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Graeme and the Devil
It is said that the babe born under a vulture’s watch belongs to the Devil.
This superstition did well to strike fear into the hearts of many; particularly peasants who lived in the vast countryside, where vultures were only too glad to pick a cottage as a roost.
When a woman is with child, she will have her entire family by her side to ward off these carrion eaters from coming near the home, ensuring that a healthy, Christian child be born.
However, there were some that had to do this task by themselves.
Thus was the fate of a peasant couple, who were expecting a child in the heart of autumn.
They had been shunned by both family and friend; they had nothing to their name.
Still, the two fixed up their little, worn cottage as best they could, and whistled as they worked, for joy is sometimes greater than riches.
Soon, the day came. As the sun cast its last glimpses to the earth, the peasant woman let out a cry of agony, the cry of childbirth.
“Stay by the window, my love,” she hissed through clenched teeth to her husband, watching anxiously on.
“Night is falling, keep watch, keep watch!” However, her face was so red, so twisted with pain, that the man could not restrain himself from rushing to her side as she was in the last throes of birthing.
And as he wiped the blood off of his son's brow, his wife looked past him, to the open window.
Her breath caught.
There, its head black, wrinkled and bare, hunched over on the sill, was a vulture, who stared at the three with shrewd, glittering eyes.
The woman let out a cry more terrible than those she had uttered before, and the vulture took off into the night sky, leaving the couple frightened and shaken. Then, the woman spoke, the love in her eyes dulling as she glanced at her newborn son.
“He is the devil’s child, now.”
They named him Graeme.
Graeme grew up to be a healthy boy, with bright, snapping black eyes that neither of his parents possessed.
He was only too glad to flash these eyes at his mother, who would stop her scolding and shrink back in fear, or at his father, who would settle into a stony silence at the sight of them.
Even the sheep in the pasture were cowed, and the birds would stop their singing, when the boy’s gaze fell upon them.
Man and beast feared him, and for this he was proud.
When Graeme was of age, his mother and father gave him what scanty savings they had, and begged him to find an honest trade.
Gladdened, he took the money, but a wicked intention stirred in his heart.
“To work a trade is terribly taxing,” he said to himself, “Nay, I shall be wise, and earn my money easily.”
So, he departed, having decided to gamble what little money he had been given.
On his way down the mountain path, however, he saw a lovely maiden. She bore no hat or gloves, but wore a loose, white frock, which rippled in the wind.
He ventured near her, as if in a trance, and she laughed, fleeing from him, leading him deeper and deeper into the wood, away from the mountain path.
Oddly, she would not falter under his gaze, and she only stopped her teasing once he had caught her.
As Graeme held her close, a triumphant glimmer came to his eye, but it faded away, replaced with terror as he truly beheld what he had caught.
For it was not a maiden in his arms now- but a large black ram, which grinned so terribly at him that he tried in vain to throw it from his arms.
“Do not trouble me,” Graeme cried out, “let me go about my honest way, trouble me no more!”
The ram laughed a hideous laugh, filled with nothing but dark mirth.
“There is no honesty in you,” it declared, “your eyes would not gleam so, if you were an honest man. I put the fire in your eyes when you were born, and now I must retrieve my coals.”
And with a thrust of his mighty head, the Devil skewered the young man’s eyes out, plunging him into a darkness that he would never escape from.
The Disheartened Painter and the Dark-Eyed Ferret
“Let’s make a deal, yes, let us make a deal,” said the ferret with the dark eyes.
It was talking to the disheartened painter, who stood despondently before his canvas, on the meadow green.
The painter could not paint anything worthwhile in his own eyes.
The painter, was a very desperate man.
“What is your offer, little ferret?” asked he.
“Give me one of your paintbrush hairs,” answered the ferret with the dark eyes,
“Just one, and I will give you an amazing vision.”
So, the painter plucked out one of his paintbrush bristles, and gave it to the ferret.
The small thing slithered away, and did not appear again, leaving the man to ponder.
As he fell asleep that night, the painter dreamed of a wonderful painting.
