Sharp: Part IV

Back to Where Home Is

Budding Blossoms. Early Spring. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Robbie slugs away from their home, blade dripping blood, legs shiftless and without care. He will bury the child’s head in a toxic heap, far away from the townspeople. It’s where the others are. It is where he is thought to be from–garbage. The tale of his emergence is a strange, sad one. It is said among the gossipy that his Mom delivered him in an alley, tore him from her womb, and threw him in the nearest dumpster.

She was not quite human, but not quite monster, either. She was this strange in-between thing and fearful of passing down her likeness to her offspring, she rid herself of it. The city trash collectors came the next day. One, a father of two girls, heard the wails of a shivering baby. He ordered his partner to help him search through the pounds of garbage, finally landing on Robbie. They stood flabbergasted, exhausted from a day’s work, but also scared to death. What was this thing? They wrapped Robbie in a soft towel kept in the truck’s bed, and transported him to the nearest convent.

Let the nuns deal with him, they thought. 

Those who truly fear God are said to have ways of exposing evil and exorcizing it. After months of exorcisms and numerous Doctor’s house-calls, the sisters believed that Robbie should be sheltered, kept away from humanity, for they knew that others would fear him. From the very first time he walked, they took him to the local park and explained to him that his place was among nature. From dirt he arose, back to dirt, he would go.

And with fresh blood on his hands, Robbie hurried to his place of safety, away from the summoning calls of the neighborhood children, away from all that was normal.

From dirt, he arose, back to dirt, he would go.


Parts I, II, & III


*This concludes the Sharp series. Thank you for reading.

Sharp: Part II

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

Sharp: Part I

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. 

In Time

A Haibun

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Fresh Blossoms in February|Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

You fear a connection–the two of us, prone to falling before we should. It’s inevitable. In time, there will be wishes made to make us something we cannot become. I see it in your eyes, a glimmer of hope; a piece of understanding that things will probably turn out the way that they are meant to and not how we would like them to be. How odd, is it not? How love can stand in a pool of want and drain into a sea of forgetfulness… It is the manifestation of the elder mothers, wanting what is best for the girls who came after them, for their lineage to remain steadfast and strong enough not to break. But, we are cracking at the seams, splitting in two–two women yearning for affection when love stands in the air waiting for us to breathe it in. If only we had the strength to grab it and hold on. If only we could move out of the way, disappear to a place where minds remain open. If only we could…

I won’t deny it–
I am attracted to you
In time, love will win.