If midnight was the Witching Hour, then 3AM was the Hour of Self Loathing. A litany of conditioning and doubt – stupid, ugly, worthless. Coward. Flagellating myself in the darkness, the list marched circles in my head.
Image: Text is from the “About Us” section of a local florist’s website, most blacked out. Remaining text reads:
Backstage smells. An acquired taste, it’s not unpleasant, but specific and familiar. A symphony of old wood, dusty fabric, hot lights, hairspray, and bodies in motion. The dressing room air conditioner has stopped working and there are too many sticky people jostling for real estate in front of the mirror. Elbows knock together, but no apologies follow. No one bothers, for it will happen again and again.
Poetry is not my thing
It lumbered down the street towards me. Dark and hulking. Ominous. I had to run. Now! The asphalt had melted into hot taffy, sticking to my feet. It took all my strength to wrench free. The strands latched onto my bare toes like black, ropy tentacles. They scorched my skin.
The creature slunk closer. Stalking me, as I stood paralyzed. I could smell its fetid breath. It opened its maw, teeth glistening in the moonlight and roared… Continue reading
Sherri just didn’t have the fortitude to investigate the clunk that came from the den. She waited, listening. Silence. She decided to ignore it.
I never imagined myself on the lam. (Or is it “on the lamb”? I can never remember.) All I ever wanted was to live on pasture. Dozing in the summer sunshine, flicking flies off my nose with my tail. Listening to the symphony of the meadow. Singing birds, buzzing bees, chirping frogs to keep me company. Perhaps – when bored – trying to decipher the secrets whispered between the breeze and the broad canopies of the maple trees. A simple, pastoral life. Continue reading