Sleep Deprivation

Day 18 of the June challenge. #Rekt

I feel like crying

I did not sleep until three

Fuck you, six A.M.

MooN

June challenge 17/6/21. At the time of writing, we were in waxing crescent, but tonight we’re in waxing gibbous.

MooN

bright and smiling, shining beams

like a pearl up in the sky

how close yet far away you seem.

watching over as I dream

watching as awake I lie

bright and smiling, shining beams.

fold into phases like they’re seams

curious to my naked eye

how close yet far away you seem.

tenderly you guard my dreams

glad they be, or if I cry

bright and smiling, shining beams.

what comfort from your light I glean

pleasant light that never dies

how close yet far away you seem.

up there with the stars you team

up there in the diamond sky

bright and smiling, shining beams

how close yet far away you seem.

my dearest

June challenge 16/6/21. Because everyone knows that the proper way to make a brew is to put the milk in first…

“It will never work between us now;

you aren’t the person that I thought you were.

There are many things that I can bear,

but knowing this, it simply is too much.”

“Really now, you’re being quite unfair.

It’s who I am, and that I cannot change.

I know that it might make things difficult,

but please, my dearest, give me one more chance!”

“What chance is that, a chance at happiness?

We’re incompatible you know, my dear.

We’re opposites who just do not attract.

I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do.”

“My dearest, I believe I have the fix:

let’s just not watch each other brew our tea!”

Multiplayer

I’ve been late with my writing, but here is June challenge 15/6 /21. Earlier this year, something I struggled with was given a name: Other Specified Dissociative Discorder. I decided that my headmates deserved a tribute poem. Toivo liked this format, the villanelle, so I did it for him.

They don’t know you, but you’re real

I wake up and all of you are there

Pity I never know what I feel

You’re here because I couldn’t heal

You’re here because life isn’t fair

They don’t know you, but you’re real

I’d say for now it’s not ideal

All the real things I don’t share

Pity I never know what I feel

All our thoughts go around like a ferris wheel

Time is lost without a care

They don’t know you, but you’re real

You do what I can’t, that’s our deal

For there’s so much I can’t bear

Pity I never know what I feel

Those memories are like a trap of steel

Things to which I’m unaware

They don’t know you, but you’re real

Pity I never know what I feel

Amy Vanderbilt

June challenge 14/6/21

proper behaviour

etiquette, the stuff of dreams

teach me politeness

I Got 99 Problems and These are Absolutely All of Them

Due to striking apathy, I had a hell of a time coming up with things that mildly piss me off for unlucky day 13 of the June challenge. I give thanks for my sister, who came up with several dishonourable mentions in this terrible list. What ruined your day today?

I Got 99 Problems and These are Absolutely All of Them 13/6/21

I just can’t fuck with gate-keepers, or being put on hold.

I don’t like the bureaucracy of doing what I’m told.

Hangnails can go do one, and Karens make me sigh.

Splinters and Jehovah’s Witnesses both make me cry.

I hate when I am out of milk when trying to make tea.

Deadlines make me dead inside, and bad erasers test me.

And when the bus is late, there is little more depressing.

Train announcements you can’t understand while precious time is pressing.

Surpassing a slow walker on the pavement boils my blood.

Breaking brand new headphones drags my good mood through the mud.

There’s little more disheartening than clothes tags sticking out.

Forgetting or resetting passwords makes me want to shout.

I can’t stand chumps who litter or who walk on fresh mopped floors.

I don’t like wearing glasses in the rain or slamming doors.

Unscheduled computer restarts test my will to live.

Sales tax is one fuck that I’m not prepared to give.

Fitted sheets that slip right off the bed make me so mad.

Umbrellas turning inside out are sure to make me sad.

Butter that’s too cold to spread, annoying feminists,

and missing puzzle pieces sure as hell will get me pissed.

Opening a bag of crisps to find it’s mostly air.

Zippers getting stuck remind me that life isn’t fair.

Long receipts and double parking, papercuts oh my.

Plugs that don’t fit outlets properly, oh dear God why?

Ryanair gets on my nerves, bad autocorrects slay me.

Spam mail does my head in, as does unfairly slow grading.

You know what makes a bad day worse? Loosing your bus pass.

And people who cut into queues can all go kiss my ass.

You ever had the pain that is an eyelash in your eye?

TSA and rude cyclists, get out of here, goodbye!

People who like anime a little bit too much.

Pushy vegans, anti-vaxxers, flat-earthers and such.

Spilling something on some clothes that’ve only just been cleaned,

I’m really not a fan of running out of toiletries.

I die when pencil lead breaks, when I’m not able to sneeze.

When necklaces get tangled, when I fall hard on my knees.

Life comes to a halt when packaging is oversized.

Losing just one earring is a peril I surmise.

Forgetting something in the microwave sucks major dick.

Screaming toddlers, YouTube ads, and snoring, take your pick.

Notebook paper that gets stuck and won’t tear evenly.

rude people who interrupt most inconceivably.

