Morning Movement

The howlet was early to bed this morn

His flight slow, weighted by full belly 

Autumn rust nearly disguised the copper flint spark of the fox

Picking up pace on sidewalk stretch of a quiet street

Where spectral haze lingered quietly

As dreams slowly took leave from dimly lit portals

Intermingling and dissolving within the crow’s solo caw 

E.A. O'Connell

Button Lost

Jade orb, lost amidst the morning shuffle, drowned in the days old puddle

Debris floating past your spying camera obscura lens, exit wounds in the reflecting sky

Cerulean diffusing film and silver dusted chemtrails to block out the burning white light

That would surely give away your sunken duck and cover

What does my world look like from your outside point of view?

Do you read the stories staining my fingers as I skip your depths?

Have they a new shape through the wind rippled slick?

A scaly prism trick of the eye, you become a momentary amber whip of skeletal fin

Unseen in your murky bed by pedestrian peripheral views

The short to live pooling eye of the world spying life along their true direction pass

And under the weight of the repetitive accelerating pressure you crack

A web frayed, blood shot eye nothing more than a milky resin button

Longing for a severed thread flaw, it’s predestined companion fabric 

E.A. O'Connell

City Dawning

Brown sparrows in their simple linen frocks

Darling adornments to the espalier apples

Orchard of city brick walls and cobblestone narrows

Fruit of earth’s belly a warming sight in the dawn frosted dew

A melody of life on the move in wings and bird songs

Capturing dreams on the rise in wisps of breaths exhaled   

E.A. O'Connell

Lunar Guardian

Amongst the trees she’s proffered safety in sheer shadow film that she wraps around her hands

Allowing her to lean into and spin through the silence

Fluid

She sweeps the air in premonition spinning threads

Thickening water she’ll use to extinguish the flames her hair whips into frenzy against the summer dry grasses   

Sapphire landscape fanning out in full peacock preen with shimmering emerald aura song

Hold her hand in pirouette upon planetary rings

As knotted amber eyes winking wise and wild witness the bloom of paradise from her shoulder blades

White petals and succulent leaves

That free her for the silver slick steal of a kiss from the water polished silhouette of the one ruling her sky

E.A. O'Connell

The Art of OrigaME

I laid the blanket on the hard earth and put my hood up.  It was summer, and foreign to my flesh was feeling a frost creep within my system after a sweat drenched day of hiking, but a heated season is no match for the mountain chill, dead set on proving her force no matter what God or entity stands up to her.  She had won the unforeseen war waged against my tolerance for the cold.  My back flat to the pebbled ground, I looked to the deep set black sky, rich in texture and exploding with millions of stars and the meteor shower that stole each one of my breaths.  I had never allowed myself the opportunity to dream I’d be able to know the sky on such an intimate level; my arms stretched out, my fingers became tools for designing patterns to frame my vision, my hands stacked like telescope, one single fingertip tracing constellations to memory.  I swear the stars were prismatic in shifting colors, winking secrets at me, and flirting at the idea of knowing mine.  So I unleashed soul thought to soul heights.  I felt so small and insignificant in that beauty, and I acknowledged how something so vast could easily steal and swallow me, and I felt a twinge of fear that vulnerable me, with no armor but my hoodie, could fall victim to gravitational pull, the entire Universe falling upon me, crushing me into dust that would settle in the dirt and that which became airborne, captured within the ascension of sky back upon her pedestal.  I confessed to that Mother Sky that I hated the shield I wore as often as I could, and how I wanted to know freedom as wide as she.  Her silence was security, so shed the shield I did, and as it fell to the ground and my flesh felt cactus sting of cold, I lit my words and sang them to her in the language of shapes, formed in my body’s dance.  I was liberated and would come down from that mountain an enLIGHTened being.  I felt like the unseen hands of night had unfolded me and reshaped me numerous times in mere hours….the art of origaME. 

E.A. O'Connell

Summer Thoughts: Colorado

Canoe skimmed the still

Reflecting the rock walls

That captured my breathing

And echoed it back to me

In lyrical tunes I hadn’t heard before

And haven’t known since

This was serenity

Letting nature guide me

Slowly gliding along

Past woody expanses

Aspens and evergreens

Rising from pine needle carpet

Padded paws rushing

Beneath coyote calls

Singing Sunday evening vespers

To Mother Nature’s wonder

As sun set to the bullfrogs

Lily pad love songs

And fish nipped the lake surface

Ringing gentle ripples

That I leant into

Pushing back the idea of time

Closing my eyes

Rejoicing in the symphony of life

Knowing the true meaning of fortune

E.A. O'Connell

Dream Series: II

She fears not the sun silenced oblivion extinguished in retreat for an unbalanced nature

Shrouding darkness over worlds inhabited by slow plummeting illusions 

Colossal feet of godlike monsters kick up dust on abandoned rails

Gnashing teeth on skeletal dreams and growling in a rummage of dead shed letters

Seeking land where night hones words on atmospheric whetstone

A precision so finite she slow hemorrhages laughter from a gut spilling ladder knit vines

