by Wilson, Jay
I was enamored by her comity to my brevity of courage.
She neither acquiesced nor ignored, simply answered.
That was the day I met my wife, a future of love,
Where dreams no longer seemed somber, even when
The darkness gloom hung in the blackest of nights.
Fifteen long years, a marriage slowly torn asunder.
Not by the demons of the night nor by dragons of dreams,
Only by the dissonance of lives unequaled entwined and
Embittered by angelic reveries never to be resolved.
With tattered smiles of lives lost, gone without a trace,
Where does one begin battling desires enriched by serpents,
To seek true happiness even when nothing can appease?
And fight we must, but not for each other or for others,
But to find a simple place, give reason for our union—
One too fast for us, anyone could show to be true.
For days had gone by where expensive words were spent
Cultivating the brilliance of emotional companionship,
Yet hollow were the many debts that we paid.
And so under the dying sun and rise of a traitorous moon,
I drank in the blood of the stars, holding them close,
So that the dearest of emotions to tether and stay me
Would linger no longer than soft smoke in a heavy breeze.
To hell, to hell, that where I'll send my wife.
A dream I've been dreaming, perhaps a nightmare for her.
Oh, how I wish I could see before I could see
What attempt I could make to deter the inevitable.
Sight unknown to a bastard thought freed and loosed.
Oh, how I wish those warm nights were no longer cold and
The empty rooms were filled once more
Not by an ethereal presence, too cold for me.
No, by the warm body of evidence; living, breathing,
And not eaten by the worms or the digestive ground.
Oh, how I linger and lumber, from room to room
Dreading the moments, and I wish upon my wishes,
Double them further and perhaps the Lord might hear,
A recant to my deeds to bring forth the woman I adore.
Not just as a dream or a visage but her as life—
A new birth of her life into mine, can it please be true?
Silence among the soft ticks of the clock in my chest,
A reminder that all had been lost to that wicked beat.
I wonder if my dire desire could be fulfilled once more.
A sharp edge reflects everything I want and need;
This is how I manage to find my way down, down, down.
Drinking in the darkness as light gave way,
My passion brought me, no, dragged me to a place
I had only recognized once, in those wicked dreams.
Once before, long before I met her that morning,
I had envisioned a death as intimate as the skin.
Somehow, fate brought me here nevertheless,
And never a thought did I give, when I figured
I might find her here to bring her back
So we can live and love, never be lost in a day
Nor a week, nor even a year, but forever in love
And within loves embrace; but there I was
Before a horned beast, who welcomed me with
Gangly arms and a blackened face, no eyes nor ears,
No smiles nor tears, a jagged visage of death itself.
A voice arose from that wicked beast, and it told me
This story of a man who tried to send his wife to hell;
But to grace she went, to sing with blushing seraphs.
Lo! There I was, among those of the same evil breadth,
To scream with the demons, an eternity, rightly just!
Plot #233
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a blue gloom upon the marble headstones. A soft fog lingered at her feet, and it languidly danced in swirls as she moved about the plot. The cemetery was exactly as one might find in some cheesy horror, which was terrifying, but even if it had been packed with zombies, Sicily would still be there. She had to be there. It was the only way.
She thrust the shovel into the ground, and kicked it into the earth. As she levered a chuck, the roots cracked and popped. She lifted it, and tossed the loose earth into a pile. Another thrust, another plop on the pile. After a short while, she uncovered a small three-foot-by-two-foot coffin.
It was a lovely handcrafted wooden enclosure that she painted herself. It wasn't by any means a stellar design, she'd only painted the entire thing white and stenciled in several orchids at the edges, but the love she put into it more than made up for it. As gorgeous as it was, though, she knew of the occupant, and it made her nauseous.
After climbing into the grave and checking to make sure the lid was secure, she began to wrestle with it to get it out of there. It was much heavier than she expected, and she was sure she might throw her back out, but after much effort, as much as any hopeful mother might have, she managed to push it out and onto the grass above.
Once she escaped the grave, she stood for a moment to catch her breath. The thickening fog seemed to avoid the freshly dug hole and the coffin as if it wanted nothing to do with what she had planned that night. She didn't blame it, either. She could barely believe what she was about to do, but the more she looked upon that small coffin, unable to imagine anything other than a tiny bent, broken, and worm infested body, the more she became sure she made the right decision.
Sicily closed her eyes, and a few tears leapt from her eyelashes. She turned away from the coffin, and when she reopened her eyes, she was looking upon a man with rage. He looked back at her from the orange dolly to which she'd tied him.
She walked toward him, and he shook his head. His black hair plastered against his forehead from the sweat of the warm night. She picked up the handle end of the dolly and struggled to move him to the edge of the grave.
From her dirty white pants, she pulled a small Swiss Army knife. Part of the company’s label had rubbed away, and just below it was an engraving: To Adam—Love, Mom. Her eyes continued to shed tears as she opened the knife. She placed the sharp edge of the blade against the pillowy flesh of her right palm, and as she pushed and pulled, the skin parted.
