writer • editor • dog lover
“Well actually…”
Breathy whistles of calliope music swallowed his words.
“Come,” a silken voice commanded from the darkness. Swirling, slithering white-gloved hands led him forward. An impuissant marionette, he followed.
Behind him, a closing door’s click ushered a silence so complete his ears ached.
Released, he clawed at slippery surfaces searching for an exit, mocked by grotesque reflections of himself.
Acacias, adorned in gold, bob heavy heads to a koolbardi’s caroling call. A raven, scratching at freshly turned soil, unearths Marco’s watch. The koolbardi swoops, screeching. A clash of beaks. A storm of feathers.
Silence.
Gingerly, Gina grabs her shovel.
I watch my four-year-old son spring from rock to boulder — a little mountain goat — giggling with pleasure.
“Don’t fall!” I call, my motherliness rising like bile in my throat.
He doesn’t hear, and keeps climbing — surefooted, confident.
I hope he never hears my anxiety.
They exchange secrets; two strangers on the bus.
Night enters, rudely awakening fear while light peeks tentatively from other rooms. Fate reaches for the one match still housed within its book, lone survivor of smoking years. Phosphorus flowers into flame, snatching at the candle. Vanquished, darkness slinks away.
My feet wriggle into the comfort of earth, my soul flies amongst shimmering jewels on a midnight velvet sky. The endless possibilities of distant homes ignite my imagination, sparking poetry, so foreign to my tongue. The stars make poets of us all.
