Month: February 2019

Sharp: Part III

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Cruel Acts

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Front door mat. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Robbie slips away from the bushes at first light, his hands are contorted and shaped into demon’s wings, he cuffs his blade tightly to his chest. In front of their door lovingly displayed is a mat that says, “Love is all you need.” He wipes the muddy gunk from the soles of his shoes on it, twists the edge of the blade into the keyhole, slides another in between the door jamb and the knob, and shifts the door silently. It opens. He listens for every breath in their home–Jaimie’s, her mom’s, her older brother’s, and her dad’s. He sniffs at the air, pulls in scents from days past, and bites down on his bottom lip.

Towards the stairs, he creeps. His not-quite-right wings are tucked in slightly behind his back as he maneuvers up each step, careful of creaking floorboards. Slowly he makes his way down the hall. Jaimie’s door is a dead giveaway–white door with pinks flowers and unicorn stickers don it from every angle. He pushes his way through the door and gently closes it behind him. His fangs protrude, salty saliva drips from the edges. Jaimie, sleeping peacefully with her teddy bear cupped tightly in her little hands, does not hear a thing.

Quickly, before anyone can wake up to Robbie’s presence, he leans closer to the sleeping girl, breathes into her ear, licks the tip of its top, and bites down hard, ripping her flesh in one, swift tug. To quiet Jaimie’s screams, his talon-like palm thrashes against her mouth. In one gulp, her head is devoured.

On her chest, Robbie carves, “Number 125.”

Part I & Part II

Sharp: Part II

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Raindrops and the poolside. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

The Rains Came

Robbie clicks his tongue, summoning a new day, the rains came along to cleanse what has been made dirty. Jaimie is still asleep. Her five-year-old dreams cause her to smile… Angels are watching over her. She snores lightly, unaware of the half-man/half-devil waiting not too far from their door. He toys with the blade, licks his sharp teeth, and smacks his lips.

He measures the distance from the bushes to her window. From the bushes to their front door. From the bushes to their beaten up, midnight blue sedan, and then counts…

He counts the number of minutes it takes him to beat the sun and kill again. Dawn does not wait for him, it awakens to the birds’ songs.

Just one more, he thinks. Just one more. 

Part I

Featured Poem of the Week

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Dead Roses

A Collaborative Effort with Barry Dawson IV|Musical Selection: Little Brother Featuring Joe Scudda/Lovin’ It

boxing
Ryan Tang|Unsplash

it is easy to gather roses
for the dead,
words for listeners —
you hide in the shadows, content
on stealing what does not belong
to you.

I have eyes in the back of my head,
protecting what feeds me.
licensing age-old lyrics,
no duplication, B.

if you’re stepping up,
ready for the game,
bring your best uppercut.
I gotta jab and a crazy left hook
gearing up for top lips
and pretty noses.

a cruel business, the world of writing.
your heart is on display —
the hungry come in droves,
salivating for something
fattening.

give’em slim fast,
Ensure, or Pedialyte, but
never ever give them
steak and potatoes.

trying to eat the whole meal
in one bite
instead of the portions
we gave you.

headhunting for
a one-shot KO
will never save you

from your ribcage-rattling,
shook from combos
of famine and body-blows;

still, you try to steal my soul
like your name was Jim Crow.

not one to hide, you open wide
to gulp down the fatty talent,
but leave the conscience
on the platter,

and then get mad at me
when diabetes takes your sight

as if your mad-hatter,
reckless appropriation
had vision to begin with.

I scatter dead roses
at the headstone where we met.
your fat festers, decomposes,
existing as undead,

but I ain’t dead yet

©2019, Barry Dawson IV and Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved

Originally published on Medium via  A Cornered Gurl:

*Barry and I have been collaborating for about a decade. If I think it, he can bring it to life. If he starts something, I can usually finish it. We have meshed well for such a long time that I was beyond myself with glee to finally see him get active on Medium. Every time we work together, it is fun to see where we are in our work at that moment. He is a great Writer and a dope fiend. 

Sharp: Part I

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Playing With Fire

Almost Spring| Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Jaimie is five. She knows to eat her vegetables and to wash her hands before and after every meal, but she doesn’t know about staying away from Robbie. Robbie is the town’s secret. He lives in the park, lurks around after midnight moons, and chases things he cannot catch. Jaimie is one of those things. 

She skips in her front yard, her hair looping around the air as she jumps, little girl hops, barely leaving the ground. He’s watching her, twiddling his thumbs and scratching his scruffy beard. His meds are still bleeding under his tongue. He never swallows. 

The rope skips the ground, Jaimie counts to one hundred in Spanish, her plaits bouncing in unison, in sync with each number. In the bushes, Robbie settles. He counts along with her, sharpening his blade, and panting like a hurried devil. He will have his fill. His teeth form into tiny razors, his hands contort and crack as they shift. He is becoming the fire everyone escapes. 

He sits and waits until dawn.