I have wandered. For my whole life, in fact. First through the mountains, then down the river, and now, I’m here. In the dip of the valley. Huddled between two mountains. The night greets me as it always does—as it always has. With silence and shadow. Places to run, to hide.
I never meant to come out of that darkness. To step into the beam of light.
She was hurt.
The small thing without fur.
On a cold night, she shivered against the itchy, dead grass. Life spilling from some spot on her body. The mountain cat still lingering nearby, frightened, though it’d done so much damage. Though it had fought—and won—against such a small, frail thing.
Always so skittish.
I offered to take the small thing from him, and he quickly gave me permission. Gave me his thanks. Ran off, back into the higher parts of the mountain. Where the pinkish things didn’t often tread.
I never meant to step into the light.
But that night, because of that foolish scaredy cat, and this dying little furless thing…
And it seems to have shaken me to my core. Brought me from the shadows into a place where light can touch. Where things are not what I’ve thought. A place of reality, and yet, it feels like an illusion.
A place with flesh-things. Continue reading “Grim Light”
We were kids. Couldn’t have been older than six, that’s all I know. That’s as far as my memory can reach.
It’s more than far enough.
We were kids, and we were sitting in the barn. Staring at a dead mouse. Well, it wasn’t really a mouse. Not quite yet, anyway. It was still fairly pink. Poor thing. It was trying to be a mouse. It really was.
But it fell.
Instead of crawling or walking or scurrying how mice do, it fell from the rafters. Without even a single sound, it fell.
We were kids, and we were staring at the mouse, a giant lump in my throat and a stone in my stomach. An ache spreading through my joints as I thought about how such a small thing had died so soon. He hadn’t even really lived yet, the poor little thing.
And that was when he said it. Staring at the lost life before us, his expression receded in his sadness, he said it.
“One day, I’m going to be the Grim Reaper.”
It was a bit of a bombshell.
So, I’d said, “I thought you were going to be a lawyer.”
As somberly as he could—neither of us really understood it at the time—he said, “Mom says they’re practically the same thing.”
Continue reading “The Reaper, My Love”
“I’ll be here.”
The words repeat themselves over and over in my mind. My legs move to stand, and they stop. The words are there.
I’ll be here.
Sit. Stand. Sit. Fidget. Keep sitting.
Don’t move a muscle.
The promise can’t be broken. I can’t be found a liar.
I’ll be here.
And I wait.
I’m here. Continue reading “Grim Awaits”
There’s a stillness that resides here. A sort of stagnant energy that leans in the wind. It doesn’t go anywhere, and it doesn’t have a beat. In fact, it makes no sound. Makes no move of its own. It simply is.
The stillness is a unique thing. A necessary thing. At least, in this place it is.
That’s why I’m here.
To protect the stillness.
To protect this finality.
Rest. Continue reading “Grim Talks”