Death at a Meeting

Death made his way, unhurried, into the meeting, the slow drag of his steps across the cold church basement floor announcing his arrival. His long halo of hair lifted and fell with each combat-booted footfall and his handlebar mustache lifted - almost imperceptible - as he approached the woman he’d come to meet.

The others scattered as they recognized him, though each saw him as a different size, shape and color. They had all encountered him at their lowest points, preludes to a dance that would catch them up later, and they were in no hurry to move to that final rhythm.

He picked up a Styrofoam cup, filled it with steaming coffee and drank it black, finishing it before it had the slightest chance to cool and before he reached the seat next to Karen.

“Anyone sitting here?”

Karen didn’t look up for the magazine she was reading, but gestured toward the chair.

“Help yourself.”

He sat. The man on his other side hastily moved to a seat on the other side of the room.

“Come here often?”

She grimaced in response, eyes still focused on an article about the powers of positive thinking.

“Not interested.”

An older woman whose years and experiences lay mapped across her face stood and cleared her throat.

“OK. I think we’ll get started. My name is Joanne, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Death heard but didn’t listen as the story of Joanne’s struggles faded to a faint babble. His mind drifted.

He couldn’t remember what life was like, you know, before he became Death. Had he been an average human burdened with the mundane but enjoying sparks of happiness here and there? Just thinking about it made his head hurt and throat clench. God, he needed a drink. Better do something, quick.

“My name is Death, and I am an alcoholic.”

zombie ants

shuffle around my feet

minds blown from a dose of Terro

goal of hunt and gather gone

sense of direction

pointless

they stumble in ragged randomness

once driven by purpose

now, brains chewed by sweet poison

they churn en masse

ram into and over each other

drifting toward eventual obliteration

zombie ants

Summer Trapped

The garden was completely covered in ice, with the exception of one tree, though the vegetation around the perimeter was lush.

Curious, I followed the path through the open gate. It was as though time was suspended in a January state. The air was chill and a small breeze incited whirls of dancing snow. My breath hung in crystals before my face. My fingers quickly grew clumsy and slow. I feared that I too would become frozen, a statue in this winter garden.

What had happened here? A confusion of nature? Or perhaps, a magic spell cast by some jealous wizard. All that was certain was that summer was trapped beneath a glaze of winter. With the exception of that one tree.

I struggled toward the green leaves and thick reaching branches, drawn by the strange yellow fruit it bore. My bare feet snapped through the layer of ice with each step. Soon my shins, calves and ankles were laced with fine cuts, the path behind me littered with drops of red. Yet I pushed on.

As I faced the tree it dawned on me that each yellow fruit pulsed and glowed with the heat of a small sun. Their collective warmth was what kept the tree from succumbing to the numbing cold.

 
I placed my hands on the trunk, appreciating the thawing comfort, then wrap my arms around so the length of my body is in contact. I am warmed. I am renewed.