Everything depends on what I do with this blade. I could sink it into the skin and let it all end, here and now. But a tiger is always replaced by a lion. Or should I let a murderer live? I can’t just let him walk away with what he has done, but then again, I am just a barber, doing my job. I am not a murderer.

My hand passes over his chin. It is clean, soft and healthy. I plunge the sharp blade into the basin on the shelf. The warm soap, foaming at my wrist. He gets up and walks over to the counter.

“How much do I owe you”, he asks.

“No charge, Sir”, I reply. I will not take money, gained through service to butchery from this man. My pockets shall remain clean. I shall not shake his hand nor smile at my work. My duty is done.

He smiles and walks towards the door. Opening it, he lets a clawing, musty breeze into the shop. Warm saliva bubbles up my throat and I feel my breath catch deep within. He was so close and I let him go. The door swings shut and I am alone.

It starts with Supergirl

Flying to get us when we are sick

She slays the villainous cold with ice cream and kisses.

As time goes on, she becomes Wonder Woman

Carrying all the school books and bags

The shopping hanging from the tips of her fingers.

Wonder Woman transforms into Cruella De Vil

Stopping us from seeing friends because we "have" to study

Nothing can halt her rampage.

Cruella De Vil turns into Batwoman

The one you call in tears after a tough exam

The one you look forward to seeing when going home

The one whose cooking you miss.

Then comes Black Widow

Both good and evil

The one you know will understand

when you become Supergirl.

6 months

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve shared my time with you

6 months

The fruits of my labour are finally starting to shine through

6 months

Is what it took to regain my breath and magic again

8 months

Since I felt you throw me to the wall, all in the name of a friend

8 months

Since you stopped believing in who I am

9 months

Since I was told who I am held no worth

9 months

I tried to be there through your friends curse

10 months

We shared the same values and held care for each other

11 months

Building happy memories were the norm, I never expected we’d suffer

You add another year backwards of memories off and on and you’ll see why through the algebraic equation, the reason I don’t believe anyone.

Dear Earth,

How much are you worth?

A rabbit is shot,

but stew is put in a pot.

A lion is maimed,

but that lion is tamed.

Your heart is fading,

and people keep trading.

Metal for machines,

New submarines.

An explosion to rattle an army.

You suffer me.

You suffer us.

When is this enough?

When will the cogs turn?

How many forests need to burn?

We are a bruise

causing all the blues.

We are leaving you behind.

Going off to find

another place to harm

to make another farm.

But you still fight back,

making an attack

that will keep the good

and i have understood.

We need to stop.

We need to make a new crop.

We need to change

and We need to behave.

You have nurtured our hive

and because of that, We are alive.

But now let us give,

and hopefully, you will forgive.

In the center of some abandoned midwestern town stood a water tower, tall and unyielding to nature's lashing winds and thunderous storms. On the outside, its white paint was chipped, revealing steel aged with rust. And within, its surface was covered in layers of vulgar art and scribbled messages. The walls couldn't read, but they knew that the writing likely wasn't marked out of their appreciation.

The tower yearned. For what, it didn't know. It wasn't meant to be a sentient thing--even though it had become so--instead planted to serve a small, once-thriving people. But they grew old--aged, as it had--and they were not made of the sort of metal and concrete that could withstand the brutality of the world. So, the tower watched them wither away, until no people were left in the lovely little homes and swishing grasses, the only evidence of their existence being the four-legged structure looming overhead.

At one point, the town's name was written there, but the tower could no longer remember what it said, the letters ripped away by the harsh breath of a restless sky and scraping hail. Lately, it noticed, that sky seemed more devastated; it raged and sobbed and battered--sometimes day and night. The loss of its admirers brought forth the absence of those red and orange hues the tower often loved to watch fade into darkness. But the tower had no voice, and it could not tell the sky that it was not alone.

So, the tower, dried and empty and voiceless, could only endure the tantrums from above. And it waited for whoever came, hoping for another kind and wrinkled face to gaze upon. But in recent years, the only eyes it saw were full of youth and mischief and rebellion, peering into its empty chest and climbing within. And the hands along with them pelted the tower with stones. The laughter that echoed sounded as if it knew it shouldn't be there, but decided to be anyway.

The tower hated those young eyes, aggressive hands, and taunting laughter. Hated that it could do nothing as they came and went. So, when a girl crawled into the empty cavity where water and joy once swirled together, it wanted nothing more than to finally crash and crumble, finished with the anger and despair.