Peeple with bad speling, sunburn, insect bites,

Waiting for a stupid avocado to be ripe.

Missing an ingredient while baking is a no.

Writer’s block, an itchy blanket, stubbing your pinky toe.

Slow WIFI, a stuffy nose, hangovers and brain freeze.

Stores that won’t accept card even if you beg them, please.

Traffic and loud tourists make my life a living hell.

Sitting on wet surfaces unplanned makes me unwell.

Overly religious dolts at otherwise fun fêtes.

Netflix removing a show you’re watching, that’s the worst it gets.

The Microsoft Word editor makes editing a chore.

People who insist on calling you a name that isn’t yours.

Insufferable family members, when the volume is too low.

Someone takes your food without asking, as if you wouldn’t know.

Using the same knife and cross-contaminating jars.

Drinks that are too hot or cold to drink when at the bar.

Hair bobbles that are too tight with three loops, yet with two

won’t hold your hair in place. I mean, what are you meant to do?!

Popcorn kernels in your teeth, clumpy spices, hail!

But nothing’s ever worse than when your autosave just fails.

Sharing bathrooms, teenagers who have to act all ‘alt’.

People who repeat jokes slightly louder, that’s a fault.

Water spraying all around when washing up a spoon.

Tap that is too hot or cold, shit drives me to the moon.

Internet Explorer, minions, boomer memes unclever.

The crushing weight of knowing that you have to work forever.

Cleopatra’s Needle- the finding

V. The Finding

            I still haven’t been able to find my way around this marble, wooden, plastic place. And I don’t expect that the next time I see the nasty driver will be any better; she had given me a glance and spoken solemnly: “These is the floors— the top three— that is for the monsters and dee-mens and the others. Shouldn’t be going up there because if you do… death even more than before is awaiting you. Stay clearest?”

            I fill my time with trying to stay quiet and aware. After what I suppose is a day, I know the fourth floor, around the paintings exhibit. It’s a bright room with muted lighting, as if it’s eternally dawn. Most of the canvases are so faded or stained with blood that there is nothing reminiscent of their past pictures. There are two paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling; the larger one is in the center of the ceiling, and the other is near the back stairs. There is a large table, and, at the far end of the low-ceiling hall, several plush black chairs with pieces of smooth, opaque glass embedded into their edges.

            The ceiling plaster is etched with brilliant shapes. Italian styling, I think. I examine it while I lie on the floor when I am sure that I am alone. This both calms and causes a feeling of dread to pulse throughout my bloody body. I imagine the same knives which dicing my flesh being cleaned and softly worked into the soft moulds to create what I stare up at. This cannot be unreasonable; too much have I seen to think it might be.

            Suddenly, I hear a small noise; receding footsteps. I freeze, to be sure I am not mistaken. I hear steps, coming down, down, down. I run, toe to heel, as quietly as I may, to the half-helix stairwell. I hide behind the curve of the banister.

“Over here, sir!” a high voice whispers. I look around. Gray feet rush behind a silk shoji. The feet make no sound, and that makes me uneasy. My heart, were it possible, skips and thuds in my broken chest as I contemplate being sliced by the nasty driver or some other dismal creature she had described. Again:

            “Over here, sir!”

It sounds too much like the nasty driver. I turn further into the stairwell, planning to escape to floor five. Out of nowhere, hands grasp my shoulders. I freeze. Shake. Become rigid. Wish for death. A stuffy male voice warns me sternly to be careful. He pulls me back, into his chest.

            “If you’re going up, it’s prudent to look first— they jump.”

            I struggle surreptitiously. The voice doesn’t sound so off-putting that it might be a monster. I don’t care. I break away just as the grasped hands and arms let me go. I almost fall. Before me is a man. His visage is neat aside from his blue lips and pallid, sunken eyes and ashen skin. His jacket is modern, and it has blood in a small stream running from under his left arm to the middle of his chest. The flesh underneath is almost black. More people emerge from behind the shoji. The vines and cherry blossoms painted on it now seem like rosy wounds. I only stare.

“Who are you?” My voice is icy, eyes fiery.

            The stuffy man with the slit in his abdomen looks at me intently. He seems like a vulture. The face hungers for flesh, set in a grimace and crumbling with every breath. “Roald Kapthrow. 1906.”

            I turn my body away slightly. I don’t want to be near this ancient corpse. If the others do not introduce themselves, naturally I will assume that they have been here just as long. I back away, bumbling into the banister.

            Turning hastily around, so that my back is to the space of the room, I ask, “And you all? What are you doing here?” They, too, seem like vultures.

            The limp voice that reminded me of the nasty driver’s emerges from the bloody blue mouth of a young woman. “I came here in 1919. Lucindette Montë.” Her sunken eyes widen. The pupils are small dots, almost specs within the white globe under her heavy eyelids. I inspect her. Aside from bloody lips, I see no other clues to Lucindette Montë’s demise— met just two years ago.