It was filled with the most vibrant reds he had ever seen on a canvas.
When he awoke, the painter said to himself,
“I must paint this thing, this wonderful thing, that I have dreamt of.”
He pulled out his biggest, whitest canvas, and set it upon his easel.
But when he pulled out his paints, he frowned.
His red paints, every tube, and every jar, were awfully, awfully dull.
Whatever could he do?
Then, the painter got an idea.
He went out to his garden, and plucked off all the dark red rose petals from their stems.
He threw them into his stone mortar and began to grind them with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went the dark red rose petals.
But alas, the paint from the roses was still, awfully, awfully dull.
The painter sighed.
Then, he got an idea.
He went into his pantry, and drew out a quart of bright red raspberries.
He threw them into his stone mortar and began to grind them with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went the bright red raspberries.
But alas, the paint from the raspberries was too light, and dreadfully, dreadfully thin.
The painter sighed.
Then, he got an idea.
He went onto his porch, and picked up a few mottled red ladybirds, who were hiding from the rain.
He threw them into his stone mortar, and began to grind them with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went the mottled red ladybirds.
But alas, the paint from the ladybirds was too thick, and awfully, awfully dull.
The painter sighed.
Then, he got an idea.
His neighbor had a little, charming, red songbird that she kept in a cage on her back windowsill.
He went up to the windowsill, and grabbed the bird, who let out a nervous twitter.
He threw it into a boiling iron pot, which hung over the fireplace.
“Bubble, bubble, bubble,” went the pot.
“Squawk, squawk, squawk,” went the charming, red, songbird.
But alas, the paint from the songbird was an ugly, frothy gray.
The painter let out his gustiest sigh yet, and threw his paintbrush into the fire.
“Oh, I am such a fool!” cried he, “A fool, for listening to that black-eyed vermin!”
Silence fell upon the room.
Then, the painter got up in a rage, throwing things about.
And as he did, one of his fingers caught on a little nail, sticking out of his easel.
“Drip, drip, drip,” went the shining, scarlet blood, which dribbled out from his torn finger.
The painter smiled.
Then, he got an idea.
His hand reached up, and delved into his chest, drawing out a shining, scarlet heart.
He threw it into the boiling iron pot, which hung over the fireplace.
“Bubble, bubble, bubble,” went the pot.
“Thump, thump, thump,” went his shining, scarlet heart.
He threw it into his stone mortar, and began to grind it with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went his shining, scarlet heart.
And when the paint was finished, it was even more vibrant than the paint in his vision.
“At last!” exclaimed the painter.
He set his largest, whitest canvas upright again.
He grabbed his favorite paintbrush.
He sat, and began to paint.
Furiously, he worked into the evening.
He painted with light strokes.
With hard strokes.
With bold strokes, and gentle strokes.
And when he was finished, he was glad, but also very, very tired.
So, the painter went to sleep.
When he awoke, he drew the sheet off of his magnificent masterpiece.
And he looked on, in absolute horror.
For the paint, was an awful, awful brown.
The painter cried.
He crawled into his bed, drawing up the coarse, brown sheets over his head.
He slept.
He slept and did not wake from his slumber.
©coyotetrickstergod|daniellejacobs
avian lovers
my lover is a vulture
i a silver crane
side by side
we live our lives
through pleasure
and through pain
my lover is barbaric
he only feeds on bones
though i prefer
a glimmering fish
i hate to eat alone
the people think it strange
that i dance for him
by the way they talk
you'd think it was a sin
but it's not odd to me
our twisted harmony
for the red on my head
is the red on his chest
i see it
and so does he
©coyotetrickstergod|daniellejacobs
the enemy of oneself
Vampires bite and werewolves howl
Ghouls stagger and zombies yowl
Creatures of imagination
What harm can they do?