Climb and stare the blue pang of know until you meet the image branded in the back of her 

eyes

E. A. O'Connell

Dream Series: I

Trees weep prismatic thoughts of sleep

New life green turn inwards curling safely towards mother's strength

Nuclear sky billows and settles slow churning upheaval

Distance grows few through hazy mind's window view

Stepping into the switches lashing my exposed flesh raw

I face the tyrant twisting wrath of Hell's touchdown

My warrior grin meeting its nonplussed shape shifting eye

A voice speaks in registers unrecognizable, but the laughter breaks through

And a smile through conscious eye stirs a burn in the cold liquor of my stomach

I have no need to wage internal war with the one I see break through the storm

I feel the ease in every fiber of my being screaming consume me



E.A. O'Connell

Purpose of Breathing

Hover in the thin slip of words unspoken

Fingers to succulent lips, rich like summer peach, one bite and the sweet will flow

Hover in the celestial body nearly touched

Hands wandering the radiated heat above the milky silk flesh

Soft touch feels the vibration, summer breeze through streams of sunlight

Waves of want sway free of thought like linen on the line in the pull of approaching storm

Inhale exhale, the rhythm fused in that hover is the tome scrolled on every living, dying, 

regenerating cell

There’s more purpose to breathing than supporting seasonal flow, earthly rights 

I don't breathe for proof of existence, I breathe to feel you run through my soul

E.A. O'Connell

She Meets Her Faith

Toes swirling nature’s language in the sueded dust of the ledge

Her arms raising in noble song of the sun’s rays

Fingers luring the light to her palms in waves of welcome

All color receding and bowing to the starbright radiance

As willing body is lassoed, lifted in the sun’s ever extending embrace

Floating and rising in a corkscrew spin, freeing, freed from the earth green urn

Closer to understanding, closer still to infinite, she smiles, tears glinting in the all consuming light

Warmth and life, she meets her faith in a brilliant rush, the cosmos colliding

Astral embers spark and shower in slow descent

Her toes speaking universal language in rejoining with earth

E.A. O'Connell

Garden Angel

Eight legged garden angel  

True in your center and certain of your filament faith

Spinning an end for a nature crawling daily missions on stone wall base  

All the design of your Jacob’s Ladder dream

As you ascend and descend in prayers that toil not be wasted

Winds blow and your nature bows and gives

You release and coast to the splintered knot base

Mending flaws with swift hands precise in technique

Pausing to gauge corner safe for youth encased pearl to be pinned

E.A. O'Connell

Morning Sleeps In

I’m rather fond of a morning that rouses in her own time
Letting man fend for himself in the trust of the charging alarm
She needs to hide beneath the blanket of gray
Just a little longer
Curled into herself
Lingering on dreams of the man in her moon
The spike of cold rain the driving force to rouse and complete her task

If only for a few small hours

E.A. O'Connell

Chaos in Polarity

She casually stood in the light and shadow of her presentation
The very same song and dance with each new semester
They say the Earth’s magnetic field will reverse
All that we know as animals following the true north flow
Will be chaos in polarity we can’t accept as nature
Compasses will have a new define
And wings will flock in confusion
Eyes wide with questions, fear that cuts deep to the bone
Held silent in comprehension’s palm
From a dark corner
Came a voice soft like April’s green
Breaking the static shock silence
With a question that grew in number 
The professor’s crater set eyes
Lines like earth cracked crust in summer drought
Ever deeper in thought that only births more questions unanswerable
As she was hit
Blow after blow
What will this mean for 
Humanity?
Morality?
Hate?
Love?


E.A. O'Connell

Dream Sight

I fall through pounding atmospheric depth

White and gray mobius strip

Like bright mouse on ever turning cold wheel

No end, no beginning

A plummet with no true merit

Except for the few times my body hits the ground

Rushing kettle whistle steam to jarring death thrumming heart

And the break of body inches deep in red clay earth

It’s not the fall that wakes me

It’s the sound of my body burying itself

That jolts me from sleep

Upright cold sweat

Gasping and clinging to a body that hadn’t been broken in porcelain doll fashion

I can’t get back to sleep

I just stare into the dark

Past cyclic ceiling fan spinning hypnotic breeze over my body

Thinking that I haven’t flown in my dreams in ages

And I haven’t let my life fall through the downward spiral in decades

The trade off makes me smile

And eases my sea sick stomach

No longer fearful of the edge of the bed

Better I bury myself in dreams than in life

E.A. O'Connell

Old Man Winter

Old man winter

Stop rattling your bones at my door

Your craggy knuckles tap, tap, tapping

Fine filed tips scratch, scratch, scratching

Rotted teeth chat, chat, chatting

Autumn still has time her Own

The geese have not all up and flown

Bury yourself down the musty hollow

‘Til Solstice your bride calls, “Darling, Follow”

E.A. O'Connell

My Artist's Hands

We are all the creation of our own artist…who or whatever that may be to the individual…we all exist in this one that exists within each…how can you not think on that and be humbled

Blue-eyed portholes in the gray hull sky

Winking wise in the erratic current’s breathing

Spying pattern shapes transfix our opposing motion 

Our hurries halt as each force’s regarding begins

A shared question on both our tongues

Your reality exists in my artist’s hands?

