scintillaincensed candles flicker
with hot dripping wax melting
coalesced between my cavities and
having taken the shape of my teeth
i chant the song of the fallen ones
within my ribs and broken fists
„chivalry is the art of war” yet
i found it to be rather ominous
when they pulled my
filament bones out of my grave
and set me ablaze
in the vesper’s kindled ash to
bring solace for the fires quenched by
coolingat the tender grey stop street, i found a ballerina
with the phases of the moon stapled to her thighs.
above and around, the sun in the sky was soft and wet.
the floor tilted and jerked me back and forth but,
you know, the way you can't look away from a
speck of dust,
she was milk dripping on ash,
one foot pinned to the tar,
the other calf swinging thickly, gently back and forth
a raindrop dangling off a leaf.
eyes folding over, her head rocked quietly on her neck
she was a small wind, a corner of my vision.
the quiet white fog sitting beneath my skin.
A Haunted NightThe last drop of black coffee fell into the pot of her coffee machine. She took it, impatiently poured the coffee into her cup. Then she returned to her desk, her hands shaking but now both wrapped around the warm cup with the picture of a little kitten on it.
It was dark outside. Cold. The wind was rustling the few leaves that still remained on the shadowy trees. She closed her eyes and pictured the cold on her skin, and the wet smell she loved about autumn. Rotting leaves, earth and wood. Frail white traces of frost on the ground in the earliest hours of morning.
She shivered and took a sip of coffee. It would warm her up from the inside, although she knew only too well that the cold she felt was a different one and no coffee, no blanket and no fire would be able to push it away.
Her gaze drifted across the wall in front of her, covered as it was with sticky-notes, hand-drawn pictures, photographs, maps and pages torn out of several books. A wall filled with thoughts and chaos. Her r
The Dollhouse“Missy McIntyre is not a witch.” As the eight year old of the group, Erica felt it was her place to be the Voice of Reason. She smoothed her hair back under her cat-eared headband and glared at the two boys, her brown eyes matching the rich color of her skin.
“Uh huh.” Jessie, the louder of the two, asserted. His own chat noir costume annoyed Erica. His mom totally bought it for him, while she’d had to make do with what she could find.
“She is a witch, just like her Gram was!” Richie practically shouted. The zombie makeup he wore stood out in the late afternoon light. He was getting fake blood on everything.
“Shut up!” His brother shoved him further back along the fence, trying to keep them out of view of the house’s windows. Missy wasn’t answering the doorbell for trick-or-treaters, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t home.
“Melissa McIntyre is a dental hygienist.” Erica stated. Her mom had said so.