The third man interjects his own introduction, dryly: “Daquan Pao. Mischief Night, 1919. They call me James.”

            He has flat, small features, I assume an Oriental. He is clad in a fashionable chestnut-coloured coat. He looks almost alive; his bronze skin is only a bit matted from decay, his thin eyes only mildly tinted yellow. He removes his coat. His back has been split down the middle. Chunks of red, gummy flesh droop grimly from his spine.

            “Re-killings are worse than the firsts,” Lucindette Montë sighs.

            Not keen on these sudden meetings, I step away, near a boat diorama made of burned matches. “Why have you all been together, but I’ve only just now heard from you?”

            Lucindette Montë closes her arms. Her pupils become stagnant. “We’ve only just reawakened. You’ll soon understand.” She stares into her palms, mouth pressed in a reserved and bitter line. She folds the backs of her hands into her sunken cheeks. Then she looks up:

“The last night, I dreamt of being put into a dark, small box— I’m very fearful of that sort of thing. It was tied shut, but I could see through it, like it were glass but not; on the outside were shadows, and people. I somehow saw that the shadows were evil, that they were the ones who had shut me in, and they were coming to get me. But the people simply stared, refused to help me. I don’t remember the rest for a bit, but I could see the soles of shoes, and then the box was on its side. The people began to jump, and I could hear the wood splintering from the strain, but I couldn’t move.

“I awoke cold and screaming, feeling the grip of death. It was just before the box gave in. I was entwined in the sheets. The window glass had a crack— the same as on the box in my dream. I went downstairs to sit awhile; thought I might be cozier to stay up until I’d calmed down.

            “A mistake of all eternity, that was! I heard a terrible breathy sound, creaks like footsteps. Startled me! And suddenly I was knocked over, and I saw a shiny axe, and—” She turns her slim figure in toward herself. Her face glowers away from my glance. It remains this way for almost too long. Eventually, she coughs to pardon the silence.

            “I have no opinion of getting here— and I suppose it’s best. Wandered here alone before I met the others: the same as you see us now. We devised a plan to escape, but that’s quite impossible!” Her eyelids flutter. She coughs.

            “Hasn’t been this clean in a while,” Roald Kapthrow remarks.

            Lucindette Montë continues, “The year I came here— that’s two years ago now— only two escaped on their own. The only time we were ever found was by the girl. Mister Kapthrow pushed her all the way off the seventh floor. I’ll never forget the thud. And then she got up, as if nothing happened at all!”

            “We nearly got to the edge of the fourth floor before we had to hide. I expect the monsters heard her fall. We saw them coming up, and we heard them coming down. We were close out of ideas; had to go by word of mouth that there were places to hide— and in the dark, no less! Scared out straight of our wits that we would be caught, we split out of our plans. Ruined it all. Needless to say, many were caught— most, in fact. The screams, the tears, the pleas. And worse yet, no time to mourn. We had to keep on.

“We loaded into the elevator. When it crept down, it creaked so slowly that I thought we never would reach the bottom ahead of those monsters. Either way, should they have pried to doors open, it was plain to see that the cell was gone; they knew who was inside of it and where we were destined. Terrible screeching chains. When it opened, it was lovely: not a trap. But we wasted time, staring at the doors out. Longing.

            “We stepped out slowly. Then the monsters came…” Lucindette Montë squeezes her eyes shut. Her voice is ragged.

            “Lye,” she whispers. “I could see two had escaped. As in my dream, I saw their shoes, but never their faces. And I was drowned in lye as they ran free. There was no one helping me.”

            She looks at me; her face is contorted into a nasty, cynical smile. Her eyes are despairing. “You have at least two more years here,” she says. “Even if you aren’t re-killed, you can’t leave. And you should be martyred for those of us who’ve been here longer. After the pain games, you’ll be buried in the graveyard. You have another year to sleep.”

            We return to the fourth floor upon hearing footsteps approaching. I shriek and jump back when I see a young girl laying on one of the tables. Her wrists have been slit up her entire forearm. The expressions of pain and terror are etched plainly on her morbid face.

            Dear God! What have I done to deserve this?! What have I done?!

***

Later, more shadows arrive. Not all bear signs of death; James is the only one from my first meeting who has retained any injury. At any rate, I am more grateful for the new, less-damaged company.

The first is a woman, perhaps in her thirties. She has fair skin and large doe eyes, honey-coloured. Her black hair is knotted up on her head in two small buns. Her eyes are kind, but grieved. Her name is Muriel Abbott; despite how improper it is, she insists upon a nickname: Miri.

            An aging man, dressed only in a billowing white top and dark trousers calls himself Nigel Tunnigan. In life he was an artist. His accent is boggy and rounded.

            A beautiful girl with silvery hair and eyes and translucent skin appears next. It pains me to see such a dainty creature slit across the throat so badly, so savagely; she was killed the same night as I, but we never saw each other. “I have been here since the day I was killed. I’ve been about the top floors, and when I came here I never saw you, or any trace of anyone. How curiously vulgar, if they make it so that we can’t even see each other until they want us to.”