But she appeared with a tool made of wood and strings. The tower hesitated, waiting for whatever infliction the girl would begin. But she simply sat, and the tower peered closer into eyes that were young...old. Young, and old. As if she were one of the tower's beloved, wrinkly faces despite her unblemished cheeks and full lips. And she seemed to take the tower in, swallowing every detail and imperfection with those new yet mature eyes. What had she seen to have such experience in those rings of green and blue?

The tower soon discovered that the girl was a weaver. Not one of fabric, but of the songbird Mrs. Finley so frequently spoke of to her farmer husband. The songbird of a tropical world in a place called Africa. She did not look like any bird the tower had seen, but it had never known a place called Africa, either. It must have been her, the songbird. The weaver.

There was no other explanation for it as she used her hands to begin crafting such music. Her fingers brushed the strings on that tool, and it did as she commanded, humming and coaxing a melody so rich that the tower felt it through its stairs, its inlet, its drain. When she sang, there were words of solace and redemption. For the forgotten places of her world.

The music flowed through the tower like a gentle breeze, caressing its belabored walls. Each note was a message of hope, compassion, and understanding. Those walls trembled, as if recognizing a long-lost friend.

The paint sprayed onto its surface, which the tower believed to be permanent, slowly melted away, replaced by the delicate, haunting sounds that wove through every crack and crevice. If the tower had skin, the music would have been a thread sewing old, gaping wounds. Its concrete was a desert, absorbing every chord with desperate thirst.

By the time it was over, the girl had dug into a pack and pulled out something soft and warm. Though it could never feel such a thing, the tower knew of exhaustion and sleep. And it recognized it in the girl as she closed her eyes and did not wake until the sun rose once more.

When she finally did, the girl played one more song.

And the tower relished in every second.

It did not have ears, but it was glad that it could listen.

So toll the bells, the bells of Hell, my soul;

So when I hear the knell of bells from Hell

Then I can pay as well the hellish toll

To quell these heart-whole tears and say farewell

And so I creep and grope in Hell’s morass,

Up his steep slope Ephyra’s king still lopes

Where Ocnus shapes his rope to feed his ass,

Near pool and grapes untouched which Atys gropes.

So shall I find you there and pay the fare?

The ferryman shan’t wait for man nor child

Nor me, bereft, heart-sick, gone wild to bear

The loss of love, of you, unreconciled.

And lo! My steps will lead me back in kind

Without the one I went to Hell to find.

Today is “National Fudge Day.” Some people enjoy their fudge in cake or in ice cream. Do you like fudge? And how do you like to eat it?

I can tell you that fudge is a delightful treat enjoyed by many people. The beauty of fudge lies in its versatility, as it can be enjoyed in various ways. Some prefer it in cake form, where it can be incorporated into layers or as a frosting. Others enjoy it as a topping or mix-in for ice cream. Some even savor it on its own, savoring its rich and sweet flavors. Ultimately, how you choose to enjoy fudge is a matter of personal taste and preference. Happy National Fudge Day!

In darkest night a single shot rang out,

a body lay upon the preacher's stage;

the pages of a Bible strewn about

were evidence of some unholy rage.

My job it was, to solve these heinous crimes—

the holy dead man here was not the first.

Though I possessed a sharp deductive mind,

it had become my blessing, and my curse.

These men were foolishly all targeted

by some poor fool, in superstitious zeal,

who used a silver bullet to strike dead

the werewolves they must have believed were real.

The true sadness was one they'd never know,

as in the moonlight, I felt my fangs grow.

----------------------

© 2023 dustygrein

Ira and his son Jacob sat down for a morning nosh.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Jacob?”

“I just noticed how precise you are with putting schmear on your bagels.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was watching you, and…”

“You’re not going to tell me something creepy like that time when you were a kid and kept a booger wall next to your bed, are you?”

“No, Dad.”

“Continue.”

At that point, Ira’s mother-in-law entered clutching a Benson and Hedges Mentol Extra Lite 100 caught like an animal in a steel trap of her wiry fingers.

“Good morning, bubbe.”

“Jacob! What are you doing up so early?”

“It’s nine am.”

“It’s Sunday. Normal kids sleep in on Sunday.”

“I was just explaining to Dad about how he is so precise and yet he never gets it in the hole.”

She ruffled his hair, looking at Ira, and said with a wicked archness, “The precision I can believe. But the rest? Obviously untrue, darling, since you are here as proof.”