Sunday, December 13, 2015

Ghoul of the Enamel

Tonight, we sense him, hiding in the sunken shadows of the bedroom: a ghoul creeping silent, forcing quiet the other monsters. Chunks of enamel, grooved by nightly gnawing, fatten his belly. And our own teeth tighten in the jaw, fight the urge to drop and slip away, to escape his gluttonous rage. You see, the foul thing broke from fairy law: took to ripping out the loose teeth of children, a calcareous shit slipped beneath their bloodied pillows in a gesture of defiance; a jab at us proper fairies. And though imprisoned for a time in the amber caves, he broke free—saber arms flapping and chipping with madness.

Now we wait within this toy-box, scanning the room for residual energies: the moans of bloody roots, the chattering of crowns, the hissing red of severed nerves…. Such things betray his whereabouts.

At last we fly and crawl from the moonlit box, our eyes narrowed and our tongues writhing with an invocation. How swift, how sweet the coming of revenge from its ancient lair! Soon the children will sleep soundly; none will recall the ghoul’s attack. Money will distribute where due, and the status of the tooth fairy will once again be restored to its innocuous state. Because tonight we are going to pounce on the fiend. Unravel his existence. Shred into his stomach and take back what is ours.

First published in the Summer 2015 issue of Spectral Realms.

We Call Them the Gods

There are men in the sky, and we call them the gods. Their beards shine with the light of rejected stars, harbor failed empires and the wailing souls of extinct hominids. Always their dark, playful eyes are hot with mischief. They delight in a belief that the goddesses are impressed by their creations, amused even. Surely they got a kick out of Homo sapiens, that inferior clay fumbling wildly over the layout of design. Such fodder for comedy. But in dull pockets of timelessness, when the bearded ones are idle, the goddesses—because it is their way—have been known to nurture Earth’s fetal spirit, to channel love there, to fire-open seeds of art and philosophy, to spark the ambitious theories we never prove. Myriad tasks are assigned to fairies, mystics and angels; demons too, if it should lead to a truth. Much then becomes nurtured in the hidden spectrums of our souls, in the heart of posterity. There are men in the sky, and there are women. These are the gods.

First published in the Spring 2015 issue of Tales of the Talisman.