E.A. O'Connell

I dreamt of a moth, large wings speckled like a hen's brown egg, each inked with an eye, the iris tobacco stain

It hovered above me, above the bed I lay within, swift wings brushing against my flesh, leaving a fine rich powder, henna patterns that mapped an unknown route upon my hands

Sepia shadows swayed in the warm breeze, directing the moth to the window that opened to my garden, sun drained hydrangea still bold in the globes of parchment petals, deep coffee grounds rubbed into their veins

The moth followed this breeze into the bronze halo of midday, pulling with it a thread, tugging at my slumber, stirring my eyes in a flutter, the ceiling above me adorned with an imprint of your hand, around mine the impression of a tie that binds

E.A. O'Connell 

The Winged

Butterfly

Her colors cosmic in motion

Sweeping to the sun

Hovering

Nectar laced tongue

Her cocoon a dose of midnight

She must break clean

Moth

Muted design in camouflage

Under cover of night

Waiting

Clinging to silent trees

Her cocoon a window to morning

She breaks not on the seam

E.A. O'Connell

Autumn Morn

Soft sod applaud
Geranium bold in face
Heated pink petals
Sugared with frost
Standing knee high
Blooms with pride
No fear born
In early winter’s desire
Frozen fate

E.A. O'Connell

Morning: Part II

Color has a taste and a morning song as well
Pink Himalayan sea salt
In hot bath water
Lotus blossom body
In frangipani oil
Fingers mingling with silken petal boats
Soft papaya lush on the edge of the tub

Sakura symphony of Lemongrass sinks within

E.A. O'Connell

Morning: Part I

Soft sueded pink hums a low glow
Sweetpea petals and seashell tunnels come to mind
Color has a taste and a morning song as well
Nesting on my windowsill

In topaz clarity and dusty earth clouds

E.A. O'Connell

I Knew A Poet

I knew a poet once

We were teenagers sharing corridors

He wrote with trench deep truth

Effortless and shaming

He was poet and poem

And painfully beaten by a society that broke men of this beauty

A handful knew of his damning talent

And any speculation that surfaced was eradicated promptly

Some secrets need to be buried he’d say

He was hardened and built for other uses

The anvil that could suffer for another’s trade

Bearing the searing flame and pounding hammer

But never acknowledged as it’s own art in sheer design and purpose

I knew this very poet once

And the pounding he accepted as the fuel for greatness
Still beats rhythm in my head 

E.A. O'Connell

November Fire

November vixen
Whistle in the sultry wind
Raining soft cleanse
Free falling, building steam
Tickling exposed neck 
With distant whispers
Trickling down my back
Fires were lit overnight
In toxic ripe berries hanging
And in maple plum 
The flames have begun the stretch
Soon to engulf
Ignited in the passion of time limited

E.A. O'Connell

White Jasmine & Mint

Wear me in your flesh
Not as ink
But as white jasmine and mint
So I may bloom within you each night
And remind you of warm comfort
When you feel you are at your weakest

E.A. O'Connell

Spoon

Parents always warn of the sharp blade of the knife and the pointed tines of the fork, but they never warn of the unassuming curve of the spoon…I learned this the hard way one night during a ginger grating mishap that left my thumb bleeding and stinging…and the first thought my mind went to was of you…. 

E.A. O'Connell

Solid Advice

Long abandoned train tracks that run straight into a concrete wall.

Some say the perfect metaphor for the small town life.

Every time I stare at them,

I see the answer for getting out.

Why haven’t I listened to such solid advice?

E.A. O'Connell

Where Do They All Go?

Where do all the letters and words go?  

When the cursor stops, momentarily disappearing, but fingers keep typing? 

Do these absent letters and hidden words, the misplaced thoughts, all the enigmatic punctuation, have an ultimate destination?  

Where they join in the language abyss, writing their own poetry, their own stories with anonymous form?

E.A. O'Connell

You Remind Me

You remind me of the tempting drain

Placed at the very bottom of the deep end of the pool

The one I feared tremendously as a child

I was convinced some small part of me would get stuck within an opening of that drain

And I’d drown under the weight of the water

Robbing my lungs of the air needed to keep me afloat 

More often than not

I find myself staring at you

And as I start to dive into the depths of you 

And why I want to look that deep inside you

I startle from that familiar fear

That a small part of me will get stuck within you

And I’ll be consumed by the desire to trust you

Love you

And I feel my lungs being robbed of the air I need to survive

So I retreat to the surface

Taking a deep breath

And diverting my eyes

E.A. O'Connell

Hope For Us All

I was driving behind a holy man today

Unsure if he was a priest, a pastor, or a reverend

He was holy, nonetheless…well I assume…he had a cross and one of those fish symbols and a telling license plate frame and various other holy accoutrements on his car

I couldn’t help but notice that his pearly white Buick, shone so bright in the afternoon sun

And then I laughed out loud, thinking about the pearly white car and the pearly gates of heaven, and realizing this couldn’t all be a coincidence

And then I began to wonder if this man, this man of God, was truly perfect or was there a possibility he was just as imperfect as me, as the whole lot of us it would seem

And not being a religious person, I have a strong faith, but no specific religious affiliation, I wondered if thinking about this holy person as a sinner was considered a sin and that maybe I should cut him off and flag him down to get some religious education there on the side of the road

But out of nowhere he floored it and he was through the red light and coasting down the road to wherever his destination was

And while sitting at the red light, watching that holy man who just blew a red light, disappear from sight

I thought to myself

Maybe there’s hope for us all

E.A. O'Connell

My Moon

I was always enamored with the moon

How he seemed to smile lovingly upon me

And made me feel secure, following behind or beside, everywhere I travelled

But then came the day, walking me home beneath that trusted friend, when I told you my thoughts about the moon