            I ask her for her name. I tell her mine.

            “I’m Annice Blackwell. I might not say it’s a pleasure,” and she tries to smile, but I see the beginnings of tears forming in her meek eyes. I smile as slightly as I can, and nod away.

            I sigh and sink into one of the uncomfortable chairs. Awkwardly I say, “When do we escape?” It comes as more of a disparaging comment than a real question.

            “That’s moot. Et’s all t’ do wi’ thur whims.” I look up to see Mister Tunnigan, who has joined me. He sighs and motions toward the others. “Yer one told you about it, has she? Two yares ago, a course. How the last they’d see a thur lives—  yeh know my meanin’— was right before thur freedem. And yeh’ll find the same pattern?” Those remarks roll off a bit gaily for the turpitude of our situation.

            “Right, yeh see, et was very hostile last yare; so many paroxysms ’et yeh’d rather be killed befare the games even star’id.”

“Er— how would that be?” I ask.

“Try an’ escape airly,” he replies.

“Oh,” I say. I try again. “The girl on the— ”  I gesture and look over, then readily turn back and clear my throat. I clench my jaw.

“Her nem is Katerin. She tried last night. They make a point a bringin’ the bodies to us, as a warnin’.”

“Better her than me…” I shudder. I feel a pang of something; and not guilt, not pity. Something makes me leer towards her, to observe this girl’s fate. And although in life every force within me would have told me to look away, I feel as though it is my morbid right: to see what I am a part of.

He lowers his voice, leaning in to me. I study his face; it has not aged properly: his skin is waxy and unfaltering, but he has wrinkles—barely there, but enough to know that he once led a life of his own bidding. I dither.

“Now yeh see, it happened a James last year. I’d say yeh wouldn’t want a be askin’ him about it. Bitter as hell.” The old man leans back a bit, his secret remark over. “But then I s’ppose we all are. Oh, but not yer one, Miri.” He remarks to the air, “She’s been here too long. Takes it out a yeh, doesn’t it.”

            I nod. “And what else happened last year? To make it so terrible?” It is a stupid question; the bloodless faces around me, my own lifeless existence, the throbbing, aching in my otherwise numb bones; all of this, yet still I compel him to continue. I ask from perhaps some sick, vulgar desire to hear a demise worse than my own, that I might be spared in his tale if I could not be in real life. And in perfect resonance, he tells me.

            “A lot a children,” says he. “Five, I think; or six. Damns me to forget, but the longer you’re in the ground, waiting— things pass.” Mister Tunnigan points toward the stairs. “I’d be settin’ every day there, just waitin’. Now, I don’t s’ppose you’re well aware that monsters have names?”

            “Names, sir?” I shake my head as he continues, realizing too late that he did not require a response from me.

            He eyes me as if I were a pupil speaking out of turn in a lesson. Clearing his throat, he spits out, “An’ well you be aware of it! They’ve done away with formalities with us, but among them, they fancy a little commentary. They’d come all hours, especially at first, when no one dared move. Not for lack of wanting, yeh see, but for lack of dimwittedness.

            “The likes of which I’d reckon you’re well spared from!” Lucindette jests. I don’t care to oblige her, and neither does our narrator.

            “And as time went, the others came: healed by then—you’ll be healed as pairt of it — but where I was going was, I heard them monsters calling each other.” He softens his voice to a gruff whisper, imitating their voices: “‘Ives, come see this! Toullee, come here, Pilkington, over there, Moritiana, Thrasher!’

            “Now yeh see, the children came up later, and we found out they’d been orphans or working— you know, errand boys, apprentices and such. But Miri saw ’em and told ’em stay out of the way. Just set ’em until there were a few who escaped. And then they joined us on our plot— or our execution, whichever yeh fancy.

            “We were to follow the monsters and know where it was that they wint; now that I had their names straight after a lot a listening, this job fell to me. We knew that usually after a good killing, they’d go back up to recount— well, isn’t that I reckon to know what a monster does in his silly hours. Anyways, a group of three or four had left— we s’pposed that their demise would be our opportunity. Horrid, innit? But that’s the truth, like.

“Mind, if a monster sees you up here, they’re not like to try an’ kill you. Scare the damned daylights out a yeh! But most a the time, you won’t be seeing ’em until you’re almost out. If you see one an’ you get too close, they might, but if it’s across th’ room jest leave quickly and silently, even if et saw you.” Mister Tunnigan raises his chin smugly, gives me widened eyes, as if saving those last words for another story.

            This news, of possibly seeing a monster or another nasty creature stirs a new compunction. “B-but you said they were—they fancy to murder… why might they wait?”

            I know his answer, but I require affirmation, extrinsic, verbal. I must. He resumes a cavalier tone, lulling thumbs on temples. “Oh, I think that they like to wait in s’spense. Stopping an escape en it’s wake… Sick almost to deprive that. ’Nd don’t they live on such forces, ensorcelled by the delectation?” He tastes each syllable of his suave interjection.