The man moaned loudly, and wondered if she was out of her mind. Sicily balled her bloody fist, and held it over the grave.
She said, "Six months... six months without my baby. Do you know what that does to a mother? Of course you don’t. You’re just a pathetic drunk with no family."
The blood dripped from her hand, wetting the disturbed earth. He looked at the coffin and then at the woman. He wriggled and tried to rip through the bondage, hoping to hell that he could muscle through and break free.
"For a long time I thought I would never get over it. I thought I might kill myself if only to join my baby once more in the afterlife. It was the only thing I could see." She said, and moved next to him. "But I knew I could never have him without first having revenge on you."
She knelt down and his breathing became laborious. In-out-in-out, deep breaths as she moved the knife closer to his side. This was it, he thought. She was going to stab him and it would all be over.
She placed the knife at the edge of the tape holding him to the dolly, and began cutting through it. A second separate layer bound his arms, wrists, and legs, so she didn't worry that he might jump up and attack her. No, it wouldn't serve her purpose wisely at all to have allowed that to happen.
When she freed him from the metal mover, she stood and said, "Then I got to thinking. Why not get two of the things I always wanted? My mother, as you're probably not aware, dabbled in black magic. Well, she didn't call it black magic. That's for movies, but explaining it to you, I suppose that will suffice."
She placed her foot on his hip. He looked down a
t her mud-covered flats, the skin slightly filthy. Despite the mess she'd made of herself, she still looked as motherly and homely as any other loving mother did.
"I never believed in the things she tried to teach me about my ancestors. All those wasted years—you know what? I could’ve protected him from you. It doesn’t matter now, because I know what I need to do. A life for a life, an eye for an eye." She said, and pushed on him a bit. "You’ll not hear a spell, because there’s no such thing. My intensions to the earth and her spirits are transferred on a plane separate from this one, and are very clear."
She pushed him into the hole, and he landed with a heavy thud. The air rushed from his lungs, causing him to cough, and as he coughed, he breathed in dirt that irritated his lungs, which continued the cycle.
She watched and waited, and then a soft cracking rose from the blackness below him. The ground softly vibrated, and following it was the squish of wet dirt. From below the man, vines pushed their way through the mulch and wrapped around his body.
He screamed but the gag muffled him. The roots of some unknown plant, like the tentacles of a mythical beast, tightened around him. Tighter and tighter, he felt the pressure squeeze him. He felt a pop, and she heard bones breaking. He screamed as the pain increased in intensity, now more audible.
Sicily looked down upon the man that killed her son. The vines tightened around his body, slowly crushing him. He blew blood from his nose and sharp bones pierced through his skin. His scream became a wet garbled rasp, which ended soon after. The vines pulled his mutilated body into the dirt. It left only small scraps of skin and bone behind.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt a thick sickness begging her to vomit. She closed her eyes and swallowed with the hope she might not purge, but she did. She fell to her knees, and let loose that evening's dinner along with whatever bitter bile stringed out after all the food had vacated. When she finished, she wiped her wet eyes, spit the last bit from her mouth, and licked her now gritty teeth.
She stood upon weak knees, and looked at the coffin. She had her doubts at the beginning that any of it would work. It wasn't until she watched the earth consume the man that she'd began to truly believe. Even still, as the coffin sat quiet in the darkness gloom, she felt as if nothing would bring her son back.
Thump.
Startled, Sicily reared back as fear washed her body with a cold sweat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She ran to the coffin, and put her hand on it. Three more thumps vibrated the surface, and then the cries of a child called from within. She scrambled to open the coffin, which seemed impossible to open. When it was finally freed, a sickening stench blew into her face, which threatened her gut to purge whatever traces of acid was left in there, and she looked down. Nestled on the silk pillows was her son. His cheeks turned rosy red, and he looked up at her with eyes bluer than a crisp cloudless morning. A life for a life.
A Tale of Two Tails
“Heads, we get married; tails, we break up.” Max said into the webcam, his face adorned with a pixelated smile.
He and Brooke had been talking for over a year, and he’d finally convinced her that they should move in together and get married. The problem with that was they lived on opposite coasts. He lived in New York, and she in California. Brooke knew it wasn't exactly the kind of decision someone made by flipping a coin, let alone for someone she’d never met in person. She nevertheless acquiesced because she had a plan.
She said, “What if they both land on heads?”
“Easy, we’ll just roll again until we get split sides. If you get heads, you move out here. If I do, then I’ll move to you.”
She was hesitant, but she had to ask the question. “Are you sure you’re okay with breaking up if they both land on tails?”
Sadness seemed to distort his face, but it was almost unnoticeable. She knew him well enough to decipher his hidden emotions, though. He smiled thinly, and she watched a small glint of light appear at the edge of his eye. She knew how he felt, but was certain that regardless of the outcome, they would both persevere.
“Yeah, I’m positive.” He said, but she knew he was lying.
“Okay. You go first.”