And all you could do was laugh at me, mocking my affinity for him, correcting my inaccuracies and telling me that there was no man in the moon, humans are just programmed with a facial recognition system  

And you were right

Because in that moment, under his trusted glow, I was able to see your two faces

So I let my moon guide me home 

E.A. O'Connell

Castaways

Your kiss would be an island

Afloat amongst the sun born freckles

That splay across the back of my shoulder

Like birds in flight

Your kiss would sink deep within

Lost to the naked eye like Atlantis

But it would be a private poem written into my flesh

To carry with me through this life

As a reminder of who we were

That late summer eve

E.A. O'Connell

Missing

He said I miss you

I told him he missed the idea of me

And ideas can be put into motion or fade

And I choose to fade

In the hopes I will dissolve like a stream of watercolor

On a scrap piece of paper

That he hangs on a far wall of his mind

Maybe…with the chance of being rediscovered

But most likely to be covered over

Layer upon layer

And somehow

I find a great beauty in the latter

E.A. O'Connell

He Sees Only The Pebbles

He runs and stoops

Picking up and tucking into

Pockets overflowing

Hands frustrating

He can’t steal them all

He wants the color

To rub off on his flesh

And his mind is overflowing

With thoughts

Spurred by the cold, smooth surfaces

His eyes see beauty where I’ve never tread

His mind knows how to process

What I can’t verbalize

I follow him closely

Having learned the water brings about anxiety

But excited that shells deposited along the shore

Elicit such great joy

He scampers and skips

Free to be himself in the uninhabited evening

As loud as he needs to be

As quiet as the sea will allow

He loops back around

Stuffing my pockets

And then off he goes

I fill my hand with his treasures

Opening it to find

Pebbles

While I’m admiring the shells and glass

The driftwood and seaweed

And the miscellaneous trinkets left by the sea

Reflecting on the beauty in their colors, shapes, and textures

He sees only the pebbles

Black, gray, and white

And I loved him even more in that moment

E.A. O'Connell

My Fear

I fear…so I write

Then I fear…because I’ve written

And all because I have voices that can’t ever be silenced

And when my mind has erased the history I made

The voices recorded on paper

Will refill my head with tales

That I’ll be able to live

Unaware I’ve already lived

But what scares me the most

Are the faces I’ve painted into words  

And the inability that will afflict me

To read the love for those tucked into my works

For the loves, the lovers, the lovingly admired strangers

And I fear that my heart won’t be able to recognize the differences

And we will all be strangers mingling amongst the wilds

Never touching

E.A. O'Connell

Your Evils Are Lovely

Your evils are lovely, he said

I’d eat you alive, was my reply

My love for you would be haunting

My sex more menacing

You’d think I was a succubus alight in your bed

And I…may…very well…be

You would know nothing more than the uninhibited passion

That would leave residual sensation across your wearying body

Leaving you lit with a wanting for my lip prints and fingertips

Burying themselves in and through your flesh and muscle

To your hardened bones

My whispered words licking trails of wicked thoughts

From your curvaceous ear to vulnerable neck to dark trailed navel

Becoming the sinister marrow that would nurture and sustain you

As I’d mercilessly take every last drop of life

Each inconsistent breath from your body

Robbing you of rational thought

And being ever the generous ghost

Allowing your flirtation with sleep to grow awkward

Letting her pull you from me

Seducing you to dreams

Beyond the smile born from a menage a trois maybe

Your still would signal the hour upon which I’d take my abrupt leave

To let you cool in a solitary fevered slumber

Twilight bed laced with my dark wanton scent

Of cypress, cloves, and embers still smoldering red

Your sheets baring the careless labyrinths

Mapped by my serpentine evils

Writhing atop and within the shroud of pale flesh

That clings to your bones

Like an impressionable blanket of December snow

E.A. O'Connell

A Dream Within A Dream

Sometimes I think you’re a dream

Within a dream

Escaping my mind

As I sleep

And burrowing deep

To the center of my heart

So when I wake

I’ll know you’re the truth

E.A. O'Connell

I Imagine...

I imagine that your laughter would remind me of marigolds

Bursting forth in a commanding orange

That would warm my face in the glow of an indestructible smile

And I’m certain that it would cling to my memory

Like the life affirming scent of sunlight after torrential rain

E.A. O'Connell

Written Into My Hands

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

Tracing circles in my palms

As I anxiously awaited

In that cramped bathroom

Seated on the cold ledge of a gaping tub

Afraid to see my hopes dashed in a urine soaked stick

The foul-mouthed tub taunting me with thoughts of emptiness

Far too many anticipated smiles wept into those very palms

The tears collecting and streaming through the gutter fine ridges

All for the loss of someone I never knew

Never had

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

Lining up my fingers and palms as if to pray

But finding it more fitting to clench them into fists

In the waiting rooms, doctor’s offices, and phlebotomists’ chairs

As files of paperwork and black and white ultrasound glow

Confirmed that dipping hormones and the crushing silence of tiny chest

Would highlight my face ashen with grief in the loss of such blessed morning sickness

