Thief Lane

  She held it tight, behind her back. Until the sweat rubbed off the characters, one by one. They became words with no meaning, letters, absurdities, lies even, maybe. The red seal was broken in half though: a clean break. The deep red of the wax shone like fresh blood. Was it dripping along her dress? What were those dark stains following the sharp angles of her fingers? They asked again, “Where has he gone?” And her eyes stared straight back, ever so dark. “How would I know?” Her voice was flat. I could see the paper getting wetter, redder. I could see her nails, digging deeper into her wrist. They hesitated. “Mind if we search the room?” “Please do.” She did not even flinch. And the blood was dripping, or was it the wax? So red it was. So thick. It looked, smelled like rust and I could feel my intestines rising. The men kicked furniture and opened closets and trapdoors. They hit me as they walked past, and some other servants, too. They shouted and laug...

                                                 It flickered, and grew, and threatened to disappear. Right here,           Right there, Just beyond. Fingers flailing to grasp           Wisps of smoke                     Fading ghosts. Dying candle light,         Dancing in the dark. It retired on a whim,          Came back in a whisper. And I was left waiting          Wishing for an echo.       ...

You returned to the universe And my universe collapsed It was a shrinking A shifting Between a world before, and a world after. A world with you in it, and a world without.   A me before And a me after.   You returned to the universe And a hole was created It is a patch of space An emptiness To show where you used to be, and where you are no longer. A reality that had you, and a reality that does not.   A me that had you And a me that does not.   You returned to the universe And I did not cease to exist It was a different way of being A detour From a life without grief, to a life that embraces it. From a life together, to a life apart. A me without grief To a me torn apart. You returned to the universe And I still talk to you in my head It is a conversation A monologue In the split second that I forget, you’re no longer here. A moment of slipping, from the now to the then.   A me that was here T...

                                                         (Gustav Klimt, Fish Blood, 1897/1898) I watch the shore and I think of you. It can be so lonely at times. The jagged coast. The rocks, emerging out of the sea like forgotten tombs in a graveyard. The waves, relentless. Did the ocean, and this desolate landscape, did they ever mean to nurture us? Yet we are their children are we not? I take one deep breath. Salt. Seaweed. Sand. Wind. I can even taste them. I close my eyes. Mother. Will you let me love him? This creature from the earth? Will you accept him? I know that the land is not generous. The earth is coughing up humans. So many of them. They scream, they hurt, they destroy and tear everything apart. I ...

“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” you tell me. “They all mock me now, they look down on me and sneer at me. They call me weakling.  They’re just waiting for me to die so they can take over.  But they underestimate me. I can bide my time and wait. I’ll make them all pay and they’ll regret it, soon enough.”    “The best kind of revenge,” I say to you, “is to live your life well and prove them wrong. Show them that they’re irrelevant and they don’t affect you.”   “Oh, I’ll certainly prove them all wrong. I’m going to start living well. I’ll surprise them and lull them into a false sense of security. And then I’ll strike when they least expect it.”   *          *          *   Y ou’re proving them wrong. You persevere against the odds. You don’t sicken, you don’t die. You don’t take a step back and fade into obscurity. You step up to take the reins, and you take co...