Murder in the Backyard

What is fear?

This is the situation: You are Mrs. Prancy. Newly wed to a handsome man working 50 miles from home. Beautiful. Witty. And really beautiful. You are on your way to bed. You are tired of a whole day's work washing the clothes, the carpets, and the blankets - oh! You just can't sleep yet. Your blanket is still in the backyard. You've got to get it first. As you open the door, you hear a mysterious sound. It alarms you and you pause for a moment to think. You could open the door as wide and as quick as possible like crazy and explode into a petrifying noise to scare off that filthy intruder, or you can slowly open the door and check if the sound was only made by a stupid cat astray. You decide to check it the safe way. You slowly turn the knob, careful not to make even the slightest noise, distancing yourself a little from the door just in case a bloodthirsty axe catches you off-guard and hacks your face into halves. Slowly you peep through the door. No axe. Your eyes scanned the area as fast as the human eyeballs are capable of. Nothing. You gave a sigh of relief, but a sudden gasp cut it out. A ghost! No. Perhaps you're just having an optical illusion. It happens all the time, right? It could be light. It could be something. But what something? You don't know. Cellophane? Plastic bag? What the hell is that? It certainly has a form. It certainly is moving! So what on earth could be white as ghost, moving like a tasty jellyfish waiting for onions and garlic? Aliens? No. Perhaps a murderer on the loose, wearing ghost costume to kill its victims with heart attack - or a bloodthirsty axe. Whatever. Perhaps a lucky madman who found the freaking way out of the asylum. Your mind is flying. You are thinking of axes, rusty foot-long butcher knives; chains around your delicate body while you are chopped inch-by-inch, sliced like meat, roasted alive, eaten by some satanic freaks! There are endless possibilities. Any way, you're dead.

So you stayed up all night. It was not until morning that you felt safe. You survived the night. You checked the backyard, that time, a little confident the evil thing was gone. The first thing you saw was white. It was white like a ghost, moving like a jellyfish. It was your blanket. Go to bed, coward.

Letter to the Dead: My Sweet Disease

You don't know it is till it's there,
Every bite at first is sweet,
Just a chocolate-coated strawberry,
And a sugar-coated chocolate chip cookie.

It's not radioactive,
Not a bomb that blows your guts,
Not a poison, sour or bitter,
Just a sugar-coated chocolate chip cookie.

Then you find a warning sign,
Like the one that says, "Don't drink and drive,"
Still, you tried, and died one night,
But then, you found another chance.

You can run, but not escape,
All roads end, so don't waste time,
There's a path through that drug,
Against the chocolate-coated strawberry.

Cookie Jar Delights

Was it good when I did it?
Paper roses sweet as real,
Did you feel it like you wanted?
Like your first ride on the ferris wheel.

I'm an actor, I'm an expert,
I'm the writer of the script,
I am fighting in my head,
I shall keep it like my breath.

Love and Lust

Fly away little bird,
Take the taste of better chase,
Today or tomorrow,
This stone or another,
Shall never miss your sweet, sweet wings.

Three Minutes

Three long minutes
For my fancy,
Keeping heartbeats
Low and silent.

Three long minutes,
One to hold me,
One to squeeze me,
One to make me feel alright.

Three long minutes,
I am waiting,
There's no bargain
To make it mine.

Not a pistol
On my nose,
Or in begging
To fuel my spark.

Three long minutes,
I am losing,
Burn my passion
Down to nothing.

The Snowman

I do not fully understand this world, but I do understand some. Almost everything has its substance; some exist without it. Some exist as they are - without substance.

I am about to tell you a story about a snowman and a stone statue. They were lovers, and I want to believe they still are. But what follows is not a love story. This is a part of the substance that makes the love story itself. That should be clear enough.

This happened one winter; the night just before it ended. They were always happy, but that dreary night, they weren't; there was always a feeling of magic that bound them, but that night, the magic just won't spark. The moon was bright and the skies were clear. He was slowly melting away. He knew what was to come in the morning.

"Shall we dance? Just this time. Just one last dance."
"I couldn't."

The snowman was grief-stricken.

"Not one more?" He asked, as if the query would soften her.
"Not one more." She replied.
"Well, tomorrow, the sun shall rise bright. Brighter than ever."
"Forgive me, I just can't," was the reply.
"I know. I understand. Not one more. Not one last dance."
"Yes." She said. Firm and decisive.
"You have your reasons. There are more. I understand. Not one last dance. Not once more. The feeling. The ecstasy. The joy. Not once more."
There was silence.
He added, "You be good. Tomorrow, the sun shall wake us up. I can't wait to bask in his light. I have always loved you. With all my heart. This winter. This was wonderful. So you be good. Not one last dance, right? I would like to have one more, but I understand. You can't chill me this one last time."
"I'm sorry."
"Good night."
"Good night."
"I understand. Good night..."

Dear Secret You

Last night I dreamed
I searched Space and Time,
And found no art that compared
To your beauty,
No music sweeter than your voice,
No wine more intoxicating
Than your warm, tender lips.

Poor me, I couldn't even make them rhyme. Haha!

Dreams and the Belle

I hardly remember any of my dreams. But I want to believe it is you that I always dream of. Who else can it be?
I wonder how far I am from you. How far in miles? How many steps? If I run, how long would it take before I reach you? Before my breath is drained?
Sometimes I feel so far from you; sometimes I feel so near. So near I could smell your breath. These moments I so long for. Nobody could tell that while I go about my routine, it is you that I think of. I think of how your eyes speak to mine. I think of how your touch leaves me weak and wanting. I think of how you burn me; how you melt me; how you give life to every inch of me. I think of how you listen to my heartbeat. Do you hear how my heart sings for you? Do you hear it scream your name?

Smile Again

It was 7:00 in the evening and while I was walking down Steady Street, I met Pervat. The wind was blowing cold against my face. I labored to make a smile, trying to be friendly, thinking it was the right thing to do - to greet an acquaintance in a lonely evening, hoping he would give it back. He shot me a glance, in his face a trace of what I judged as dislike and of pride. He thought my smile was a desperate attempt to ingratiate - and he laughed at it; laughed at me. I bowed to hide my reaction. Shame heated my face; my hands searched the cold of the metal under my belt. I hesitated, but finally, a sudden surge of false courage and ill reason changed my course. I turned. He was walking away. Who knew where he was going? The wind blew colder from behind me. "Pervat," I attempted, my voice, almost inaudible from doubt. I aimed and called again, "Pervat!" He turned and gave a short gasp. He afforded a smile, afraid but trying to hide it, perhaps convincing himself I was just playing a joke. A funny joke indeed. "Can I help-" He didn't finish his question. His eyes were wide in shock. I tucked my pistol back into my pants, breathed in deep, labored to make a smile, and continued on my way.

Sweet Night

Beside this building; across my room; in this noisy, ever weary city, is a place much like an oasis in a scorched desert - my paradise, my serene sanctuary, home of my wild fantasies.
Always, at night, after a whole day's toil and fatigue, I look to it and wait in patience. And then, like rain, as sweet as honey as it touches dry and barren soil, my woman - mine, for no other man claimed her his own but me (in the secret of my mind) - in her beautiful silhouette against her scarlet curtains, enters the scene, starts with a couple of gestures, obviously undressing, and makes her lovely curves more seducing.
I would stare indulgently, wide-eyed, speechless at the sight. The ecstasy it brings sometimes tells me I could jump and cross over the space between my room and hers, and my mind would then tell me otherwise.
I think I can. But I think I cannot. I can hold it. Can I?

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