Parameters
Tonight
you brought the ghosts
with you again.
Their whispers
carried by the wind,
or maybe just a lullaby.
The music plays
upon the windowpane
it sounds like death.
I am alone.
Outside in winter chill
the night looks in.
And gathered in my room
with embers burning low,
the clock
is ticking time away
like falling
snow.
Originally published by Autumn House Review
Parameters is included in Winter Poems: Building Sound
Photo / Pixabay
the house
and its shadows
blue dust
and the sky
are discarded
along the tracks
a generation
of people - agrarian
builders
of polite society
have taken the train
to the next
century
(C) Jan Darrow 2022
Matthew was buying roses for his dead wife when he met Sylvie in
a flower shop. They started a conversation that carried over into Starbucks and
soon she carried her belongings into his large house outside of the city. It was
something alright, 6,000 square feet of luxurious rooms surrounded by a formal
garden.
Sylvie was a bohemian.
Matthew’s dead wife was Elaine. The house had been hers. She was
rich. She liked order and formality. She liked control.
After Sylvie moved in, she bought a flock of ponies. They
enjoyed the garden and ate everything formal they could find. So, Sylvie planted vegetables – tomatoes, zucchini, beans, corn, and sunflowers. When she
finished, she put up wire fencing.
Inside, Sylvie rearranged furniture, stacked pillows on floors,
lit incense and burned lavender candles. She liked to call it – casual formal.
And Matthew was ok with everything Sylvie because for the
first time in a while he was having fun.
One summer night Sylvie invited a few friends and a Ouija board
over. Oh, and a spiritualist who pretty much looked like everyone else except
she had shiny silver hair. Before it got dark, wine was served and so were some
vegetarian veggies. Then the lavender candles were lit.
The Ouija board had a mind of its own. Matthew knew who was
spewing letters out one by one and it scared him. His dead wife was communicating,
and a couple of things were noticeably clear. One – she didn’t like the
vegetable garden. And two – she didn’t like the ponies.
The next day the ponies were herded away.
When autumn came, the big house grew cold and dismal. Matthew
was nervous and distant.
One evening in December Sylvie stood in the dark living room
looking out into the garden when something caught her eye. Snow swirled down
against the lights. As she drew closer a face looked up at her through the
window. It was a woman’s face hideous and raw with a wide gaping mouth and
flesh the color of bone.
Sylvie reeled in horror and ran out of the room only to find
Matthew in the hall. She begged him to go – leave the miserable house for the
holidays. And why not? She hadn’t given up her apartment in the city. They
could go there.
A little while later Matthew put their suitcases and holiday
boxes in the car. He closed the door and lit a cigarette.
Sylvie was inside gathering up the last of the gifts in the hall
when she noticed the door at the end ajar. She walked cautiously toward it.
There was no sound coming from the darkness beyond and she opened it wide and
stepped outside. The snow was falling heavy now and it was deep and beautiful.
The car was ready to go. Matthew couldn’t find Sylvie anywhere.
He called her name upstairs and down and finally stepped into the hall. Snow
was swirling in through the open door and piling up on the carpet, so he closed
it.
He found Sylvie two days later when they came to clear the walk.
On Valentine’s Day Matthew was buying roses for his dead wives
when he met Ava in a flower shop.
The Snow is from The Blue
Hour: flash fiction – available on Amazon. The Snow was originally published
by Black Poppy Review.
Photo: Pixabay
