Oh, Ms. Ophelia.

        “Harrison,” she said as she picked at her crumpets and eggs. “Never shout for those who can whisper.” The room fell silent as Ms. Ophelia’s sickly pale hair fell against her shoulders; sturdy and still- the force of a silent and merciless hurricane. And when silence pursued, even the children gawked in their throats, because those who listened to her words crumbled at her feet. And those who touched her felt the cold sweep through their teeth, and they breathed bow-legged at her epiphany of an existence. Her voice had never risen, yet she could silence a room with the flick of her rosy pink tongue. Those who feared her gave her names and those who envied her gave her flowers, and that is why her body looks like it is decomposing behind her eyes. 

         The local church won’t let her in. The Father there thinks she is a fallen angel mimicking the journey of the devil. Maybe she is. 

         Little does he know she sleeps with the holy girls who crave a taste of winter rebellion and numbing lips that smell of alcohol. Because you don’t need to be loud to wallow in the outspoken’s throats. And you don’t need to be violent to make a ribcage rattle and ache.

         The tall and perpetual Harrison shuffled into the courting room and lit a cigar. The smoke swallowed his pride as he sank into an old leather chair. And with the creak of the old oak floor, he ate his words.