Posts by webcentricity7

I’m wandering the upstairs hallway of this old hotel, wondering what stories lie buried in its now abandoned rooms. It was once a thriving establishment, catering to travelers on paddlewheel boats wending their way up and down the mighty Mississippi River. It’s my dwelling now, just me and my cat, Snowball. Each room is fully furnished, mostly with Victorian-era chairs, beds, bedside tables and light fixtures (bulbs long since burned out). The doors creak. Cobwebs are everywhere. I turn on my flashlight and brush my way into the first room. It feels like Friday the 13th but it’s really just All Hallows’ Eve.

sounds of laughter
fading . . .
dust in the moonlight

The four-poster bed is all made up, waiting for the next guest to arrive. An unopened Bible sits on the nightstand. I imagine a pious man kneeling to say his evening prayers. The space smells old. The memories feel even older.

Snowball startles me as he jumps onto the bed, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. Wheezing, I back myself out of the room, leaving him to explore on his own. The next room is much the same, abandoned in a state of readiness.

shadows falling . . .
I follow a breeze
through the grass

In the third room, I find an old Victrola standing in the corner. Lying next to it is a stack of 78 rpm records. I flip through a few of them. I’ve never heard of the artists—Cleo Brown, Memphis Minnie, Eva Parker Pace—but still, I can feel their music seeping through the pores of the pealing papered walls.

The last room on the right is locked so I turn back down the hall. As I look for Snowball in the first room, I see something under the edge of the bed. I take a closer look. It’s a box of rat poison. I leave it there and close the door behind me.

Finally, the trick-or-treaters have come and gone. I search the place for Snowball and sure enough, I’ve found him, lying limp in a pool of vomit, here on the bathroom floor.

curiosity . . .
the ghosts in the attic
are playing for keeps

First published in Scryptic, November 2018

He watched the leaf drop beneath the horizon and gently light on the ground. He watched as it became a memory, lingering there in the blooming sunrise.

one step closer
to revelation . . .
a cherry tree blossoms

First published in Under the Basho, November 2018

Sometimes I just sit and stare at an empty page. Nothing comes so I decide to write about nothing which often turns into something. Let’s see. My life’s journey has been so convoluted that I can’t even put it into chronological order anymore. Sure, I have memories but they’re all tangled up like a ball of yarn subjected to a cat. It’s gotten so bad, I can’t remember if yesterday was really the day before or the day before that. Tossed around in childhood, I turned and became a wanderer. I’ve long since given up on putting it all together. Better a painting by Jack the Dripper than an empty box of crayons. I doubt any historian will ever sort it out so let’s be frank . . . if you want a piece of me, you better get it now.

searching for buried treasure . . .
better ways to lose my mind
have not been found

I sometimes wake up feeling remorse. It usually diminishes fairly quickly but I wonder how I’ll feel tomorrow when I wake up and you’re still gone…

there are no postcards
in the mail…
autumn wind

I find myself standing at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, waiting in the glow of a streetlamp, the scantest hint of snowflakes floating down through its rays. I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching but it’s not the bus. Headlights drift by… taillights vanish into the night. Salt from the road crunches underfoot. The hint of a breeze chills my ears. I pull my hat down and turn up my collar. The lights change. Now I’m on the corner of Don’t Walk and Walk with no bus in sight. This is confusing. I start to walk.

a caterpillar
makes his way across the street…
progress takes time

Everyone’s heard about the Big Bad Wolf but he’s old now. His tail drags on the floor and his whiskers have turned grey. He’s constantly being picked on by little pigs while he sits idly in his rocking chair looking at pictures of wild boar in an old copy of National Geographic. His huff and puff can’t even open a door now. What’s amazing is that he still has a couple of teeth left. These give him a horrible toothache which the little pigs love to tease him about. Can’t eat pig with a toothache.

So there he sits, dreaming of better days, those days of chasing pigs and running from the woodsman. Just outside the door, there’s a patch of wolfbane. It would make a great salad but it’s hard to chew, he has an allergy, and it’s also hallucinogenic. Last time he ate some, he met a girl named Hood in the forest. The visions of her haunt him to this very day. So there he sits, flipping the pages and rocking gently to the strains of Sweet Caroline mixed with the dissonant oinking of carefree pigs.

murder is a sin…
laughter bears a resemblance
to salvation

the composer
pens his Prelude in D . . .
solar winds

Somewhere, deep in the shadows of his mind, Angelo sits with himself. In his weathered hands he holds a harp strung with strands of his hair. He peers into the void. The void echoes back its nothingness. The man turns his attention to the embers casting a pale glow at his feet and kicks them back to life. Sparks float into the deep emptiness. Content with the now-starry sky, he begins to massage the harp strings as if about to pluck a note. But, then, with a deep sigh, he rests the harp at his side.

A wandering muse steps from the shadows, a lost look on his face. Angelo isn’t sure what to make of him, but offers the muse a place by the fire and a bowl of vegetable stew. The muse stammers profusely about how he hasn’t eaten in days, but mostly that he hasn’t encountered a creative soul in months; his life force is nearly spent. “I am nourished by creation, you see.”

“I am nourished by inspiration,” Angelo replies. “Perhaps, you can help me out.”

“I have never tasted such flavorful soup,” the muse replies. “My mother had no imagination—she named me Joe—always the same bland broth. You seem quite creative. Perhaps, you can help me.“

They study each other’s faces silently in the glow of the fire. Angelo reaches for his harp; Joe begins to chant: one, two, three; one, two, three . . . the shadows begin to dance.

wings and pollen
in harmony with the winds
dancers and drifters