But there is one
As real
As me
Or you
This creature bites
Does not let go
It looks for fights
Things to cause woe
It is the trap
That traps its paw
It growls and snaps
At its own maw
Reflected in the mirror
A visage of pure terror
Rabid froth
Spilling out
Composed of anger, bitterness
and moral drought
It whines and barks
And screams and yells
It lies and tricks
Deceives itself
But when the sun sets
Leaving leafless trees bare
The paw still bleeds
That trap still gleams
And the monster
Is still there
And in its mind
Is naught but one
Solution
It bares its crooked teeth
To perform
Self-mutilation
Ⓒ daniellejacobs/trickstergod 2023
Ten Years Left
I'm sitting at the kitchen table. It's an average, mid-summer evening in my house, and the smell of curry mingles with mint-scented breeze from outside. My mother and I are engaged in a drowsy, slow conversation as I browse my laptop.
My eyes aren't focused on the slowly setting sun, and my nose is numb to the scent of home. It's an everyday thing after all. But an opportunity like the one I've been given is a one in a lifetime chance. I scroll through displays of graphics tablets and art programs, colleges and cities. There's so much, and my mind aches from the garish display of options.
My mother's voice distracts me for a fleeting moment.
"I would like to move to North Carolina. Your aunt says it's nice up there."
She has a faint smile on her face as she elaborates on this prospect.
"I might only have ten years left, but it would be nice to spend it up there, you know?"
Then silence.
The sun is fading behind the trees that encircle our neighborhood.
My laptop displays a few homes in Caldwell County.
Money is truly nothing.
Why not spend it on a dream?
First Steps of the Forest Patriarch
Spindly little legs
Wobbling through the meadow
Wide eyes full of soul
Now no spots are found
On the cedar coat which gleams
Legs sturdy with glee
Around you prance
Bear your budding horns with pride
They will grow mighty
The disgraced buck flees
Your fierce eyes, watch from afar
You have won the herd
Your life ends too soon
Buckshot seeps into the wound
Proud head now a prize.
Her Enigmatic Mind
The pot was boiling over. A mountain of broth was being belched out from under the glass lid and drops of brown foam stained the once glistening stovetop. But Florence didn’t notice.
The woman was once again frozen in time. Her blank gaze was focused solely on the plate in her hands, which she had scrubbed several times now. The lid of the pot began to jump, letting out small hisses and chitters, as if it were some uneased animal. Florence paid it no mind. And she probably would have let the stove catch fire if her husband hadn’t walked in then and there.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” Eugene spat, fumbling with the pot, before whipping around to face his now wide-eyed wife. A part of him hoped she would show some sign of surprise, or even cry, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. He knew she would bow her head and whisper a monotonous, “I’m sorry,” before cleaning up the unsightly mess. As she got down on her knees to wipe up the remnant of the spilled broth, he watched her, somewhat dissatisfied with her quiet submission. But he spoke nothing on the matter, for he was a reclusive man, who shut himself in with his own dangerous thoughts. Off he stalked to his study, leaving Florence alone on the kitchen floor.
After completing her task, the woman rose to her feet, unsure of what to do. Eugene had left without a word or gesture to something that needed to be done, and she was momentarily free. What an odd feeling. She blinked. Once, then twice, her eyes slowly losing some of the blankness that so often resided there.
Florence drifted from the kitchen into the hallway, seeing it for what it was, a vast empty space, filled with trinkets and pictures that she had never paid mind to. Her pale fingers ran over a chipped figurine of a praying cherub, before drifting up the rose-patterned wall to the dull oaken frame of a picture. It was of a woman. A woman with black curls, like her, but she was not her, for her eyes shone with contagious glee that Florence had never known. Who was this woman, this strange doppelganger who hung upon the wall?
A biting desire rose up in Florence then, a desire to find out more about the woman who lived on in the house through pictures and embroidery. She went from room to room, her gaze now keen and insightful, for this task had been ordained by her, and her alone. In some rooms she found nothing, but in others she found little hints to another existence before hers, scattered like shards of glass.
At last, her feet landed before the last unexplored terrain. Eugene’s study. A chill of fearful hesitation ran up Florence’s spine, and she stood frozen once more. She wasn’t supposed to enter that room, not unless she had been called. The thought of investigating further began to slip, little by little, into the recess of her hazy mind. But her spirit grabbed at it, snapping her out of her stupor. It wouldn’t let this go. Not now, when she had finally been acting on her own.