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

Hands splayed across the tomb of the unknown son

A name fit for features yet to be revealed

To be laid to rest in a numbing moment laced with local anesthesia

As I lay silent in a surgically sanitized room

Lit by invasive electricity and monitors that knew far too much about me

All the endless apologies for genetic faults I couldn’t even explain to myself

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

In the redemption

That grateful handshake from a man

Who had more answers than sorrows to reveal

Almost one year from that solemn date

And in my second trimester

He sent me down my path of expectant motherhood

With the most appropriate parting words

…I hope to never see your face again…

And directed me into the strong hands of the woman who just six months later

Would gently coax you into this world

And into my hands

Writing memories into the satin soft pockets nestled within my palms

And now I look at your delicate hands

So tiny and unaware of the world that awaits them

And I wonder what will become of their porcelain star shaped form

As you explore your world and find  

That your hands will write some of the greatest stories ever told

E.A. O'Connell

Every Man's Time Comes

They stand beside the small ecru and gray veined marble topped kitchen island that Natalie repurposed as her private baking station; her daily culinary hobby on permanent repeat …rolling out dough and experimenting with various sweet and savory fillings, and always over thinking the perfect designs to add or cut into the crusts she handles with a skilled anxiety.   Ron samples some spanakopita Natalie had made that afternoon, trying to fill some time before her evening plans commenced.  She spent the whole time rereading the recipe and triple checking each step, as her mind was on another page, simmering in worry, sprinkled with curiosity, and just a dash of fear.  Taking a bite of his second flaky phyllo pillow Ron’s face shifts to an unimpressed design of eyebrows and lip lines.

“Not your best work Nat.”  He pops the remainder of the snack into his mouth and chases it down with a sip of his beer.

Natalie knows her true talent is in hand painting ceramics and porcelain, but she desperately wants to try and learn new skills.  In a meek, shamed voice Natalie acknowledges her mistake.  “I know.  My head and heart were elsewhere, so I’m afraid the food is lacking the love I normally put into it.”

Ron’s countenance shifts to amusement as he takes another jab at Natalie.  “Come on!  You don’t believe that bullshit about food taking in the emotions you feel while cooking it, do you?”

With her eyes looking past his, Natalie quietly answers, “I don’t know.  There has to be something to it, I guess.  People talk all the time about adding love to their food, so why not…maybe it’s possible…I don’t know.”

Passing her off as a lost cause, Ron changes the topic.  “I had to clean vomit off of my welcome mat again this morning.  This was, like, the third time this week.  I think I need to either call animal control to have a trap set or have security cameras put in so I can find out which neighborhood bastard is disrespecting my house.  You know, this has been going on for about a fucking year now and I’m tired of it.”

Natalie wants to desperately ask why it’s taken him so damn long to come to this conclusion, but she thinks better of it.  She doesn’t want him rushing out in a huff leaving her to host their visitor on her own.  She opts for a simple reply.  “That sounds like a good idea.”

Ron sips his beer, trying to cleanse his palate from Natalie’s latest culinary failure, as the kitchen lights flicker and dim, remaining at a low wattage.  They both look to the lights, and then at each other, raising eyebrows and smiling as nervous laughter skips from their lips into the otherwise silent room.  Ron uses this as an opportunity to broach the subject they keep skirting around.

“So you just called?  Like that?”

Natalie sighs and answers, “Yes.  It’s what he wanted, so I did it.”

Ron’s curiosity is beyond piqued and he’s dying to know what she does.  “How exactly did this play out again?”

“Attached to the sealed envelope that he addressed to this person, was a smaller unsealed envelope, addressed to me.”

“And he left a note telling you to call?”

“Not exactly.  All he did was leave a name and information on how to contact the individual.”

“But he didn’t say you had to?”

“No, but I think it was implied.”

“I don’t know…this is all too weird.”

“I know, but it’s what he wanted, so I’m doing it for him.”

“And this person’s coming here now?”

“Well, sometime tonight.  I don’t know if it’s now…I just know to expect a visit soon.”

Smiling, Ron can’t help but ask, “Did you open the one envelope to see what it said?”

Natalie is appalled.  “God, no!  That would go against what he wanted, and I couldn’t do that to him.”

Feeling slightly insulted by her tone , Ron replies, “I sure as hell would’ve opened it.”

In a flat voice, she answers, “I guess that’s what separates us then.”

He’s growing angrier with each of her responses.  “Whatever.  So what do you know about this person?”

“I’d never heard of him or her before this and I didn’t speak to them directly or meet them, so your guess is as good as mine.  If I’m to be honest, I never knew people like this existed.”

Ron can’t hide his shock.  “Okay, wait, you didn’t set this up with the actual person directly?”

“No.  I had to set it up through one guy, who contacted another guy who speaks to this person directly.  That guy set it up.”

“Natalie this is fucking ridiculous.  You are dealing with second and third parties and not with the actual individual.  You are getting fucking taken.”

“No!  That’s not true.  I know this person’s coming.”

“Really?!”

“Yes!  I got confirmation and money changed hands and it’s been set in motion.”

“Christ!  You can be so fucking dumb!  You already paid for a service that wasn’t completed.”

“No Ron, Wade paid for the service…okay?  If anyone was the dumb fuck it was him.  Just sit back and have another beer.  They’ll be here.”

Ron takes his seat at the head of the antique dining table, leaning his back into the rickety chair with a frustrated posture, sipping his lukewarm beer and mumbling under his breath, “I can’t believe we even have to do this.  Just wish we could put all this behind us once and for all.”