“No! Come on… at the same time.”
“Baby, I’m nervous. Just please go.”
His smile broadened, and he flipped the coin. Time seemed to slow as the quarter performed forced acrobatics through the air. The glow of his monitor turned the coin into a flickering flying jewel, but instead of something with an appealing value, she felt as if it carried the horrific weight of a blood diamond. It passed the top of her screen and disappeared as if its existence was only real when visible. When it appeared again, it fell quick, and then she heard it slam, spin, and come to a rattling stop upon his desk.
Max’s mouth formed into a giant toothy grin and he threw his arms into the air. “Heads!”
Her stomach churned as if hundreds of insects fluttered and swam within it. As she positioned a quarter over her thumb, Brooke kept the swarm from escaping by swallowing hard. She took a deep, sickening breath and flipped her coin.
Unlike Max’s turn, her quarter rocketed through the air. It was as if fate couldn’t wait to show her the tail end of it. When the coin dropped, it fell with all the force of a meteor slamming into Earth.
She said, “Heads.”
“Oh, man. What are the fuckin’ chances!” Max giggled, and then fell back into his chair while rubbing his face. “This is intense. Okay, babe. Again!”
He picked up his quarter and tossed it. Irrationally, she took a deep breath, held it, and remained completely still as if any movement she made might alter its trajectory and make it fall on an undesirable side. When it landed, he looked up with disappointment.
“It’s tails.”
She felt relief for a second, but knew she still had to flip her coin. She placed it upon her thumb and flicked it into the air. It sailed through the mild darkness, cutting through the sweet fragrance of her candle with its own bitter essence. Finally, it dropped, rolled, and fell into a puddle of condensation when it smacked into her glass. She looked down and sighed.
“Tails.”
“What—no, please.”
“Baby…”
“I can’t leave you!”
“I know, me neither, but we agreed. It’s gonna be hard, but we’ll be fine.”
Max reached across his desk to reposition the camera as tears trickled down his soft cheeks. His eyes burned a furious red, but his face lost most of its color. With a look of desperation he said, “Can we roll just one more time?”
“Baby, don’t make this harder than it has to be. We set the rules, and we—” She said, but he interrupted her when he opened a drawer, retrieved a gun, and shot himself in the head. Parts of his skull painted the wall behind his desk with a crimson, gruesome portrait of reality, and then he slumped onto the table’s faux mahogany surface.
Brooke covered her mouth with her hands. Her eyes burned, and a sudden cough of sickness followed by a cry of pain escaped her. Shock turned her body cold, but she didn't relent to fainting. She only stared in horror as the man who was falling in uncertain love with her lay in a pool of his own blood. Worse, guilt squeezed her heart with its icy talons. When she looked down at her coin, Washington’s cold metallic eyes stared at her with an inexorable accusation of murder.
The Offering Tree
It was an average afternoon where hard-working bees buzzed from flower to flower. Occasionally they curiously approached a young boy named Clifford as he walked home from school. Sometimes, just sometimes, he would stop to say hello to them, and this was one of those days.
He stopped at a gorgeous patch of lilacs and daisies. A bee landed upon one of the white flowers as he sniffed the subtle fragrant aroma.
"Hello there, little bee." Clifford said as he set his books on the ground.
"Afternoon, young man!" The bee greeted.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, but I don't want to be here all day." The bee said, and laughed with a deep-bellied buzz.
"Are any of you born without wings?"
"I can't say that I've ever met a young one with no wings, but it's possible I suppose."
"How would one like that get around?"
"No idea. We have our legs, but we don't crawl so well. I'm sure it can be done, though."
“Do you communicate with those tentacles?”
“You mean my antennae?”
“Yeah, those things.”
“We bees communicate with them. It’s more efficient than talking.”
"Hmm." Clifford said, and then snatched up the bee.
"What are you doing?"
"Science." The boy said, and then ripped one of the bee's wings clean off.
A buzz emitted from the bee as the pain from having his wing removed burned to his core. The boy laughed joyfully, and the bee began flapping his other wings with the hope that he might free himself.
"Why would you do that?" The bee cried.
The boy didn't answer him, but the obvious reason was that he wanted to satiate his desire to know what would happen to a bee without wings. One by one, Clifford tore the bee's wings off. As each floated to the ground like picked feathers of a bird, he cried to his mother, the queen, for help. Clifford finished by removing each one of the bee’s antennae.
"There we go." The boy said, and set the bee upon the concrete sidewalk. "Now buzz off."
"I can't." The bee said even though he crawled slowly along the ground. He had an effective crawl, one that any bee born without wings could be proud of.
"No, you're doing it all wrong!" The boy cried with rage. "You're no fun!"
The boy stood. The bee looked up and regarded him with a sullen smile regardless of the things the boy had done. He then returned his gaze to the concrete, and continued to crawl knowing he had a long journey back home. He didn't get far, however, because Clifford's anger over his failed experiment led the boy to step upon the bee and smear him into the ground.
