APOCRAPHA (STAGE 1) by Graeme Fielden
It’s November. The night-sky holds the coldness; wind rustled silence of late fall. The sky’s crisp and clear: so cold I can see and hear each individual shimmer of each lonely star. I see for miles from the swing bench: over woodlands, mountains, streets and highways. Cars move like fireflies. Houses slowly smoke. They flash with slow blinking lights that meld into the stars. Retire me to the veranda, the comfort of my lounge room. Bolt the door, “Click”. Secure the chain, “Clunk.” Stoke the fire,” Whoosh”… Check the shotgun’s happy loaded in my lap, “Click.” Snore,
“Zzzz”
It’s November. The night howls like a hound-bitch; windy-word-bark-rustled, and desperate yelps of a lost winter wind. The sky’s sparse, crisp and cold – hated and chilled. I see the individual shimmer of each lonely winter star within the sky. See for miles from the rusted-swing bench. It hounds me like a tumor. I see… over woodlands, mountains, streets and highways…perspective reminds me of an ant hill. Cars move like fireflies: sacred and unorganized, un-organic plebiscites- “Whoosh!” My house smokes, flashes with a slow-blink posture; lights meld into apocryphal stars… Retire me to the veranda, the comfort of my lounge room. Bolt the door, “Click”. Secure the chain, “Clunk.” Stoke the fire,” Whoosh”… Check the shotgun’s happy loaded in my lap,
“Click”
It’s November. The night howls like it’s Friday. Lonely Friday. It’s Black Friday. Normal I’d visit town. Into Jerry’s to sink some beers, shoot pool. But since the curfew, no one’s out after dark. No one with a brain, that is. ‘Cos the streets is empty ‘cept for Lukin and the Deputies. They drive about in pick-ups - spotlights blazing, looking for a sign.
“Sign”
It’s November. The Friday’s nights are howling for a victim. There’s a body found in a Dumpster- torn up bad like a rag-doll - thrown in, covered with garbage ‘til Billy complained about a smell. Ha! I tell ya, Doc Goldsmith’s been doing autopsies round here for nigh on twenty years. Word is he barfed three times before he’d finished. Goddamn it! That’s Silence of the Lambs kind a shit. They said it was a bear. Ha! I said no way it’s a bear. It’d take a damn big grizzly to rip someone up that bad.
“Bad”
It’s November. The night sounds like a whiny-ass-bitch; windy-word rustled and desperate yelps. The sky’s red. I see red within the individual chill of each lonely star within the sky. See for miles from the rusty swing bench? Chills me... Over woodlands, mountains, streets and highways that remind me of ant hills. Cars move like fireflies “Fly-Fries.” Houses smoke and flash with slow-blink postures; lights meld into apocryphal stars… 05/05/2007 Posted on 05/04/2007 Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 05/05/07 at 02:06 AM Another terror mystery in the making! Sounds very scary and grizzly! You've set the chill of horror in an early winter grip! |
Posted by Katerina T Nix on 05/06/07 at 12:05 AM Well come on then, Graeme! I want the next part!! A great start to something rather frightening, I do believe. Well done and thanks for sharing this with us :) -Kat |
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