Saturday Feature #6

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By
elthereia
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Poetry




Inferno: Canto XXX.VAnd all around my Guide and I was black.
An oppressive dark that could not be fought,
Though we held a lantern, still light it lacked.
“Hide!” hissed Daniel Webster, as a strange light sought
And revealed not a foot from my head a knife
As well as the sinners who here would rot.
“Here awaits those who desired attention in life
The ones who sought glory that was not theirs
And with their words and actions caused strife.”
“Tell me, Carnegie, first among millionaires,
The sins of these men have littered the world with bones
So do you think their punishment truly compares?”
And all about I heard the agonized moans
Of those evading that devastating beam
Only to trip and make music of their groans.
All the sinners slowed, as if walking in a dream
None could outrun the pain of the light
And so howled when their skins began to steam.
Thus the glory, which once did so delight
Seared them, and their glory lust did quell,
And now all they wished was the coming
OpheliacTake me back to Elsinore
on a diet of riverwater
and pond flowers.
Wrap me up in satin.
Leave me with my poetry
and love me
like burn marks
love an ashtray.
Trail fingers down my back
and claw my soul to shreds.
Let the water drip down
my living corpse
and love me 
like the twisted
weeping willow tree,
Where my dress caught in the bows
with threads of
promise blue
and
periwinkle violet.
And hang me from the battlements
by strands of golden hair
-Emilienne C. Bratt 7/24/13 CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my eyes, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die:  no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
of eternity.
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.
nine fifty sevenyou are wide, animated eyes like
a couple of pale moons in a velvet winter sky, and
limbs that stand like willows against the
suburban scape behind you, soft grace in your
sure stride, soft sincerity in the slight curling of your
lips, sweet with a salty aftertaste or bitter with a
spicy edge, i can't decide,
but your aches and pains echo like
a thousand orchestras playing Rossini to
open amphitheatres, and i can hear the sound
soaring across open plains to where i am
hidden
where i stand, between black buildings and slate roads,
i am rouged cheeks and deep scarlet lips with
cigarettes perched between them and billows of smoke
framing my face, blonde hair pinned back,
wearing a black turtleneck, i am your film noir
femme fatale, but my big brown eyes seem
reproachful in your gaze, after all,
i am a living facade, and the world is my
disappointment, and my own reflection is my
pure hatred
we're both so disillusioned we can't see beyond our own stars
and the atmosphere seems to condense<da:thumb id="335166767"/>


Prose



Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
-
6
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The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
Bo shrugged.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“Of course!”
“How do you know?”
“Because...I just Shallow WaterIt was just a little kiddie pool in the backyard, unlovely pink-and-yellow plastic under the hot summer sun. But on those nights when Mom came home from the swing shift tired and met Daddy sitting in the kitchen angry, it was Amy’s only sanctuary.
She wasn’t a sound sleeper. Her parents still talked about how it had taken her infant self six months to sleep more than two or three hours at a time. During the school year, when her life was full of classes and friends and sports, it was easier to drop off, but summer nights were always more difficult. They were hotter, for one thing, and the long, indolent, inactive days often left her feeling too tired to sleep.
But mostly, it was because her parents had their arguments at night, right when Mom got back from the station. Daddy would send Amy to bed -- or at least her room, to pretend to sleep -- hours before. Then he would wait, sitting at the kitchen table and facing the door like a judge, hands folded in front of him
House in the SandI decided to ride my bike today. Tuns out tires and sand do not mix. Usually on my trek through the desert outskirts, I walk. For some reason I thought this would be faster. If only I had a hover bike, that would make things much easier.
I ended up having to walk anyways, towing my bike behind me. In a way it was worth it, I might have missed the happy little family of desert mice. I stopped to add a quick sketch of them to my notebook. The sun was riding high by then so I thought I'd take a break for some food.
I usually pack a lunch, but this time I guess I should have brought more. A baby desert fox came out of his hole, probably because he smelled food, and I couldn't resist giving him some of my turkey. The little guy looked so thin and hungry. Besides I didn't need it as much, I didn't have much farther to go.
A while later I crested a small dune and the little house came into view. It was blue and small with little white decorative shingles edging the stoop of the doorway, and i CarmenI met Carmen the day someone set the gym on fire. I’d known who she was before then—I’d heard the whispers of the tricks she pulled, and I’d seen her saunter up and down the clinic halls with a wicked glint in her eyes—but it wasn’t until I watched her drop an empty matchbox into a trashcan outside the smoldering gym that she let me into her incredible world.
“Mon dieu! I thought you were the nurse ready to bust me again!” she exclaimed. Then she took a moment to look me over. “Wait, I know you. Your name is Emma and you take your meds daily like a model patient. I am Carmen, by the way. Don’t believe the things you hear about me.” She smiled as though we shared a secret.
Carmen was one of those people who had an almost electric energy to her, a mixture of audacity and charm that attracted people like moths to a light. She’d barely introduced herself and I found her fascinating.
“Let’s not waste


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Mercury-the-Queen's avatar
Mercury-the-Queen
Oh, thank you for this. :heart: