Awakes, he does, in the foldable bed. Swims to the surface, breaks water. Beats the living daylights out of whatever it was they gave him. Geez, maybe it’s been a long time, he thinks. The daylight smarts his eyes. There’s a vague smell of stale urine. Pupils adjust, and he sees the sea-green serenity of the room. The netted curtains on their curvy tracks. The vectored reachings of a needy houseplant. There’s an ache in his arm as he moves his hand to feel his face. That damn tape rips out some hairs and maybe a layer of skin too. Oh boy. Now, touch those bristly whiskers. They remind him of his stiff hairbrush at home. How’d he get into this state? There are two white-capped young nurses just outside his door. They chatter a mile a minute, in low tones, about some difficult patient. Down the hall? Their lilting banter stirs him, and invokes a wide smile that cracks his lower lip. Yep, it’s been a long time. Fumbling for the bed switch, up he sits. Hey Nellie Bellie! You got any chapstick? Two girlish heads turn. One drops her jaw, the other rolls her eyes heavenward. Yes….there’s going to be some devilry today.
Author Archives: Lee Dunn
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
Missing you
At the sudsy soapy sink
I think,
with hands that have a care.
Wrinkled fingers, rosy pink,
would rather be elsewhere.
That eggy fork with yolky tines
needs scrubbing carefully.
I’m thinking more of valentines,
and Christmases to be.
The curvature of salad bowls,
the roundness of a spoon.
They summon back, in sweet repose,
my lady of the moon.
The Fifth Session
Funny….I knew this kid too. What a great piece from The Stories in Between.
Charlie’s Angel
I’ve been in this bed for too long.
Please don’t let me go like Charlie.
My friend Charlie.
He got bad cancer and was in a bed for months.
I made the visits when I could,
bringing his favorite contraband.
His chewing tobacco and a couple cans of Molson’s
in a cold pack.
Charlie started getting these bad sores in different places.
They put on bandages, but the bandages made it worse.
He got a little more sad, each time I came.
At last, I stopped coming.
Crying a lot. Coward. You coward.
I have no cancer, unless it be of the spirit.
I think I am like all of us.
We so need the human touch, the warmth and need of another.
And I do not know, really, why this bed has become such a refuge.
A refuge from what? Human touch and warmth?
How will I become worthy of these things, and of the whole of love?
Get me up, dammit, I must get up.
As I lie staring, motionless, I feel I am effervescing.
Particles of me drifting upwards, like motes of light.
Soon I will be gone, like Charlie.
But, for now, I spread my arms and legs on these neat white sheets.
And all that will be left, when they come, is a snow angel.
Bedroom eyes
There’s a mirror on my dresser.
The kind that folds.
Each night,
as I sit on sleep’s edge,
I cast a covert glance
to a conscience that looks back at me.
On any night,
I might see
what age and regret have done.
Or, there may be the saving grace
of a wistful smile.
Remembrance of a fleeting love.
Dream birds of the night before
come to roost.
To set sleep’s mood.
Visions, often, of perilous depths.
Miles of mist,
bottomed by devilish waters calling.
A plummet, appalling and unredeemed.
A waking with hammering heart.
And next, divided by night or chapter,
a buoyant flight, away and up,
above the rolling green.
So simple. So natural.
With one who has been, too.
We hover over clover,
and, in my stupid innocence,
I ask
Are my feet off the ground?
Flo On
Had time for some selective reading tonight, but I’m glad to have come across this one from “The Used Life”
Werewolf?
“You’re such a strange critter “
He posted on Twitter
And waited until she replied.
“You’re just being bitter”
She said, then he hit her
And dragged her limp body inside.
A full moon had risen
O’er the site of her prison
He could not control what he did
And those who would listen
Knew not they were missin’
His howl as the body he hid.
Apparition
In the dark of your room
Something cold from the tomb
Awakes you with feelings of dread
Seems to float and to hover
Then pulls on your cover
And sidles up next to your bed
Its image is fearsome
A face without eyes
An energy making you swoon
It radiates outward
Your hair it will rise
Like you feel when you rub on a balloon
Paralysis grips you
You cannot but shout
Your face feels as if it will smother
Someone turns on the light
And, there in the bright,
Stands (in costume)
Your wee little brother.
You missed Halloween, you dope.
Hey Joe
hey Joe
better take that shower this morning, huh?
people are gonna see you today.
careful, don’t move too quickly in there
you’ll make your old head spin
and after all, those are glass doors.
hey, how come that shave didn’t hurt this morning
as it did yesterday?
same blade, same hot water, same shavin’ cream
but, boy, yesterday, you were rippin’ those whiskers out one by one.
watch that shaky hand, eh?
we don’t want no blood
hey Joe
didn’t that cuppa coffee taste spiritually fine this morning?
you forgot to take those stomach pills first
but you lived through it, haha.
were those real birds you heard singing this morning?
spring in February?
looks like you’re gonna see another one, Joe.
but, like those foolish crocuses that are poking their heads up
be careful what you wish for
ol’ man winter just might beat you down yet
hey Joe
where’d you get that burst of energy this morning?
can’t be that coffeefee , you make it same every day
hey, do you think, do you think we could….
strap on that Fitbit and go for a stroll?
maybe take your putter with you
so you can level that playing field
between you and those loose dogs
hey Joe
nah, let’s do the laundry instead.
it’s pretty cold out there.
make sure you look down at your toes
before you start down the stairs.
it’s not automatic anymore, is it?
geez, that sun is shining, Joe
come on, put on those long johns,
lace up those oxfords.
why do they make the damn laces so long?
forget your troubles, come on be happy
at least you haven’t graduated to Velcro yet.
Lilac Hill
This imaginative piece from Tara Caribou…
Journal Entry:
Named for the mega-volcano that graces this tiny world, Lilac Hill is as desolate as it is beautiful. The giant volcano has a long history of eruption and is still active to this day, with a near constant flow. At nearly 18 kilometers above the surface, it rises above the upper atmosphere and of course creates the weather for this moon. It also happens to be one of the largest mountains in the traveled universe.
Lilac Hill holds its place as one of six small worlds orbiting the gorgeous and colorful gas giant of Planar, in and of itself a planet worth mention. But here I want to chronicle this lovely little moon that I have physically walked across and spent some time getting to know.
From far across the plains, the massive volcano rises and rises… and rises. It is a rare day that one can see…
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