He was young, handsome, rich, powerful, socially adept and privileged.
But.
He was also crazy, moonstruck, bat-bitten, bolts-in-the-neck, insane, kind of a monster.
So.
People called him “eccentric”.
And.
Left. Him. Alone.
Eccentric
Tag: dribble
Ritual
He appeared scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell exposed him, acrid, brain-curling. I startled him in the bathroom.
Grandpa dropped the burning envelope into the toilet. “Sssh. Tell nobody. The witch will know.”
After he died, I continued the family tradition, as my grandchild will. Burn all clippings, hair to toenails.
photo by chuttersnap at unsplash
Power Down
Tonight I write by candlelight. A scheduled outage they said.
No light, no heat, no electronic hum but in the shadows story pours from my pen. Stream of consciousness, words flow like water or wine or my own blood.
Now I know I should have contrived a blackout long ago.
Image by Robin Anderson
Quiet Like Sunday
Listen.
Quiet like Sunday on the first of Spring. No traffic, no voices, no airplanes. Only birdsong or a dog barking.
Listen.
Humanity withdraws and the world settles into silence. People in houses gaze through closed windows. They can hear sunlight drip off buildings and roar down empty streets.
Listen.
Image by Harrison Fulop
DNA
He was scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell gave him away, acrid brain curling reek.
I followed him to the bathroom. Startled, Grandpa dropped burning paper into the toilet.
“Ssh. Tell no one. The witch will know.”
After he died, I continued his tradition.
Burn all clippings, hair to toe nails.
Becky Kjelstrom
Altitude
In the high mountains, the air is clear, the sun shines hot. When the wind blows, it rages. Thunder deafens and lightening blinds with obliterating brightness, erasing all shadows.
She sees across a vast expanse. To Eternity? Further? All because the air is thin.
Now, if only she could breathe.
Image by David Siglin via Unsplash.com
Storm
She watches the far horizon, sees clouds thicken, the yellow and iron light turning weird, ominous. Yet fails to recognize the storm moving directly overhead.
Image by Val Vesa via Unsplash.com
As the Crows Fly
Each evening, one half hour before sunset, crows fly to roost
Copper light by strange alchemy turned silver on the black gloss of their wings
To light the moon or the night gold eyes of owls and bats
And to draw in the hapless moth for a midnight snack
Image by Diego PH via Unsplash
Conversation
“How was your walk?” he asked.
“Dumb and boring,” she muttered.
“Your mood?”
“Sad.”
“Your attitude?”
“Unreasonable and self-indulgent.”
“I’ll leave you alone, then.” He turned to go.
“No. Wait.”
Image by Alex Ronsdorf via Unsplash.com
Little Birds
A Dribble
Bright eyes accentuated by black hoods, two square off. Little, never tiny, they walk a long lineage back through time. Wings extend for battle not flight, both are fierce. One will win the life-giving treasure, that Junco now shelters a seed in the clamp of its beak.