Ravenous clouds of dust------------------Teeming with energy-----
Faces come and go like distant gods-----made real from celestial MO----
-----Its real, this heat, or oven igniting mountainous souls------Horror--------
--Beep----Beeep-----Beeeep-----radiation coughs oceans of shadows------------
-----------homogenous lighting clash-----smash the Hubble into other earths------
Aliens breathe----veins lead armies into lagoons------Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep---------
No way to communicate with closed mouths-----point and shoot into the black hole—
No way to communicate with closed mouths-----point and shoot into the black hole----
Connected symbols from each point---one, two, three----thousand light years-----jeers
honored as dead fumble blankly, floating like rafts with no wind but movement is-------
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is-----------------------------------------------------life
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Cat's Cry
First Draft of a story that I plan on adding to a collection about Chicago. Leave some thoughts. Thanks.
I never knew why, but she vanished one day. She was called Granny by everyone in the neighborhood. Everyday we passed her house and notice her slowly massaging the back of a new cat that lost its way, finding Granny. Her eyes were cat like as she sat on her swing bench, gracefully swaying as the wind chimed her bells hanging above her. Her lanky fingers dug deeply into the feline’s spine as she gazed absently at us from the street.
She is a widow, the baker from ACE bakery said. Her husband left her for the war years ago and never came back. Many people had similar stories about their own lives. She is a teacher that retired and only has her cats left, my mother told me. Rabbit heard she is a serial killer hiding out from the law. Either way, she was always there, like a statue of a time lost.
She used to ramble on some nights. I remember hearing her yelling from her kitchen window one particular night as I came back from baseball. The yellow light glimmered brightly off the white plaster and I noticed her shadow planted on the ceiling, flickering now and again as she motioned her hands. I would sit silently on her stairs and be an audience to her stories. She spoke of old friends, Cindy who lived a few houses down, married young, and leaving Chicago for the liveliness of New York, Mark who enlisted right after graduated from Depaul but ended up losing a leg and never dancing like she saw him dance at prom, or Sandra, the poet she knew and loved, I heard her reciting some lines, maybe hers, and I can feeling the swooning and emotions that spewed out the window. The cats would purr and moan as she raised and lowered her voice, offering their insightful advice to her problems. It was almost unreal. I always figured she was talking about former cats, not actually people, since no one ever entered Grannies place.
Last time I saw her was after a long summer night, I found myself planted at her porch as she recited another sermon on her life. But, she was even more agitated than before. I heard plates crashing loudly to the floor like cymbals smashing. Pans were being thrown to and fro. Cats screamed, a few rushed out the window, and I hurried to hide as I noticed the front entrance lights come on. She rushed out, an orange and white cat in her grasp, muttering to herself. A large red scar from her forehead leading all the way beneath her mouth shined with the moonlight and street lamps. It was fresh, like a mark of shame, and her eyes were red. From anger or sadness? She raised the cat to her face, fiercely staring deep within its vertical eyes, whispering something to it, some trance she was in. Through the grated gate, I remember, her wrinkled hands began to slowly close on the cat’s throat. It gasped, scratched, scathed, and couched, but Granny held her ground. Her face trembled and her arm shook violently. The cat’s body jerked helplessly above the porch, its hands attempting to free itself, and its tail slapped every-which-way. The arms stopped moving, the moans stopped, the tail fell dead, and I, wide eyed, was stunned. I remember hearing a crack. She flung the body into the street, it crashed and slid to a stop, almost bumping a parked car, and then she creep back into her home. The lights eased off and the neighborhood slept again.
Granny left her cats, her life, and her home behind. After that night, we never heard from her again.
I never knew why, but she vanished one day. She was called Granny by everyone in the neighborhood. Everyday we passed her house and notice her slowly massaging the back of a new cat that lost its way, finding Granny. Her eyes were cat like as she sat on her swing bench, gracefully swaying as the wind chimed her bells hanging above her. Her lanky fingers dug deeply into the feline’s spine as she gazed absently at us from the street.
She is a widow, the baker from ACE bakery said. Her husband left her for the war years ago and never came back. Many people had similar stories about their own lives. She is a teacher that retired and only has her cats left, my mother told me. Rabbit heard she is a serial killer hiding out from the law. Either way, she was always there, like a statue of a time lost.
She used to ramble on some nights. I remember hearing her yelling from her kitchen window one particular night as I came back from baseball. The yellow light glimmered brightly off the white plaster and I noticed her shadow planted on the ceiling, flickering now and again as she motioned her hands. I would sit silently on her stairs and be an audience to her stories. She spoke of old friends, Cindy who lived a few houses down, married young, and leaving Chicago for the liveliness of New York, Mark who enlisted right after graduated from Depaul but ended up losing a leg and never dancing like she saw him dance at prom, or Sandra, the poet she knew and loved, I heard her reciting some lines, maybe hers, and I can feeling the swooning and emotions that spewed out the window. The cats would purr and moan as she raised and lowered her voice, offering their insightful advice to her problems. It was almost unreal. I always figured she was talking about former cats, not actually people, since no one ever entered Grannies place.
Last time I saw her was after a long summer night, I found myself planted at her porch as she recited another sermon on her life. But, she was even more agitated than before. I heard plates crashing loudly to the floor like cymbals smashing. Pans were being thrown to and fro. Cats screamed, a few rushed out the window, and I hurried to hide as I noticed the front entrance lights come on. She rushed out, an orange and white cat in her grasp, muttering to herself. A large red scar from her forehead leading all the way beneath her mouth shined with the moonlight and street lamps. It was fresh, like a mark of shame, and her eyes were red. From anger or sadness? She raised the cat to her face, fiercely staring deep within its vertical eyes, whispering something to it, some trance she was in. Through the grated gate, I remember, her wrinkled hands began to slowly close on the cat’s throat. It gasped, scratched, scathed, and couched, but Granny held her ground. Her face trembled and her arm shook violently. The cat’s body jerked helplessly above the porch, its hands attempting to free itself, and its tail slapped every-which-way. The arms stopped moving, the moans stopped, the tail fell dead, and I, wide eyed, was stunned. I remember hearing a crack. She flung the body into the street, it crashed and slid to a stop, almost bumping a parked car, and then she creep back into her home. The lights eased off and the neighborhood slept again.
Granny left her cats, her life, and her home behind. After that night, we never heard from her again.
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