Red Regret (poem, sonnet)

No one, no thing, can sit still,
With the desires of natures will to fill,
All consumed, entombed, in this nights chill.

We chase the fields of gray, we stray,
While an undeniable force leads the way,
And stifles the voice that calls us to stay.

It’s crimson that we seek to find,
Those ruby drops consume our mind,
Provision possessed, as good as blind.

This pursuit is past our own will,
And so you see to our dismay,
Our way of life, is life unkind.

So judge us not, by fang or fan,
For the blood’s the measure of the man.

A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 3/4)

by Ada Marie

I followed a narrow, pebbled path leading from the gate to the back of the house, trying to overlook the fact that the once so tidy ground – it was such a delight for the soles of my shoes to walk on back then, as you just wouldn't believe – was now covered in straws of grass of a most unnatural green colour, not to mention the ants, busying themselves with carrying fifty times their body weight's worth of grit from one place to another. Mercilessly – oh, as if I had any choice but – I stepped, crushing their little bodies, one by one, noiselessly but for the rattling sound of my shoes against the pebbles.

Beside the house was a small shed, once built to keep old Mr. McCarthy's gardening tools – or so I always presumed, never having been able to actually look in it, what with the door always locked with a chain and padlock, and it having no windows and all. But as well as superstitious I have also never been of the curious or inquiring type, so of course I never gave much thought to what might or might not be hidden behind that severely locked door, and too many sleepless nights it certainly did not give me.

The path I was now following – and had followed so many times in my youth – happened to lead me straight past the shed, and underneath the great branches of an old oak tree. Up against the tree trunk stood an old ladder, and – can you imagine? – the path went right underneath it. Continuing to walk, with the inevitability of passing under it was not an acceptable option, why, it could fall right down on the top of my head! Walking around it somehow was equally impossible, what with the impenetrable vegetation covering every exit way previously known to me. So I turned around to walk back out of the garden and see if there wasn't by any chance another way of moving about, when I discovered – would you believe it? The damnedest thing! – the black cat sitting there, right in front of me, licking its front paw, as innocently as only a bitty kitty can, a yellow glint in its eyes as it stopped its grooming to look back up at me. It got up on all four legs, its tail straight up, the tip of it twitching impatiently. As it made to start moving towards me, I realized I needed to get out of its way, and the faster the better, lest it would start circling me, and then what could I do but be standing rooted to the same spot for the rest of my life!

The chain on the door to the shed had rusted and lay broken on the ground (oh, and after such a short time, too – it can hardly have been a very good quality piece of chain in the end, could it!), and I made my way towards the door, probably killing even more ants in the process. Useless little creatures they are, bless them! The door slid open easily enough, creating an ever-so-little stream of light entering the room for what must have been the first time in quite some date. The first thing I noted was the stench, which was simply unbearable! It absolutely prevented me from entering, and had me pausing in the doorway, where I could breathe in the fresh outdoor air whilst keeping an eye on the villainous cat, still standing on that very spot where I'd left it.

Except now it lowered its head, looking up at me in what I believed to be quite the threatening manner, that black little mischievous thing, as if about to spring up from its bouncy hind legs and jump me at any given second. I took a step back, to secure myself. Indeed, if the little creature did attack, I could simply take another step back, bringing the door with me as I did so, and off the wall the cat would bounce as safely protected behind it I'd be.

Napoleon's Goldfish (prose, part1)

Grandma Grey threw her glass eye at the wall and when it bounced back the third time the crowd concluded both that it must have been made of rubber, and that this was without doubt the most longest funeral they had ever been to. They had been waiting an hour and a half but still there was no sign of neither the corpse, his bride nor a priest that could put an end to this affair, that started with the popping of Jimmy Shoe on the corner of Orinocco Blues restaurant, and followed by a hasty closing down of their chip shop and the apperence of a scar across Mike the Moose's face from his eyebrow to his highest chin. Jimmy Shoe was the great great grand step and a hop nephew of the legendary Claudio McFlathery who was the illegimite child of Napoleon IV's goldfish and Irish mercenary who stopped by their annual St Patrick Day celebration in their country get-away in County Offaly for a drink and a bowl of mashed potatos a sunny day in November.
«I dunno about yous but I'm gettin a drink. Giveus a pint there, Larry» Grandma Grey said in a low voice, clearly strained by grief and a life long consumption of raw vegetables and tobacco. Larry the Leprechaun- for he was indeed short and red haired and had more than once showed up with pot and colourful towels, placed a glass of whiskey on the table in front of her. She had lost not only another grandchild to the potato industry, but also her favourite post man, and she didn't now how to get over this one just yet. Her daughter and Jimmy's aunt, Mary, had prepared some sandwiches cut in the shape of crosses for the occation, but no one touched them as the shock of the news of Jimmy's death after the day he had defied our Lord and sold his soul to the Devil for a good crop of taters and cursed the most devoted Catholic people on this planet. However, they didn't know that Jesus perferred Protestants.

A small village like this one could not support more than one chipper, and after the truckloads with Polish workers had stopped and settled outside the village, the Italians had seized the opportunity and opened a second chipper, and within a month, the competition had demanded three corpses, a bag of crisps and two curses.

The priest tore open the door and the rain outside came down as being poured from giant celestical buckets had soaked him way beyond wet and his black preist cloak stuck like a sticker to his skinny body, and his black socks made the wooden floor full of dark, wet stains. Maid of the house – Mary, looked at them at worried how on earth she would clean that up.
« He's ... gone» the priest said.

(to be continued....)