Sloth
One summer,
Irish May brings Sloth to bear:
A two-timed, sunbaked,
Brutish, affair.
A time told tale of Cat
And Boy, the latter Helen
to former’s Troy.
In shade they giggle (gossipers
Both). Our heroes make a pact
To never harm, sealed with
A scratch to Boy’s left arm.
Hours tick and tock goodbye,
Farewells turn to sighs and
Fate on watching Cat’s depart
Dooms fast friends to ever part.
The day turns its page
And night swells with age;
Morning heralds the coming
Of Cousins, and strums his sun-lyre.
Boy awakens to joyful noise.
The household has grown in size
(And toys)! Alas, he’s fated the
Loss of greater prize.
The scene sets: Boy plays
Dodgeball with Cousins un-gay.
Back and forth the game drags on,
A sled in the mud when snow has gone.
Then Cat comes back! Creeping
Softly, peering at Boy through
Garden green- though not soft
Enough, by eldest Cousin seen.
“Let’s play a game,”
Says eldest Cousin.
“First hits the cat wins!”
And the Glutton is summoned.
Boy hesitates, and sensing
Fear, that Sloth appears.
Boy cannot hide, his Vice is
Astride-
There is no tree
Nor branch to climb.
Just Sloth, and Boy,
And wide feline eyes.
Thump, the ball bounces.
Thump, crash run run
And Cat runs like Hector
From Achilles, rubber spear
Deflated but there is time
To throw, to win, to trounce
The Cat in guise of Fun,
For Fun is all and all is Fun
And why oh where has Cat disappeared?
Oh no, oh dear.
What has Boy won?
His friend is gone,
Their pact all undone.
He calls to silence,
-That soft, cold, violence-
Tears crawl
down
his face.
Sloth to Reason fades, delayed.
This tale of Sloth is a layered fold,
Spun by sleeping Clotho, bold Spinner.
Yet, the dreaming Fate stumbles at rest;
Her fumbles sew the ultimate tests.
Like the time told tale of Cat
And Boy, the latter Helen
to former’s Troy.
#poetry #truestory
The Legend of Skie Cross Theatre
9 P.M.
The Cinema
A few dead leaves swirled in front of the twenty-foot screen. Had anyone bothered to climb the low wall enclosing the theatre, they would have seen dry cornrows waving, far as the eye could see.
"Mom, this movie is lame."
"Honey, please."
"I'm serious Mom. Look," Ricky Thomas pointed over his lawn chair at the empty outdoor theatre. "There's nobody else here."
Ricky's mother sighed a world-weary sigh. The kind of sigh that lived and died in the same breath, crushed under its own weight.
"Look babe. If you don't want to watch the movie, why don't you... I don't know. Explore the lot?"
"Fine." Ricky stood up from his striped lawn chair and looked around the empty parking lot.
There is a legend among the patrons of the weary drive-in theatre.
Madison Thomas shifted in her lawnchair as Charlie Chaplin choked on a piece of fruit.
Passed down from watcher to watcher over lawn chairs, picnic baskets and lukewarm beer.
"Ricky?"
The legend began in 1982, ten years after the opening of Sky Cinema, formerly Skie Cross Theatre.
At first, it started off small. Rumours of broken, bloody cornstalks. Wolf sightings among the fields. Dug-up rabbit holes wide enough to hold a full-grown man. Small things, easily overlooked.
"Shit. Ricky? Shit. This isn't funny, Ricky."
But the rumours never went away. In fact, they grew. Of heart-wrenching screams erupting from bare soil. Furrows crisscrosessing entire fields, with farmhouses at their center. Dogs baying at thin air; if it weren't for the dogs, no one would have known the truth. The nature of the monster hiding among them.
More accuratly, beneath them.
"Is that you? No." Then, "Oh my God. Stay back!"
It dug a network of tunnels beneath the fields. Back and forth and back and forth. Inching closer and closer to the townhouses and farms. One tunnel led straight beneath the lot in Sky Cinema. It was the straw that turned the rumour mill into a full-fledged investigation.
Police swarmed the area. They stayed for weeks, making phone calls, writing on official-looking clipboards. Dogs roamed the tunnels with alongside groups of armed men.
Nobody found any trace of the thing responsible. No DNA, no sightings. Even the screams stopped, for the most part. The police chalked those up to stress and Friday Horror Nights at the Cinema. Business slowed. 'Thanks to the police', the owner would complain. 'Blue-capped hokeys'. But he was wrong.
On full moons, women disappeared from the theatre. Not men or children. Just women.
It happened infrequently enough that the events were never officially linked. But the legend of the Thing Beneath survived. It was both myth and warning.
To avoid the Cinema, especially at night.
To those too curious for their own good, patrons of the theatre left the only clue they had. Truly, it wasn't anything more than conjecture, and the desire to understand.
The Cinema's name. Sky Cinema, formerly Skie Cross Cinema.
Skie.
Eski.
The Dinky Closet
Dear Under the Door,
Hey, do you mind letting the Higher Ups know about me? I honestly think there's been some kind of mistake. Please let them know,
I didn't DO anything. Therefore, I shouldn't be here.
Before you leave this dinky death closet in the middle of who-knows where, I'd very much appreciate it if you took this letter to the boys upstairs and told Him that He is missing a soul. Because, once again,
I didn't DO anything.
Therefore, I SHOULDN'T be here.
And if He doesn't want to play ball? Hey, no harm done, at least you tried.
And since you've tried once, what's to stop you from trying again?
Nothing. At. All.
That's the spirit! Now, I've prepared a list of reason's I don't belong in here that I think will bring a lot of substance to my case.
1) The door is locked from the outside.
2) The door is locked from the outside.
3) The door is locked from the outside.
Very important points, these. Notice the one about the door? I consider that Top Priority. Of course, I'd be grateful if any of the above requests were addressed ASAP.
It's a little boring in here. And then there's the door.
Locked. From the outside. You remember.
You must have missed letters #1 through 999,999,999. But hey, don't sweat it! We're all busy busy bees, and eternity won't last forever!
Yeah.
Anyway.
Good luck, and enjoy the rest of your Afterlife!
Sincerely,
Humble Tortured Soul
P.S. If the door thing doesn't pan out, please request a new window. It's stuck.