Philomena
Oh! Hello there. You are coming home with me.
Kayla felt slight guilt as she knelt down and picked up the Philodendron piece from the floor of the home improvement store.
It's technically not stealing, right? I mean, scraps like this are just going to be swept up at closing time and tossed in the trash, right? What a waste. I'm actually rescuing it if you think about it. Yeah.
She carefully tucked the heart-shaped piece into her hoodie pocket.
On the drive home to her tiny apartment, she placed her passenger on the dashboard and excitedly brought her up to date on all things Kayla.
“…and I am soooo close to graduating. And when I do, I'm definitely gonna land a kick ass job somewhere — maybe even in one of these places,” She gestured upward toward the towering glass buildings as she drove through the medical center streets. “And you're coming with me, of course. You are going to have your very own spot on my desk!”
Kayla prattled on, feeling excited for the future and surprisingly, a lot less lonely all of a sudden. It felt good to speak her hopes and dreams out loud— even if only to a drooping leaf.
When they got home, Kayla placed her new roommate in a glass of water and set her on the kitchen window sill. She made a mental note to pick up some potting soil soon.
It will be so nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Now, she needs a name. Hmm…
Kayla smiled as it came to her.
“I hereby dub thee Philomena. For it is a strong name and a good name for a friend.”
My Doubt
If the Devil were a figure, separate, it would be a fair fight. We'd have it out, battling all our facets like paragons, one city night. Alas, I fear the Devil is my shadow, long or short, trailing right beside me. But when there is no light, the Devil with care, slides closest to me, weaves between my ears, out of sight-- resides in the concave of my heart and mouth-- and stands behind my pupils with blinding fright.
And when I no longer have beside me that Shadow, of a doubt, when I feel most irately that I am Right, and am willing to death to scheme and blight, it's then, we can be absolutely sure, the Devil won.
04.15.2025
Devil May Care challenge @SelfishNeurotic
Sandpaper
Time doesn't heal all wounds, it just changes you enough so you can live with them, so you
Can feel his hand on your neck and stay still, feel his palm on your mouth and not bite
Feel him and stay soft, stay still, stay stuck with the love you were given
Since it is the only love you ever will be, the only truth you can truly rely on for longer than
Your wounds have to scab over before he wounds again, a subtle torture
The sandpapering of love until it wears you down like an eraser, until you...
You no longer remember what it felt like to bite him when he tried.
When the memory itself is almost erased
Your body left for the taking, his innocent tools leaving more wounds in his wake.
Whoever claimed time could heal you was lying, or maybe they saw failure to resist as
Acceptance, accepting you deserved whatever you were given, your edges worn down by time.
Maybe you could sleepwalk your way somewhere kinder, if his touch ever lifted enough to let you sleep.
If you could find yourself asleep somewhere other than in his embrace.
Mirror Me
Mirror,
you
are right,
we grow to live
with our Ghost
all in parallel universe
wash and wear
rinse and repeat
we blow kisses
into the wind
upon that Narcissus train
of moving things
...Life...
...goes on...
but we are always 17
or whatever age
it was
we became
unhinged
and realization
opened
to us
like a photo album
or a needle
on a record
and drew
the mental picture
of Everything
as burial...
leaving its
dinosaurs
upon our chests
and we answer
with form
and structure
as poetry
as essay
in silence
like the Concentrics
on a tree
or
Stratigraphic
soil testing
where we can see
eras of our Life
all these things
mirror, you
as mute
accomplice
hide and see
The Fusion Ends, And One Falls
*This chapter is part of "The Small Town Magic Arc." This saga began with Chapter 134*
Cyclo's sneak attack of fire was quickly snuffed out by an icy blast from the Pirate Mage's finger, which also froze Cyclo's hand in a block of ice.
"Now Cyclo dear, did you really think it would be that easy to take me down?" The Pirate Mage teased. "We didn't do this fusion just for looks. The Pirate's powers and Cerissa's magic are not only combined together in this form, but both are also enhanced."
"Cyclo's growled in anger as he struggled to pick himself up off the ground, succeeding despite the hits he had taken, and his frozen hand."
"I feel a bit sorry for you pal." The Pirate Mage teased playfully before gently thawing Cyclo's hand with a light burst of fire. "Feel better now?"