Standing at the oversized bay window, Natalie embraces her body with crossed arms, gently stroking the sleeves of the shell pink angora sweater she’s wearing, peering through the seeded glass of one of the many diamond shaped panes, unknowingly biting her lower lip, straining her eyes for the first faint hint of headlights on the dark cobblestone driveway.  She looks left then right one last time, before turning her attention to Ron in the breakfast nook.  His back may be to her, but having known him for the better part of two decades she can tell he’s still very angry with her and the entire situation.  She turns back to the window and raises her petite frame on ballet trained tiptoes, getting her forehead right up to the cold glass, looking right and then left one last time, before releasing her arms and walking to the breakfast nook.  Standing behind Ron, she gently places her hands on his shoulders and leisurely rubs them down his toned arms, where they linger at the crooks of his elbows for just a moment, before she takes the seat next to him.  He shifts his posture so he is leaning more in her direction and gives her a half apologetic smile.  She returns it with more sincerity.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“What I’ve brought up before and you keep sidestepping...our relationship.”

“Ron, I…”

“Let me finish!  I really think I should leave Ailis, that way you and I can finally give our relationship a real chance.  It’s been almost four years, and all I’ve really learned in that time with her is that you shouldn’t marry someone twenty-three years your junior after three months of great sex.  Things just don’t work with her anymore, and all it makes me wonder is if we were ever really compatible, and the answer I always come back to is ‘No.’  I work days and she’s always working night shifts.  We barely even speak anymore and we never spend time together, and our sex life has completely deteriorated…no great sex anymore…and when we do spend any time together it’s nothing but uncomfortable silences, and she shows no interest in me sexually…ever…she even comes to bed naked and ignores me…do you have any idea what that does to me…and when I do initiate sex, she just brushes me off with a cold shoulder.  I can’t ignore the fact that I did start noticing a change in her about a year ago, and I’ve speculated if she knows about us…don’t you think, though, if she did, she would’ve confronted us already, or at least me.  I keep waiting for divorce papers to be served, but they never come.  I wonder if she knows and has a bigger punishment in store for me…like I have to pay for the divorce, and alimony, and give her the house…oh fuck, she’s going to take me for everything I’ve got.  There’d be no reason to stick around if she knew I was sleeping with you, so maybe she doesn’t know...or maybe she’s sleeping with someone else.  Maybe I’m just being paranoid…but I swear if she is fucking around behind my back, I’ll make her pay.  And now with Wade’s passing, what do you think, should I just come clean, so you and I can finally be together.  You know you’re all I ever wanted and I was just foolishly wasting time with her until I could have you all to myself.”

Natalie’s head spins from Ron’s unceasing, self-pitying monologue.  Unable to bite her tongue on the topic, Natalie tries her best to keep a collected tone to her voice.  It’s kind of hard, when all that’s racing through her mind are thoughts of Ron sleeping with her, a forty-four year old woman, and his young twenty-seven year old wife…comparing their bodies, skills, agility.  She fiddles with the skinny gold bracelets Wade gifted her on a long ago happy birthday morning, her slender fingers feeling beyond the gold, to circle her delicate wrist.  “Oh, I see, you’ll leave her and just jump right into a public relationship with me.  She’s not dumb Ron, she’d piece that puzzle together, if she hasn’t already, along with everyone else in this town.  Maybe you need to think about this more, before you make such a life altering decision.”  She turns her back to him in the direction of the window, she’s pretty much heard enough from him for one evening, and if she wasn’t so nervous about being alone in the house with her visitor, she’d kindly ask him to leave.

He rolls his angering eyes and sips his beer, but decides it may be best to accept her response at this time.  Silence settles between them for a few moments, he picking and peeling the dampened label of his beer, his eyes unable to stay off of her girlish figure for too long.  He studies the line of pearl buttons that trail the ridges of her spine, before he redirects his fingers to the lower button, popping it open.  She turns and playfully slaps his hand back, but he swiftly grabs her by the waist, pulling her to him as he lets his left hand navigate her stomach to her small, bare breasts, his right hand flirting with the second button.  He speaks to the back of her head.  “Let’s turn the lights out and be done with Wade’s ridiculous request.”

She feels herself succumbing to Ron’s manipulative powers, and she can’t help thinking that it would be more entertaining to be in bed with Ron, than hosting a stranger her dead husband invited without her knowledge or permission.  Natalie begins to lean her head into his neck, when a singular echoing tap on the window pane of the kitchen door, pulls her back to reality and the questionable purpose of the entire evening.  She instantly gathers herself, buttoning up her sweater as she walks away from Ron without so much as a backwards glance, almost as if her body and mind were summoned and controlled by that single tap, and Ron had no romantic influence over her at all in that moment…or possibly ever.

As Natalie walks to the door, she can’t see anything but black night filling the nine square panes of glass.  She’s puzzled by the absence of a person at the door, but when she gets a couple feet away, she thinks she sees a dark figure set against the deep night.  She unlocks the door and opens it, startled and gasping from the surprise of a black velvet and silk cloaked figure standing in shadows that loom at the dimly lit portal. 

Holding her thin neck with her slender fingers, Natalie’s trembling voice can’t quite gather the strength needed to hide her intimidation.  “Ccome in please.  Welcome.”

Her cloaked visitor, head still bowed, slips past her like liquid silver, trailing a scent of cloves and sweet fruit that reminds Natalie of a black cherry tea she and Wade sipped over laughter and fond memories at a Russian restaurant he favored.  Her visitor carries a large relic of a carpet bag, hands obscured by the cavernous bell sleeves of the cloak.

