Empathic ability is a gift

I no longer fear having it

I no longer fear losing it

I remain wholly here for awhile longer

for reasons I yet complete

Benefit, reason, is for Him to weave

being, trust, my part discovering

yesterday, not restful

today is better

recalling these truths, already settled

Much to learn, plenty of time

construct to play with

misaligned pain does not define me

we’re a multi-knotted tapestry

warps and frays belong

Ikat, Afghani, nomadic, ancient, present

connect the dots, something twangs true

Kelp, seagrass, fronds, currents wayfinder

present in cellular watery tomes

Indigenous of any color interlaces through

Forgotten legacies

poignant still

lies seem louder

but here my mouthpiece

refuses homage demanded

Another set of eye-clouded orphans

before me awoken, resurrected, disoriented

fabric matrix snapping, straining

although not stranded

my purpose placed here timely

One of many, I trust this now

never again I fear the backslide

toward that hellhole

willingly my hand

reaches back, for them, anyone

paying forward miracles wrought for me

Together, we are woven

Together, we twist and curl

into patterns of foreseen distinctness

reflecting in this era, on the cusp

our language confessing

Of power to heal, to testify

unreliant on approval

offering kind ears and prayers liberally

relentless, set as flint, sparks inevitable

milestones enshrined within gratitude

Nations I’ve birthed, will reign

their rightful curse-breaking stead

red Theatre velvet ropes corralling the lines

awaiting the porters, stepping up, then reassigned

each misstep has value, take note neighbor mine

No one left behind, their choices do not dictate mine

wayward I’m judged by those not the jury

prayed for, my mantle, Hur-im and Aaroni

as escort I witness these Grand Theatre seats filling

willingly, purposely, aha’s settle into savory vibes

~Written by Dominique Wingerd 8.31.2023

Watch them.

There they go.

Fleeting past.

High or low.

Flying fast.

Walking slow.

First or last?

They don't know

Watch them.

Laugh in play.

Scream in fear.

Seize the day.

Shed a tear.

Stay away.

Hold them near.

Hope and pray.

Some will hear.

Watch them.

Constant fight.

Muscles, quake.

Pine for night.

To escape.

Cool moonlight.

Need a break.

When the light's

Too much to take.

Watch them.

Exist to wonder.

Exist to pry.

Exist to ponder.

Asking 'Why?'

Brave explorer.

Courage, high.

Challenge thunder.

Break the sky.

Watch them.

Dream for years.

Hear the call.

Fate, unclear.

Fail and Fall.

Wounded tears.

Standing tall.

Own their fears.

Own it all.

Watch them.

Don't know how?

Here's a mirror.

See them now?

Deity exhales

Dust spills and breathes a new life

Spinning into light

Joy, love, innocence

Carefree days of youth divine

Mere child’s glimpse of time

Evolving through years

Life’s measure is full and fast

Will it end or last?

Fate takes aim and curves

The years melt away like snow

A sun’s fading glow

Empty cages fill

The haunted halls of our souls

Regret is tenfold

The dishes overflowed. The rug was a crumpled mass, an unintentional booby trap. The soup was half finished, and the pot was boiling over.

Hastily, I scrambled to the stove and shut it off. While he sprawled himself over the couch, beer in hand. The TV mindlessly babbled as he watched it without regard to the hot mess around us.

"David, honey, could I have some help here?"

"Ah, just do it, yerself, ya old hag!" He waved an uncaring hand at me. Slowly, I brought myself back to work. I washed the chipped tea cup as I wondered where the charming man I once knew went. The yellow mustard went back into the cupboard as my heart sunk.

"He was never that person," a small voice in my head hissed. "He knows you love him too much to complain as you're neck up in junk!"

Silent years fell as I sat by the window of our bedroom. Another Christmas came and left with poisoning isolation.

My family seemed so far away, and my friends weren't able to contact me anymore.

No more cherries I got to pick from bushes in the country. No playing in the tennis courts. No putting on fluffy socks as my brother and I raced across tile floors.