Cyclo howled and lunged at the Pirate Mage ferally. He swung his other fist at her, which she ducked under before grabbing his upper arm. She gave it a light squeeze, resulting in the combined sound of a cracking bone and a screaming monster. Despite his pain, he pointed at the Pirate Mage and attempted another direct hit with his fire spell. She fizzled out his attack with another ice spell, this time encasing Cyclo's whole arm in a block of ice. The Pirate Mage then somersaulted backward a few feet to distance herself from her foe.
"The first thaw was free, the next one will cost you!" The Pirate Mage joked before giving him a serious look. "Step down and surrender, and I'll heal both of your arms."
Before Cyclo could respond, the Pirate Mage began glowing a brilliant white. The white light then split into two separate forms. The light then slowly faded until the Pirate and Cerissa stood before Cyclo.
"Bwa ha ha ha, is time up on that fusion spell?" Cyclo hollered with delight, his adrenaline apparently blocking out the pain of his respective frozen and broken arms. "While the power of that combined form of yours was impressive, the two of you alone pale in comparison. I sense much less from each of you!"
"Perhaps, but man do you seem quite sure of yourself pal." The Pirate smiled. "You haven't even healed up those injuries yet. Need a moment to do so after you're done gloating?"
"Heh, I'm doing just fine!" Cyclo laughed as he charged towards the pair. The Pirate and Cerissa stepped aside, and as Cyclo attempted to turn around, he lost his balance and fell face down.
"You sure you got this Cyclo?" Cerissa asked with a sweet tone and smile. "Need some help healing up again?"
"I told you, I've never been better!" Cyclo yelled furiously, despite not being able to get up without the use of his arms.
Cerissa pointed at Cyclo and then pointed up, raising the monster into the air with a wind spell. As he floated helplessly in Cerissa's wind, it was the Pirate's turn to lunge, and he ran their adversary through with his sword. Cyclo looked helplessly at the pair as he felt his life fading away.
"Don't worry, you aren't going to die, you're just taking a trip to the Reflection Dimension." Cerissa said reassuringly. "Before you go, know that it wasn't the Pirate and I who truly finished you off."
Cyclo looked at the pair with a confused, weak expression. The Pirate read this as an unspoken request for clarification, and proceeded to provide one to their fallen nemesis.
"Cerissa's spell and my blade may have ended this fight, but this battle was decided a long time ago. Essie is the real reason we have defeated you."
To be continued....
Italics Is Me*
Italics is the typographic equivalent of underlining. Detalics is the typographic equivalent of undermining. Normally, italics is a slanted (to the right) cursive font of calligraphic handwriting, first used by Aldus Manutius and his press in Venice in 1500. Alternatively, detalics is slanted to the left.
It is a subtle distinction, as opposed to life and death, which are, respectively, underlined to the right and to the left.
I feel that nothing I do is important, nor worth underlining. I live my life in detail. I live leaning to the left. Does that sound sinister?
My biggest fear in life is that there will be—understood in a goes-without-sayingvsort of way—an embarrassing, deprecatory, and/or shameless exposure of me, relegated to that most feared of typographic sentinels.
What is that? you ask.
That sentinel can be affixed to my name. It is like a bullet that goes through both sides of my head, ending up outside, to the right. (Thus, like italics, it—and bullets, in general—lean to the right.)
And that typographic mortal blow is the asterisk.
I have an asterisk next to my name as if it is following me, and it is, because it follows my name.
It could be worse.
I could be followed by a footnote, with a full haranguing diatribe encased forever in posterity. A philippic of venom. A tirade a dozen invectives more than a full rant. (1 rant + 12 invectives = 1 rant.)
I block my entire legacy to change the font, style, and point-size. But that's not good enough. After blocking it again, I [CMD+X] it. Poof! There goes the Garamond. Poof! There goes the bold! The italics! The detalics!
But somewhere there is a remnant of it all—of me in detalics—written in cursive. In a notebook. One with coffee stains on it and perhaps even some squashed bug foolish enough to worm its way in between some pages further compressed by the coffee mug itself.
That bug is me.
Better that I not be an open book. Better that I be glyphicked in byzantine scribblings that only a cypher on the other side of the world can de-cipher. Reverse the tilt from left to right. De-talic the detalics until the sinister decays in reverse from maladroit to adroit. I long to be a droit. I long to be italicized, my asterisk plucked away and my footnotes whitewashed like weatherworn graffiti.