She pushed the door open. A small fire was blazing in the hearth, but the room itself was cold in spirit. Eugene was nowhere to be found. There were even more pictures of Florence’s doppelganger here, each lovingly nestled in places where the viewer could pine over them. Beside one of these photographs on a side table, lay a leather-bound book. Florence’s slender hands cradled it as she flipped it open and began to read:
“My darling, my heart aches as I watch you. I cannot stand to watch you wallowing in illness. It pains me to my core.”
The spindly, coarse writing was of her husband’s hand, but what darling was he speaking of? Was this directed towards her? A frown twisted her lips. It couldn’t be. Eugene was seldom affectionate towards her. She read on:
“A part of me rejoices that you near death, for you will be put out of your misery, and I will be able to love the woman who stole the other half of my heart. But, ah–! My mistress does not have your warm smile and eyes, and her touch is cold and teasing, not warm like yours. Yet I love her, in some ways. But it is you that I miss, and long for when the night grows cold, not her. If only- If only I could have both of you at once. If only her cattish spirit was dampened, and she was more mellow and sweet— like you!"
Curious, Florence turned the page, eager to see what other unexpected words would come.
“Who says that I cannot have both? As I write this, I feel young and spry; it is almost frightening. My love, my true love, you may be buried under a willow tree several miles away, but tonight we will speak again! I have found the answer to my problems, dearest. My mistress can become you; I must only alter her mind by way of a surgical procedure. It is called a lobotomy. By midnight, Eloise Walker will no longer be- in her place will remain your meek and tender love.”
The book fell to the wooden floor with a dull crack. And Eloise Walker stood frozen once more, not in time, but in fear. How long had she been living in this house, wearing another woman’s clothes and sleeping in her bed? How long had she donned the mask of this poor soul? She clutched at her face in agony that she did not truly feel, gripping it as if she wanted to rip into her skull and bring back the rest of the memories that had been selfishly stolen away.
Her body convulsed with an unreleased cry, and she shoved it further down into her throat. What would she do now? She couldn’t go on living the way she had, not after reading those sickening pledges of mad love. She must flee. With this thought in mind, Eloise picked the book up.
Click.
She did not have to turn around to know that Eugene Spencer stood behind her.
She could practically feel his wide, enraged gaze; hear his lips curling back in a hateful scowl.
The gleam of his hunting rifle bounced off the smooth base of a nearby lamp.
His voice hissed out, raggedly,
“You’re not supposed to be in here, Florence.”
When she did not respond, he gripped the rifle, barking like a rabid dog,
“Did you hear me, Florence? I’ve told you time and time again to stay out- so get out!” He threw a furious gesticulation to the door with his right hand, panting heavily.
An answer then came, not in the soft, monotone voice, but in a rather firm tone that Eugene had nearly forgotten.
“My name is Eloise Walker.”
The man gritted his teeth in a show of savagery that revealed his inner nature, and his finger did not falter as it jerked back fiercely on the trigger. Her words stung. They stung because they were true. But Eugene hated the truth.
That night the fire blazed outside.
Eugene watched with morose, half-hearted satisfaction as the remnants of Eloise were spat out by the flames and carried away by the wind.
That night he would write:
“I feel as if you have died a second death my love. My last connection to you was rather uncooperative, and her folly has been the end of her. I must admit that she was right. An Eloise Walker will never be my Florence. That being said, another woman may be. I simply have to find the right one. And once I do, you will never leave me again."
hazy anemoia
Cicadas chirp outside
Their song seeping through the screened door
It is a humid night
Like many nights
I have known before
The stars twinkle miles away
Spread in the tapestry of the sky
Or maybe not so far away
For they dance in my own eyes
It hurts
To stand below and watch
To be so distanced
From what I once knew
For I don’t belong
In this encasement of flesh
And carnal
Vile
Nasty thoughts
I don’t belong here
And neither do you