Her dark guest stands statuesque before her petite body.  Ever the polite hostess, Natalie attempts to make small conversation.  “Can I take your coat or your bag? Get you a drink or a bite to eat?”

With one slow, singular sweep of the head, the silent visitor answers no.

Natalie isn’t sure how to address neither her guest, nor the purpose for the visit, but she continues to be kind.  “Will you need to use my kitchen?  You’re welcome to anything in here.”

Slightly tilting hooded head, to peer through the kitchen towards the breakfast nook where Ron hides out of sight, and then back to its central resting spot, the dark guest once again offers a slow, singular sweep of the head; a silent no.

Natalie isn’t sure if she should ask the next question, as she feels the answer has already been given in the two previous, but she asks anyway.  “Would you like me to show you to the room?”

A third singular, silent no, that hangs in the air like a hanged man’s noose.

Natalie internally shakes off the chill that has draped her angora warmed shoulders since the arrival of the dark figure to her cozy home.   Taking the sealed envelope Wade left for the shadowy guest, Natalie extends it with her final words.  “He left this for you.”

Raising its right arm, a slim moon pale finger and thumb creep from the depths of the silk lined sleeve and pinch the envelope, slowly curling and retracting back within the swallowing abyss.  Natalie hadn’t realized that she was nervously playing with her pea-sized pearl earring as she pondered if the finger she saw belonged to a man or a woman, and as she attempted to build a voice strong enough to ask her visitor for a name, the pearl earring, that Wade had gifted her on a candlelit Summer evening anniversary, slipped loose from her ear and to the floor, just a few feet from her phantom guest.  She quickly squats down low to retrieve it from the aged wood floor, and as she returns it to her earlobe, and angles her body to stand, she catches sight of the lower half of the cloaked guest’s profile; heavy shadows and ghostly bone.  Natalie is uncertain of what she has seen.  She wonders if it could be a trick of her eyes and mind, nevertheless, she stands and cautiously keeps her distance as the heavy cloaked visitor, with oversized carpet bag in hand, takes leave of the kitchen with a fox’s lightness of foot, towards the guest room on the other side of the single story cottage.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Once in the guestroom, the dark visitor begins preparing for service.  Shutting the door, the milky white hand locks it and keeps the key in position to prevent curiosity from getting the best of the evening’s hosts.  The same pale hand shuts each of the plantation shutter s that adorn the three windows; neither a stream of moonlight, nor an unwanted eye can rest upon the room.

The hooded visitor stands before a six foot long, ebony stained dining table.  Pulling the sealed envelope from the cloak’s sleeve, the visitor’s pale hands rip it open, pulling out a single sheet of paper folded in half.  The small hands open the letter, and the visitor’s eyes read through a short, honest, handwritten list.

1. I lied about working late to have drinks with a married female friend.  We openly flirted and passionately kissed each other goodbye.
2. I had my last $5.00 on me and instead of donating it to kids collecting for cancer research I bought fast food.
3. I put earning a paycheck first more times than I should have.
4. I damned more than I should have praised.  I let my faith weaken rather than strengthen.
5. I asked for your services.
6. I asked for your services.
7. I asked for your services.

A smile slowly creeps across the visitor’s face, highlighting a starburst shaped scar on the right cheek, as the list is placed within the faded carpet bag, and several ivory pillar candles of varying melted heights are pulled out and placed around the room and along the outer edges of the dining table.  Using a long wooden matchstick, the visitor lights the candles, and then extinguishes the light from the lone lamp in the corner of the room.  The visitor crouches and produces from the bag a golden lipped glass goblet, a single porcelain teacup, and seven porcelain appetizer plates.   All the porcelain plates were special ordered for her line of work, each hand painted by delicate fingers, depicting an array of sinister flora; fennel, rue, columbine, hemlock, coltsfoot, birdsfoot trefoil, and foxglove.  Each item is placed on the hardwood floor before the visitor, whose next set of tasks require careful thought and patience.

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Producing a small brown bag of figs from the carpet bag, the visitor warms each in the palms of its hands before placing them on a plate.  Making the sign of the fig, the dark guest speaks in a hushed voice.  “For always trusting your intuition, and to ward off the evil eye now and in the next life.”

A carton of cherries is then removed.  “You have always risen from the ashes magnificently; this time will not be unlike the rest.  You will be reborn in thoughts and hearts, your soul in new life.”

A large bunch of globe sized red grapes is pulled from the bag, suspended in the air by two pale fingers.  “A promise of new life and of great fortune when the time comes to pass.”

Another brown paper bag is removed, and the pale hand reaches within and scoops a helping of nuts and dried cranberries and currants in its palm, letting them slip through its fingers and down the hand, back into the bag.  “For what you receive, always remember to extend kindness to the giver, for whether intentional or not, you must have pleased the giver in some fashion, and your kindness will always be remembered.”  In a soft, saddened tone, the visitor repeats, “Always.”   

A wedge of cheese, a round loaf of fresh baked bread, and squares of dark chocolate are also taken from the antique bag.  The visitor hums a solemn Celtic tune as a small, sharp paring knife is produced, and the cutting and slicing of the food commences.  Once completed, the ghostly hands lay the seven different foods out on the seven sinister, round plates, each looking like a work of art directed by a dark artistic eye.  A bottle of red wine and a mason jar of black cherry tea are produced, and the hooded visitor fills the clouded glass goblet and the fragile tea cup, before meticulously setting each plate and vessel atop the dining table.

