Shoo, swat, smack, ouch, damn, scratch… it’s amazing! Seven people sitting here on the deck, talking and enjoying the stars — and I’m the only one doing battle with these invisible blood-sucking bastards. I look like I’ve been stricken with St Vitus’ dance, or in the throes of a damned seizure. I don’t mean to make light of those two unfortunate conditions — they are not laughing matters. But neither are these infuriatingly itchy welts rising on my flesh.
And mosquito repellent, what a joke. About the only thing this crap repels is my little Shih Tzu, Edgrrr, when I come back in the house smelling like a chemical dump. I have tried creams, salves, ointments, oils, sprays, powders, even a special hi-tech invisible electronic barrier. Oh sure, like that really worked!
The only thing I know for certain can offer protection against those micro-monsters is me, for anyone else sitting with me. You are safe from the attack of the Culicidae horde if I am anywhere near. I am the preferred target, and all my friends and family know it. There is one benefit to being “skeeter-magnet” me — I do get invited to a lot of summer picnics and deck parties.
circling overhead
blood-sucking kamikaze
and I’m the target
“Beyond a certain point there is no return. This point has to be reached.”
The Curious Elf
Dedicated to my 5-year-old grandson Alex.
~
An angel-eyed, velvet-clad, curious elf,
while sitting alone on the very top shelf,
said it’s strange, even if I do say so myself,
to be a curious elf, way up high on a shelf.
But I woke up this morning and thought to myself,
I wonder what is up there so high on that shelf?
Perhaps it’s a treasure I can keep for myself?
Curiosity made me climb from my leaf to this shelf.
I like being part of a family of elves,
6 sisters, 5 brothers, in all I’m the twelfth.
But it certainly isn’t much fun on this shelf.
This is just not a place for an angel-eyed elf!
Sometimes it’s hard being a velvet-clad elf,
I forgot to remember, climbing up on this shelf,
that I’m not big enough to get down by myself.
“Won’t somebody please help this curious elf?”
“Oh why did I ever climb up here on this shelf?
I think I knew it was hopeless to get down by myself,
but I thought, what the heck, it’s such a curious shelf.
It’s sure scary, being stranded all alone by myself!”
~ ~
So if you’re no bigger than this quite tiny elf,
don’t got climbing for things, high on shelves, by yourself.
Find somebody big to get stuff off the high shelf,
or you might get stuck like this curious elf.
NOTE: This is a Seuss influenced, existential nursery rhyme, inspired by the quote here at the top, from nihilist philosopher and writer, Franz Kafka. This is about an elf who knowingly pushed himself to the probable point of no return — and regretted it.
Click below to read more existential nursery rhymes at dVerse:
this path is my shame
and so I stumble on
bent by the weight of guilt
drenched in regret
I stumble anguished
into this toxic nightfall
captive on this road to extinction
of my lethal human arrogance
prisoner of my duplicitous apathy
seeking forgiveness
the new sun
still crisp and bright
warms me as I journey
it paints the strange landscape
in a vivid foreign luminescence
since the Brin arrived
placed their electro-sun in orbit
and terraformed earth
this has become a startling alien world
the Brin are a beautiful species
but ruthlessly predatory
most of humanity
has been captured or killed
I am a surviving fugitive
hiding in an ancient fallout shelter
I embarked at midday
senses alive and alert
hoping I would make contact
with other fugitive humans
survivors of the invasion
they exist
I’ve observed evidence
but it is day’s end
the Brin sun is slowly setting
moonlight will soon bathe
this exotic terrain
our moon still orbits
compatible with their terraforming
early shadows fall across my face
a foreboding settles upon me
there are many shadows now
odd shadows
disturbing specters
that disrupt my nights
disquiet my soul
steal my peace
they come unannounced
almost imperceptible
but no time for worry
there is still far to go
yet here I still stand
captivated
by the haunting
yet terrifying beauty
that is our altered planet
I shudder and sober
turn into the evening breeze
and venture onward
immersed in the eerie blue glow
of the now dimming Brin sun
I am eager to move
drawn by the need to reach my shelter
to reach safety
there are other shelters
so I continue my search
for others still alive
as is now my daily routine
which includes hunting for fuel
used to heat and cook
I burn a pulpy Brin plant
which they call Griscalka
now plentiful on earth
I hunt the Masocca
a Brin wild animal
which I discovered is edible
I scrounge for water
unfortunately not plentiful
but it is part of the Brin ecosystem
in this moment
exhausted
feelings of loss sweep over me
clouding briefly my focus
then they waft
I see across the darkening valley
my shelter
my safety
I’m caught
by a thought
our ancient ancestors
built these fallout shelters
to protect human life
but they never imagined
it would be the remaining few
of all humanity
they’d protect
from predatory extraterrestrials
TO POSSIBLY BE CONTINUED…
This poem was my way of allowing earth, with outside help from the Brin, to strike back and wake we humans up to how we have mistreated our mother Gia. I took my vision of this piece much further in my mind. In the scenario I had imagined, this was several hundred years in the future and there had been a second phase of higher tech shelters built and concealed worldwide, around the year 2100, in response to another wave of significant global conflict, among the people of earth — long before there was even any awareness of the Brin, or that any other extraterrestrials existed. So if the few survivors of the Brin invasion made it to the shelters around the globe — then it would depend on how well the world fared against the Brin. I haven’t yet thought what the number of human survivors might be though. Remember, a number of survivors have been captured and enslaved by the Brin, so there is a potential of more humans escaping into the landscape as well. I would say a total of 20-25% of the world population survived the initial Brin onslaught. Some now imprisoned, some now on the run as fugitives around the globe — not sure right now how those two groups would break down in number. Also, here is a critical point impacting the taking of this story forward. The human communication grid on the earth’s surface is destroyed. However, there is still one communication satellite remaining in orbit, there’s just no way to link to it. Or, might that be painstakingly possible, with major effort by the right faction of fugitives (maybe even some Brin sympathizers)? Hmmmm… One final fact perhaps to consider — the Brin may have enemies out in the universe, capable of space travel. — — Anyway… That is the likely overall situation in which this story could continue?