            Heavenly Father, be with me… So close yet so far away. Then I say it out loud, tasting each virulent syllable for mine own.

            Mister Tunnigan sighs. He leans back slowly, but not comfortably, as if shifting his own body to the turn of phrase, so close yet so far away. “Something like that. And I don’t know if you know this, either, but they like knives the most. Well, I know you must.” He gives a cold stoic look about my crimson wreckage of a body. “Got chopped ap good that night, a all.” I do not act offended.

            “Miri and Lucindette, the chill’uns, and a few others with myself went downstairs. We were the only ones left. Six had died we presumed, so the monsters would’ve been back. Turned out, we arrived during the spree instead a after. We hid behind the fountains. Poor small ’uns star’id crying. Ah, it was tort’rous to watch a horrid event as to partake. Alas, we got out okay; those damnable imps of Satan were too drunk on their salubrious ravaging to take much notice. Prob’ly assumed we’d all been right afraid a the gruesome scene to come down.

“Miri shoved us into the elevator. It had been axed and wouldn’t work. So she starts trying to cover the littleuns’ eyes. Spare them that, I s’ppose, even though they’d been those bodies and seen ’em all round. Her perturbation caused them all to panic, and to cry a bit too loudly. Got them out a the box. Back through the bloody lobby to the main stairwell— that’s th’ only other way out all the way to the ground floor.

“We get there, and a monster is sleeping. Suddenly the railing banister falls an’ thuds hollowly. I think a child must’ve leaned too fare on it. And then he wakes.” Mister Tunnigan looks at me.

“Well, Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, she threw herself at ’im. He gauged out her eyes, went after everybody and they ran for the door. Everyone died. He ripped ’em limb from limb, staked them through their little sill hearts, slit their throats…” he gulps sickly. He closes his eyes, hangs his head; he looks at the thin edge of the table, a small steady stream of dark smooth scarlet running from Katerin’s wrist.

All of the sudden, Mister Tunnigan spits, “And I just stood there like a bloody coward! A coward… After I went upstairs, a demon broke my neck. The girl stepped in after and took their bodies outside. That I saw before I left. There are things in the world it is better to not know about; of course, those are the things that people want to know the most about…”

I close my eyes and wonder if Katerin is in peace for a while. And I wonder if there is a way I can join her before the pain games begin. I might lose my breath, if I had any. Mister Tunnigan tells me that soon I’ll be recounting my own tales, and that, “in time, yeh’ll see that they eren’t quite as bad ’s before.”

Miri comes to tell me to stand. I obey, nimbly.

Annice Blackwell, that shy, odd beauty pines for refuge from a lonely purgatory. No one obliges. I wish to take the brim of my thumb along the fine ridges of Miss Blackwell’s snowy cheekbones and dry her tears before they become frost.

***

My body stiffens as more shadows join us; I gather only names now, which I know will be lost in a few minutes after gaining them.

            A lady in a fine lace shawl and matching hat bears herself beside me in a chair, a true unforeseen apparition. I prance up at once, then reseat myself, realizing my rudeness after it’s already too late. I grasp the chair’s arm and demand politely for the woman’s introduction.

            She faces me with a pinky face. Her nose is tipped at its base and curves slightly to the right. Her yellow hair is pinned away from her face in papillote sprigs. “Not that it’s your business, lovey,” she says haughtily. “I am Missus Adelaida Dezetersia. And of course you’ll call me Missus Dezetersia like a good lad, won’t you?” she scoffs and tosses a loose curl behind her shoulder.

            The worst part is, she is only the first of the evening. By the end of a few minutes the list totals thus:

            a Missus Adelaida Dezetersia; a Miss Goldie Dustsceawung; a couple, Hazel-Pearl and Macklin Pribble; a Mister Bradford Harlin; a Mister Gilbert Holloway and his sister, Christana; a Mister Leo Thieme; a Mister Nicklaus Patke; and children Evelyn Allis, Kimberly Spurlock, and Eunice Romack.

            And maybe more will come. We could fill our own town cemetery. I doubt that anyone would visit.

Cleopatra’s Needle- cleopatra’s needle

IV. Cleopatras Needle

            “Scylla!” Prince Berte whines. “Scylla! None is better than me in finding that Toullee and I isn’t finding him in this building!”

Snarling in irritation, Scylla flies off into the stairwell. “Find him for yourself, you stupid imp; rest, you’re the most useless thing in this building. No wonder you can’t find him. He ought to hide from that voice of yours!” she retorts under her breath. It isn’t long before she melts into the dark stairwells and catches sight of a monster’s large and bloody footprints. She knows where the monsters are, and by extension, Toullee. In that case, she considers annoying Prince further by saying the prints were the monster from Cat Kitty’s.