Standing back to take in the sight, the visitor slowly unbuttons the dark cloak, the spectral fair hands nearly glowing against the deep velvet.  Once open, the hooded cloak is released, falling heavy to the floor.  The candlelight glows against the slender, raven haired woman, half her face and half her nude body painted in shadows and light, depicting a living skeleton.  She raises her arms shoulder height and splays them wide, like outstretched wings, her palms turned up, as she sends a silent prayer to Wade’s soul and to his body, that rests before her…atop the ebony dining table…beneath her carefully crafted meal.  She walks to the head of the table, bending her head to kiss the naked man’s forehead.  “I chose wisely for you Wade.  By eating these foods I will cleanse your soul, and in return replace the negative energy that weighed you down in this life, with a positive energy to carry you through to the next.  I will bear the burden of your sins and it will be my responsibility, my duty to you, to dispose of them fittingly.”  The young, raven haired beauty positions herself at the dead man’s linen draped torso, where she proceeds to eat every one of Wade’s sins, each bite she washes down with the red wine or black cherry tea. 

Once the meal is finished, the young woman takes Wade’s list and lights it in the flame of a candle, dropping it within the now empty goblet, letting it burn until it is reduced to ash.  She bows her head and prays over the body one last time, concluding with a prayer spoken aloud, asking for his soul to be at peace.  Every dish, glass, bottle, and candle is carefully returned to the antique carpet bag.  The lone lamp in the room is emanating electric light again, and the dark, hooded cloak adorns the young woman’s body once more.  Each plantation shutter is reopened, and as she passes the body for the last time, she pulls a tight roll of money from her cloak, and places it in the palm of the upturned left hand, giving it a tight squeeze.  She whispers, “Your money’s no good with me.”  The guestroom is as it was; no trace of her visit is evident to the unknowing eye.  She unlocks the door and takes her leave from the room and the house without a single word to Natalie or the poorly hidden Ron.

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“Well that was fucking weird!” Ron can’t hide the humor tinged disbelief for what just occurred in Natalie’s home. 

“You were some help!  Just hiding out like that.  Thanks a lot.”  Natalie is less than pleased with Ron’s cowardice.  “I should check to make sure everything is in order in the room before calling the funeral home.”

Ron halfheartedly offers his assistance.  “Do you want me to stay with you until they get here?”

Natalie senses he’s desperate to leave, and she actually wants to be alone anyway, what with his less than supportive role this evening, so she politely refuses his offer with a simple, “No, thank you.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow; maybe we can meet for lunch.”

Lost in thought, Natalie simply answers, “That sounds lovely.”

She walks Ron to the door and swiftly kisses him goodnight on the cheek.  Upon his exit, she locks the door, leaning her back into it and sliding to the floor, hugging her knees tightly against her chest.  Natalie’s mind is haunted by thoughts.  In one night she saw Ron clearly, for who he is, and Wade, her beloved husband of twenty-four years, has become something of a mystery, in a singular visit from a chilling visitor.  She can no longer hold it together, so she weeps.  She weeps the adrenaline that rushed her body, she weeps the guilt of taking her marriage and Wade for granted, she weeps for the wrongs she can’t right, and she weeps for the lost she will never find…her adoring Wade never to sit across from her with an honest, loving smile.  She can’t quite pick herself up yet, she’s not ready to release Wade to the funeral home, where he will be reduced to ashes, never to walk the earth again, so she curls up on the floor and cries herself to sleep.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ailis sits in her parked car, in the dark driveway of the home she shares with Ron.  She’s been sitting for nearly a half hour, thinking on her marriage, on Ron as a husband, a man, a human being, a soul.  It’s become common practice for her to do this after her shift ends; never quite ready to rush into the house.  Her thoughts are abruptly halted by a gut feeling that causes her to exit the car without hesitation.  She swiftly walks to the dark front porch, up the five autumn leaf cluttered steps, and to the shadow draped front door, where she leans over and vomits atop the newly purchased welcome mat.  Standing upright, she closes her eyes and exhales a deep hidden breath, while wiping her mouth with the back of her right hand.  She opens her eyes and brushes her long black hair from her face.  She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag, places one between her lips, and as she lights and inhales the spiced smoke, she smiles and laughs to the night; they share so many secrets and private jokes.  She finishes her smoke as she leisurely walks around to the back door, where she lets herself in, and washes her hands and rinses her mouth at the kitchen sink.  She opens the fridge and pulls out a plump lemon, biting into the cold rind and pulp, sucking the bursts of sour juice with a sweet smile.  She throws the exsanguinated fruit down the murky garbage disposal cavity and walks upstairs to the bathroom.  She turns on the shower and strips her body of her work attire, stepping into the tub, where she stands beneath the steamy water, letting it run through her hair and down her body, washing away the shadows and light of the night.  After her shower she steps quietly into the master bedroom, where she climbs into the hollow marriage bed she shares with her husband.  With her body positioned as far from Ron as possible, she shuts her eyes and lets the mattress cradle her naked form.    

With a sleep laced arrogance Ron asks, “How was your night at the body factory?”

A slow smile creeps across her face, illuminating the starburst scar on her right cheek, and in a peaceful voice Ailis answers, “Every man’s time comes.”     

E.A. O'Connell