Millie’s Story

“Move away from it!”

Prodding my ribs with the dragon’s barrel, Pa attempted to push me aside. I hunkered over Keme’s bloody, prone body, gripped his shoulders tight, knowing if I gave Pa a clear target, he’d shoot Keme again, kill him. If he wasn’t already dead.

“Damn it, daughter, I said move!” Another jab with the dragon.

Not looking up, I shook my head. “No!”

Silence invaded the shed, broken only by Pa’s raspy breathing. I felt a light touch on my bare shoulder, then the hand jerked away as if my skin had burned it. Pa growled, “Millie, what’s going on? Where’re your clothes?”

I looked up into a face that was more shadow than substance in the lantern’s feeble light. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“Did it…did it force itself on you?”

I finally found my tongue. “No, Pa…I…we…” And lost it again.

His eyes raked both Keme and me, taking in our nakedness; they narrowed, hardened. “Are you telling me it didn’t…you willingly had congress with this demon?”

“He’s not a demon, he’s—”

“It has wings, daughter, it is a demon, and I’m going to finish it. Then…” A loaded pause. “Then I’ll deal with you.” Continue reading

I Wait

sprawl in a wrinkled, uneasy bed
old demons and new share the covers
they jabber and snicker, toss and turn
chase away forgetful sleep
eyes on the shadowed ceiling
I wait for sunrise…

pour a cup of bitter, black coffee
greet the ghosts of past friends and lovers
resentful and accusing in their stony silence
tears slide down unforgiving cheeks
eyes on the cold floor
I wait for sunset…

pace dingy, dark, shuttered rooms
regrets, fuck-ups, and what-ifs hover
lamplight glints on gunmetal gray
what you sow, you shall reap
eyes on the bore of eternity
I wait for death’s release

Photo from iStock

Legion

it starts
and it ends
takes flight on dark wings
and soars from my pen

hell rises up
heaven falls
demons rush in
and pass through the walls
of the human psyche shored up
by gossamer gods and magic pills
tromp through mephitic mires of disbelief
brandishing swords, counting kills

nothing can protect you
not pleas, not prayers, nor unholy deals
from the metaphysical monsters I’ve set free
to nip and bite, sink razor teeth into your heels
and drag your bloody carcass down
into the tenebrous pits below
to rip apart your flesh
and feast upon your soul

it starts
and it ends
takes flight on dark wings
and soars from my pen

An old poem from a previous blog.

Photo from Pixabay

Birds of a Feather

MorphiaBeautiful painting created by my friend, Sarah at Secret Art Expedition, who was inspired by my story.

“Birds of a Feather” is the first story of mine published that I made money on–a whopping $10.00. It was published in Mindflights, an online magazine of speculative fiction (now defunct), under a different pen name than I use here. I think of all the short stories I have written, it remains my favorite.

My little sister was born with wings, or at least the beginnings of such. Little nubs on her sharp shoulder blades. When they reached any size, when from time to time tufts of white feathers dared blossomed out, Ma cut them off. I held Morphia down while she clipped them off with the cow dehorners. Morphia cried and carried on, but Ma said it didn’t hurt none, no more than snipping off a fingernail did, and if she didn’t cut them off, Morphia would fly away like Pa had.

Fact was, Ma had lost Pa to the winds, and she was bound and determined not to lose Morphia too. “Should’ve never let that bird-man in my bed, Henry,” she’d told me more times than I could count. Continue reading