Toullee is by himself, finding bits of dust and quite a lot of blood in the rooms where the best of the re-killings had happened. The blood is black now. Everything smells like rust. Toullee hadn’t take part in the actual killings here; he mostly stays quietly and attacks on the lower levels, not killing unless the corpses were just about to escape. Usually he bullies Pilkington into carrying the bodies from the whole building. When the corpses are all accounted for, the torture begins. If Moritiana is absent from the scene, which is next to never, Toullee can usually persuade Ives to let him have a few rounds. But mostly he melts into the shadows, watching as best as he can: never killing but nonetheless satisfied with the pleas and screams that echoed all over the hallway.

Perhaps it is good to get some idea of the places that these creatures are in. This place, Cleopatras Needle, is second from Hell. It reeks of smoke and blood and peeling paint and rubber; the veins in the walls have been painted by the blood inside the veins of those in the pain games, and no traveler would stay here. There are fifteen floors in all; the top three are reasonably nice despite the dismal creatures staying in them.

The space is airy, with no definite ceilings. Each floor has an arch of steps to the next level, upwards on the left, downward on the right, along the edge of the building. They form a scallop pattern. The dismal creatures often forego using the stairs at all, instead opting to jump all the way to the lobby. The back edges of the floors have concealed stairs, which the corpses prefer, so as to not be jumped on.

The edges of the floors alternate between protruding slightly and dinting back perhaps a half a foot: similar to a flattened edge of a steam cog’s teeth.

There are foam floors in the basement, and a run-down elevator. The third floor is the lobby, a grand hall with large gray tiles. An arching double stairway resembles arms set in an embrace. There are two fountains, sirens from the Greek myths. The lobby is faded a bit these days, of course. The tiles have become cracked and grow mildew. The remaining nine floors have well-maintained exhibits, save the blood and dust; but the mirrors have not been shattered, nor the exhibits maimed. Most of the re-killings happen in the hallways, anyways.

The exhibits have only small side rooms such as bathrooms that are apart from the common space. Other than that, they are occupied by ship dioramas made from burned matches, silk Chinese tapestries weaved with assiduity, several cabinets filled with crystal glasses, porcelain basins to hold running water, painted canvasses, fine carved wooden chairs, several delicate and broad statues of bronze and the like, majestic stone fireplaces, eccentric shoji, pulchritudinous porcelain teapots…

            History bit awry—to say if it was created for this purpose or if the Mistress merely found it is moot. Either way, the creatures have had it for a very long time. It changes in architecture mildly every year—not that the third floor will not be the lobby, but the placement of the artifacts and such.

            On any ordinary day, Death only receives those whom he has called. During the games, however, he repairs each corpse from their murder injuries. Those killed try their best to escape, or be put into the earth until next year. Although the raids happen for only a few hours, time stops completely until everyone is either freed or dead. Pray it be the former (but that would depend upon the side that one finds themselves cheering for).

***

“Well, darling, how is it?” Death says. He rounds the table at which his wife sits, making his arms a cold scarf about her shoulders. The Mistress turns her head from facing the table to the side opposite Death. She wants him to know that she is in no mood to speak with him. Of course, being so self-absorbed, he does not render any clue.

            “You stupid imp,” sighs she, defeated. She retreats to her chamber, which is as glorious and beautiful as she is. There, she calls for a servant. He is a lackey, and perhaps the most arrogant and self-absorbed as anything ever could be, but because she is a highly esteemed one, he feels esteemed to be there, no matter what he is doing.

            “Prince Berte! Prince, come at once. It is a dire circumstance, and only your company shall do.” The Mistress can speak with any of the underworld imps. Her voice can raid their minds, if her mind’s eye should draft up a picture of the creature whose thoughts she wishes to disturb.

            In pretty good time, Prince Berte comes. He whines and sneers, for he had plans to do exactly what he will be doing now, only with fellow faeries. She looks over her shoulder as he enters, sighs. She lifts her arm and waves Prince passively over.

            The Mistress’ chamber is made of glass, of wood and stone. She owns several fine artifacts: an ebony engraved couch, on which the Mistress lounges; gems like cold, hard sapphires, xanthous topaz, bright tourmalines; and crystal scrying balls, of different colours and diameters. With them she spies on the mortal world and the underworld. If ever she has the whim to wish for a picture of the world above, she merely chooses her memory, her place, and there she will see whatever it is that she wants to. These glass orbs were a gift from her husband.

“Here now, Prince.”

            He obliges. “Whet is yeh wanting Mistress?”

            “He doesn’t understand…” she sighs. She rises from her seat, trailing her arm along the top edge of the wood. She slouches and scuffs her feet as she turns to a large mirror that encompasses the entire wall opposite her bedding— (that is a mountain of duvets, deceitfully nice: the covers underneath are cold. She prefers to look at it rather than sleep in it).

            The Mistress Persephone pours out her heart to the languid, moony faerie called Prince Berte.

***

Once, no one exactly knows how long ago, but long enough to be faded from coeval memory, there was a girl. Dreadfully ill, she was. Consumption. Her speech was breathy and heavy with sickness, and her body ached, frozen like a slab of granite over a grave. The chills were the worst; how completely mad she felt as she laid there dying, unable to comprehend the nature of her curse of health.

