The Monster of Old
It was a horrifying creature,
long pointed nose,
buzzing wings,
eyes deep black in a circle
of garish red.
I didn’t dare
raise a hand against it,
for it filled my ears
with a raw hiss,
and I froze
as it circled me,
seeking out a strip of bare skin
for landing.
Then my father
chased it with rolled-up newspaper,
before thwacking it to death
against the kitchen wall.
“Don’t be such a sook,”
my father said to me.
‘It’s harmless.”
Years later,
that insect became
the beast in this story I was writing.
My monster was huge, bloodthirsty,
and threatened all of mankind.
It had honed its threat,
whetted its appetites,
acuminated its ambitions,
back in my childhood.
A Strangeness
The morning looks familiar but feels different.
I yawn as usual, rub my eyes, take one glance
at the body in the bed beside me,
before stumbling to the bathroom.
Same body, same bed, same bathroom
as it has been for the past ten years.
So what’s changed? What is missing?
Something is nagging at me.
Something I should be aware of
but can only draw a blank.
The kitchen’s the same.
So’s the coffee maker and my favorite cup.
And the table. The chair. That song of
the brewing java is the one that I’ve been
humming all my life. Suitably wired with
caffeine, it’s back to the bedroom,
where I open the closet wide,
grab shirt and slacks, shoes and socks,
make myself presentable for the outside world.
I peek out the window. That world is still there.
So what’s wrong?
It must be my companion.
She’s always up by this.
If this were sci-fi, she’d be an android
that reached its end date and expired.
If this were true crime, she’d have been smothered
by an intruder during the night.
If it were horror, she’d have every drop of blood
drained from her veins.
But it’s real life. She died of natural causes.
A year to the day.
That’s what it is.
I forgot her anniversary.
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