Last time you flew to visit, son, we walked our favorite woods. We both love its magic. That perfect June morning, we journeyed deep into that ancient wood, to our favorite spot — our secreted old-growth clearing.
The morning sun softly filtered through the forest canopy, drifting golden into our sacred space, setting your handsome face aglow. A breeze rustled the treetops, whispering of eternity, casting a spell.
Awed by the splendor, we talked quietly, leaning on the downed Douglas that’s slumbered there, perhaps centuries, peaceful in its earthen repose. You were eighteen, off to college soon, so excited — I was beaming pride.
In that moment, time suspended, life aligned for a perfect memory — my very last of many I treasure of you. Three weeks later you were tragically killed. These memories were left here with the trees, in our clearing, where we talk — still.
“This is 144 word Flash Fiction, rooted in today’s dark truths.”
Forbidden Forest
~
The fog rolled ‘cross the lowlands, a smothering damp and languid chill, dense with dread — ominous and threatening. Twilight having receded, moonlight labored hard, shouldering its way through the thickening shroud.
The gnarled shape of leaf-dead trees, with their spindly spiked branches, thrust skyward, knobbed and twisted. Their trunks bending and swaying threateningly.
Muffled deep within the gloom of the grove, a throbbing drone of seeming voices rose in dark entangled chant. A menacing disembodied presence spoke, “this night you will experience memories of glory, memories of wealth and memories of conquests, lustful memories of sensuous willing lovers, and memories of powerful magic, conjured by deft hands.”
“But these memories were left here with the trees, forever concealed by your ancestors. You may desire to possess these seductive memories, but any such wish will drive you mad. Understand, these memories can never be yours!”
outside
the evening breeze freshens
as the copper windchimes
hanging over the slate breezeway
ring from time to time
swinging from the blue shingled eaves
just beyond
the big roan
rustles in his stall
as the faded red slats
of the weathered horse barn
creak in the gentle zephyr
inside
at the green oaken table
we sit with dinner
and complacency
there is little resonance
we care for one another
our love goes without saying
meal finished
we clear the table
to the clinks and clanks
of porcelain dishes
and sterling silverware
being rinsed and placed
in the stainless steel sink
we converse very little
no need
we know each other
we know without saying
task done
we part quietly
me
to my rosewood desk
to my keyboard
you
to your tan leather chair
to your book
outside
sunset softly shades golden
the side deck
as come easy sounds
of settling horses
content from final feeding
tubular bells lilt quietly
in gathering twilight
inside a shadow of indifference
blankets subtle electronic ticks
as I type in silence
I think about the times we’ve hurt each other
caused each other thoughtless pain
but that carelessness has been forgiven
we are bound
one to the other
a bond that goes without saying
outside
a brisking wind greets day’s end
chimes vigorously keep pace
inside
a turbulent uncertainty
begins to stir
as the more I type
I wonder
are we really happy
surely we are happy
that goes without saying
that must go without saying
doesn’t it
but why is it we do not say
we wear these masks of coy silence
to hide the vulnerable face of love
how dangerously foolish we’ve become
it’s then
my heart wants to call out
to reach across the soundlessness
to rouse you from your pulp and plot
talk with me
I lift my mask
see me now
see me new
talk with me
I can still surprise
let us speak
what is not spoken
unmask what lies within our hearts
unmask
and talk
before our love is gone
without ever saying
“This is my poetic expression of what the “night terrors”, I have experienced all my life, feel like to me. My “night terrors” are actually traumatic, ‘imageless’ dreams, that fill me with so much deep dread that I often wake up moaning loudly. It is a type of nocturnal madness from which I wake completely disoriented and terrified. Once awake and composed, I am usually unwilling to attempt to quickly return to sleep. It seriously scares my wife when they happen to me.”
“Descent Into Madness” by: Rob Kistner
In Darkness
~
In darkness I’m down, with drum-thrummed head,
steep-steering the black nocturnal nest,
perversely born fantazury,
fresh hatched night’s mad menagerie.
Scream-bringing hoard of twisted truth,
zoom-zooming in this blue-black world,
called forth to gorge in ghastly feast,
first stir, they roust — then gore the beast.
Dark distressing visions overflow,
madness stabbing with a brain-jolt pierce,
disgusting curiosities,
brute-flung to hideousity.
Jerk and lunge these soul-cleaved demons,
death scratch-scratching through doomsday’s door.
Perverted serendipity,
they swarm in crazed horrorifity.
Flaying bone-toed my synapses,
hell’s fleshless hounds devour my peace.
Mind-ghouls shake and shiver me.
Oh gentle morne, deliver me.
the transcendency of poetry
the rapture of music
the joy of children’s laughter
the power of kindness
the beauty of nature
the softness of a gentle touch
the magic of a child’s kiss
the tenderness of love
the miracle of tolerance
the wonders of life
to all of this I say – yes!
c