            The Mistress and Death were getting on quite well for their 240thanniversary. Quite young for a marriage of the supernatural kind, and it hadn’t had many quarrels. Of course, this could be taken to mean that in 240 years, Death mostly worked and left his wife abandoned, preferring to lavish her with gifts rather than his own company. Death has a head on his shoulders, even if they should be all bone).

            There is something that the Mistress has always had a talent for. She has a vial of life essence, which she uniquely can create, and only she is to administer it. If another meddles with it, however much is left is all that will ever be; she can only compensate for the amount that remained untouched. Which brings us back to the ill girl, who was very much in need of an antidote.

            The ill girl was beautiful, and she was sweet. Actually, it was a classic tragic case, that Death should rip out someone’s heart when they are young, green, and happy. Nothing could make this girl’s spirit fade whenever she was in good company. Sometimes she would sing. Bell-clear. It is well to see a beautiful person doing something beautiful. And then there was reading; sometimes she would read out loud, in funny accents and tones, because she was a very good impersonator and reading like that always made a good riddle a bit better. But then her voice withered one day. That  was when the coughing started. Just a little quiver in her voice was enough to get a good melody through or just one last reading. For a few weeks or so, that was the case. Then her voice left altogether. By the time her coughs turned red, she had been committed indoors.

            Death decided that he ought to come and check how things were in that small city. The consumption was a very minor epidemic, and all of those infected were close enough to dying that the sickness wasn’t going to make another round until the next spring. Death remembered all of the awful plagues, how busy it had made him. How often he could use it as an excuse to be by himself, and away from a fretting wife. Things were running stale, and so rather than going as he usually did— that is, a spectre, he went as a young man. This young sir decided to be a local apothecary.

He saw that every ailing body would make good time to his door. Whenever he reached the girl’s bedside, she was in a dreadful state. As with the others, he promised that he had something to give her. He reached in a bag filled with vials of liquids, most happening to be water soaked with mint or mixed with herbs or brandy. He chose one of the least fermented saffron phials. This would do nothing, of course.

For the rest of his day, the young sir walked about the entire city. A thick ashy layer of smog hung like a spectral shawl in the worst parts of the place. It is well to know that even if he looked like a man, supernatural beings don’t feel fatigue. But they often feel boredom. And so, after he finished his tour of the very boring city, he went on to another one, and another one, until he had been to every major city in the world that he’d wanted to visit. By that time, it had only been a few seconds in the minds of mortals. All the while, he couldn’t stop ruminating; he had never felt anything toward the mortals whose souls he vanquished. And yet, he felt the tiniest of pangs concerning killing the girl. He began to rationalize that perhaps it was simple boredom. After all, that is why his boredom is the ailment that it is: how is one to fill an eternity, when a tour of the universe takes less than a day?

            When the young sir returned home to the underworld, he became himself again. “Good evening, darling,” he said to Mistress Persephone. She looked at him longingly. How she wished that she, too, could wander wherever she pleased. But someone had mind the dismal creatures. She had, as it happened, met and taken a liking to one of the faeries, a certain Prince Berte.

            “Yes, hello… dear.” But by the time her reply was made, he was already in his chamber, alone. As he had been doing for the past 240 years.

***

Death set the plans for returning to the world the next day. He would’ve waited out of concern for his anonymity a few more days, but he knew that she wouldn’t last that long. He emptied one of his vials of water. As it touched his hand, it vaporized. He threw the last droplets into the air, where they floated in a mist. His thoughts turned to killing the girl. Perhaps he could refurbish her, and then kill her?

            The girl was surprised, as were her parents, to find the young man at their doorstep again. The master maintained that he had not sent for an apothecary, and he mustn’t be charged for it. If his daughter was dying, let God intervene. The mother begged that another look be taken at her child, lest they overlook something vital to cure her. In the end, the young sir once again saw the girl. Her visitor was handsome, and he wasn’t exactly a regular schlockmeister. Of course, the girl knew nothing of this.

He opened two flasks, one with water, and another with something remarkable. He took a bluish oily drop from the second and swirled it into the water. He ordered her to drink it. He assured her parents that she would be much better by morning. They were skeptical, yet hopeful. All anybody can expect from a humble apothecary and one who travels at that, is that he failed out of medical school or never aimed to become a doctor. And yet, with a simple wave of his hand, the master and mistress of the house had forgotten his visit the day before.

Once again, Death vowed that he would return the next time the girl grew sick, and he would kill her. But for now, he travelled the world once more, this time the exotic jungles and mountains. He thought of eternity. He thought of the girl. And then he went home.

Evening came, and morning followed: the third day.

The young apothecary’s visit came as a surprise again to the master and mistress of the house, and to the servants and their likes. He was pleased at the girl’s recovery; her spirits were lifted, as being able to breathe often tends to do. Unfortunately, the coughs were still red and quite painful. Just one miniscule drop of blue into the water flask. Rather than wait for her to rest, the young sir inquired about his patient. She supplied very conservative answers, saying her love of prose and how she used to sing. But not before breaking into a fit of coughing.

