My hand skims the turbulent surface of Lake August. The electric motor whines as the minutes slide from the clock. My heart races. My cargo needs hiding. Daylight doesn’t creeps in to my view, revealing a tiny shed in a rugged lawn.
Who knew too much lust and a pillow could end this way.
I pass the old black tower alone. The late Sun rays tell my presences. My shot at passing without being called upon seems to fade. I fiddle eighth my hands. Thoughts of becoming a treat for the legendary dragon named Honey harms my spirits.
“The spirit listens. What you breathe and what writing you place upon the sacred Earth matters.” Black Bear looks away as he talks following a cloud with his eyes. “Prosper is not an act. It dulls senses. Slowly, it digs through your years leaving holes.”
“So do I put this piece of malachite on Ebay or not?” Jessica looks at her Grandfather. Her vision of a few dollars rapidly disappears.
I’m hiding in a close black corner called home. I belong here were I was put. I skip the laugh to be invisible.
And you call me a cardboard cutout.
Power sprouts like seeds forming chains. Simple pressing like prodding from any unseen tip. The voice stays the same never quite showing the bag labeled lowest rank. But slowly the sage of the home shows herself.
Apparently, the cat needs my attention now.
I remember. The first steamy kiss. Some scene played out on a anonymous screen. My hand lifting curls off your neck. My mind whizzing about when to hit those lips. I tried to spin slowly to whisper something. Your laughing when my pass at passion hit a snag. Your offering me a drink turning into a sticky mess.
But I think of this when you tell me to explain relations to our child.
Charm slides away as if rinsed by unseen rain. I see the crowd mingling by what should be startling. They filter blame, calling names trying to bite of the limbs of victims. Slowly they crawl back to the shadows dismayed by the limits on others attention.
Shifting stripes of light scratch their way through the forest. My stranger drive is only shy the devil himself growling as the soundtrack. Mounds of earth look like burnt loaves of bread off in distance. Dante’s forest snatches any level of comfort I had going into it.
A small cringe closes upon me. Like a wild wolf cajoling me, your practice of heaping praise seems more than kind. My eyes close to hide the blight called twisted love.
The sharp piercing of my right arm told my mind the snarling small dog was a problem. I flailed after I saw him. My car waited with a bar in the trunk. His haul of flesh will leave a scar. But soon I’ll treat him apart, casting him upon a hearth of his Hellhound brethren.