sounded in the distance. where? he asked in a steady voice. there is nowhere to go. we could shelter in the basement, but then we would be trapped if the building fell.
she shook her head and continued past him, heading for the stairs and any way out.

note #193

prepare the bells to peal,
the drums to beat,
set out your mourning weeds.
stand the guard,
set the candles,
prepare the end to meet.
steep memories
like flower blooming tea
to soothe the ache of loss.
set the table,
stop the clocks,
cover all the mirrors.
remember the dead
for the life they lived,
the person they were,
and the love they give.

note #192

those dark secrets
that seep out of the cracks
and turn your thoughts black
with the decay of a lifetime.

note #191

they came. in the night they moved, silent as shadows. by day we saw the remains of their passage. death and destruction. feast and famine. the end of life as it was. the beginning of the fall of man.

note #190

as the year turned over and the world stepped forward into the new dawn, i had so many wishes, but only one at the fore: love.

note #189

it was orange juice, right? i asked as i came out of the doors behind him.
he straightened and looked at me in surprise. yes.
here! i smiled bigger and handed him the carton.
thank you! he said as i opened my umbrella and headed back into the storm.
--
could you buy me some orange juice? he asked as i rushed up to the grocery doors, closing my umbrella and moving quickly out of the downpour.
no, no i'm sorry, i responded. sorry.
he returned to his position, leaning against the wall, looking out at the rain, prepared to ask again when another person came along.
his request was so specific, so odd a thing to ask for - not change, not a sandwich, not some food in general. before i had even gone a few steps into the store i had decided. i was only going in for milk and the orange juice was right across from it, it wasn't that much money or even an inconvenience.
did he want one with or without pulp? would it matter?
i stared at the orange juice for a few moments, and grabbed one that was more substance than filler and gimmicks

this is a truth.

note #188

whither wander winsome wight?

note #187

decadent
dripping with darkness
and glamour
the brightest beauty
tarnished in the light
magnificent
in the dark and dusty
halls of this
crumbling
decaying
dream
filled with eternal
night.

note #186

have heart, she said as the rain pattered on the tin roof. life isn't always easy, but someday things will be better. someday, you'll understand. 

her hand rested briefly on my head, fingers lacing through my hair. then, just like that, she was gone - running down the walk, purse held above her head to provide some small protection, the bracelets on her right wrist jingling as she handed her suitcase to the taxi driver. faux fur coat and shiny peach heels the last memory of her as she disappeared.

years passed on that porch and she was right: it wasn't always easy, but it did get better - much better without her. we lived on and flourished, happy with our lot in life the hint of our sadness and confusion hidden beneath bright smiles.

no, mom, i whisper to the memory from time to time, no, i'll never understand.