“Miss, that should go away with this medicament. Give a bit of time for the maladie.”

Amid trying to suppress another cough, the girl sat up and put her fist over her mouth. “Kuhuh-kuh— mmhmm- k-hm-k-hm,” she answered curtly. She wondered that her parents hadn’t been to see the visitor yet. She looked discreetly across the room out into the hallway. Upon seeing this reaction, the young sir cleared his throat.

“I’ll have a brief word with the master of the house about your recovery status. Mind, get a good doze in.” The girl was asleep at the wave of his hand.

Death—the young sir—stood up as the girl laid back down. He stood over her, his bony, atrocious hand on the brass knob of the bed headboard. After a few moments— mortal time— he brushed a finger, gently and smooth as a scythe, over her pallid cheek. It grew some colour, then faded. He bent over slightly, grabbed the air above her mouth, stopping its flow. After another mortal moment, he let go.

“Tomorrow,” he mused nonchalantly, “I shall kill you. At least your last moments would be healthful. And dearest mummy and pa won’t remember your name.”

As he returned home, Death barely remembered his wife. But then again, she expected no different. Death wandered the earth as a spectre. He played his violin, a gift that he had acquired from their marriage. She filled her endless days tormenting the demons. She spoke with Prince Berte, or rather at him. She made no note of her life essence vial growing steadily smaller.

Another blue drop, some more water. Rightfully, the girl was almost cured. She was reading whenever the young sir came in. This time, she hastened that he needn’t return on the morrow. This time, there was a skeptical edge in her voice. She demanded to know what the elixir was. And she called to her parents.

Her mother fluttered in. “Dearest? Everything alright?”

“Yes, it’s just that I think I’m cured enough now. And I’d like to sleep.” She gestured to Death. “His visits wake me.”

The mother clicked her tongue. “Why, this good young man is very nice to see you. He comes in good time, when you’re spared and feeling better. Hold your tongue to say that you’ve got to wake to see him. He’s got what’s good for you, I’m sure.”

“Yes. The last few days he’s given me an elixir. And I don’t think that I’m ill enough anymore for him to come every day.”

The mother furrowed her brow. Her protest was interrupted by the young sir.

“Every day, that is? Miss, I’ve only just come to see you today. Do you have a fever that makes your head fuzzy for dates?”

“Oh,” cooed the mother, “she must. “I’ll put on another kettle for tea then.” She kissed her daughter and left the room.

The young man looked eerily at the girl, who suddenly did not feel so recovered.

“If you come here again… They can’t remember when they’ve hired someone for five days straight… I want to see a proper doctor if I need one. No more of you.” She fitted her fingers toward the door, widening her eyes. “Now, if you please.”

“Of course, maam.” Death closed his medicine bag startlingly. He silently stood up, slowly like molasses. Raised his brow, turned his head in cruel acknowledgement. He closed the door by its handle, turning the knob so he could see it. She heard in the hallway the young sir say that she was asleep.

“Good day, Madam.”

The phial’s contents were dwindling.

spider plants

June challenge 12/6/21 for a plant I wish I had (and soon will, with luck!)

little happy greeny ting

stripes run down your leaves

i give you tiny earring studs

since you don’t have any flowers

you’re happy in your pot

in your little home i bought

sit in the sun for hours

maybe sprout some baby buds

you’re low-maintenance, i perceives

always blooming like it’s spring

Fountain in the Rain

For the eleventh day of the June challenge, I attempted a calming poetic interpretation of William Gillock’s lovely piano work “Fountain in the Rain”. My sister used to play this when I was young, and the imagery I inspire from the melody has always given me nostalgic feelings.

A lovely recording: https://youtu.be/Bv7cNhKsTvw

Fountain in the Rain 11/6/21

a semblance of water purling at the base of marble curves

lightly, softly, as if droplets be kisses and the pavement its delicate lover

and then the skies perk and open further

perhaps a glint of warmth would accompany the feeling,

for though the water is gelid, its attitude is becoming

somewhere little daffodils huddle down like infants in their cribs,

the gentle hum of the atmosphere growing brighter as their eyes become sleepy,

drinking their fill from the skies and smiling as they do.

but for now we leave that pleasant flowery dream

the downpour jets its way into a polished basin

achieving such velocity that each drop connects with a glint of copper at the bottom,

for be it not a wishing well,

but how a passer-by does love to be rid of his coins in some opportune place.

a gentle, faraway bellow echoes in the sky,

once, twice, thrice

as if the sky is laughing at its own fickleness

the clouds are tired now, and gentleness returns

for a moment, all is still and no droplets can be seen in the air

but the gentle pool still dances somewhat

an onlooker takes note of the sky, growing pink in the summer dusk

and then walks, leaving that fountain to its own devices

so no one sees that marble smile to itself as the rain slowly stops