Now, my life was a shadow of what it once was. It is filled with creaky wooden planks and a deadbeat.

The only joy I could get was from the neighbors' Christmas lights. Oh, how beautiful they were flickering crimson and green.

Eventually, night would fall, and I had to tear my eyes away from the lights.

As I slept, a strange thought entered my mind. I should leave. Go home for Christmas. Slowly, I crawled out of bed. I packed a bag long into the night. Once the work was done, I went back to sleep, waiting for the morning.

Christmas morning. I tentatively crept down the stairs. Pulling my backpack on, I skidded toward the door.

The bump of my shoulder on the shelt shocked my soul out of my body. Everything froze as his angry footsteps came closer. Louder. And louder. My heartbeat stopped.

"What the HELL are you doing!?" His ranting was cut short when he saw the backpack. My breath was caught in my throat.

"Are you leaving me," he shouted.

"No! No! I just wanted to go home for Christmas please—"

I don't remember anything after that. I huddled myself in the corner. He had been gone for hours, but it still felt as if he was right beside me.

Between sobs, one thought entered my mind.

His demise would be mine.

I'm not sure where I got the idea of how he would die. Maybe I wanted him to suffer the way I have for four years. Maybe it was inspiration from the pranks my brother pulled on each other in the brighter days of my youth.

Whatever the idea came from. I worked tirelessly. Tying and taping. Screwing and measuring. Then all I had to do was wait. Patiently wait like a predator for their prey.

Soon the prey did come. Staggering drunk, per usual. I faked washing dishes waiting for the inevitable tug.

And it came.

He went flying and flailing. His voice pierced my ears. Still, a smile plastered my face.

Now he knew what agony felt like.

I waited for silence. His breathing was ragged as I walked over to him.

The look on his face— Ah hah ha! Oh how I've waited for this.

I could only smile as his breathing cut short.

As I stood over his motionless form, the trails of blood that swarmed out of his body filled me with euphoria.

My lips curved into a small smile as I addressed him.

"Merry Christmas, honey," I said. He gave no reply— of course, he couldn't. What was I thinking? I giggled at my own foolishness.

"I wish my gift was as special as yours," I continued. "After all, I've got exactly what I wanted."

The pot was boiling over, but right now, that was the least of her concerns.

Her chest stilled. A chill traveled up her spine. The light above her head flickered, and the sound of crickets outside died out.

She couldn't bring herself to move; her eyes frozen on the man in front of her.

He was in her kitchen.

The Reaper, as the recent newspaper had called him.

He was in her house. In her kitchen. Right in front of her.

A small breath escaped her as the glint of something shiny caught her eye.

Her gaze shifted from a pale mask down to a long, silver knife. She could almost hear the dripping of the crimson liquid that coated it. How many lives had it taken? How many more would it steal?

"I thought I said no more blood in the house," she finally spoke, a snapping tone in her voice.

He didn't respond, but disappeared behind a wall while she turned to tend to the overfilling pot.

"And stop sneaking up on me," she called out, her back facing where he had been standing moments ago.

The loud sound of something heavy being dropped caused her to twist around.

A large, black bag now lay at her feet. The Reaper stood above it, watching ruby blood leak out a tear in the side of the material.

She smiled a wicked grin and grabbed the blade from his hand.

"Dinner's almost ready. Help me carve the meat, darling."

It was a hot, airless summer's evening, the type that you get after a humid, windless day. Horrible. The sort that wants to make you want to drop everything and head to the nearest beach and soak in its cold waters until your skin turns blue.

That was not the choice for Doris. She lived in small cottage in Battersea, not far from the park in which funfairs used to be held. Not that she had much fun nowadays, now that her beloved husband, Donald, was dead. Her two sons lived overseas and never visited her.

She opened the patio doors. Not that there was much of a breeze but she could not afford air-conditioning and she hoped, with the setting sun, some cool air would refresh her stifling home. There was none.

She opened the door of her freezer and took out some carrots, peas and mushrooms. She was a vegetarian and did not eat meat. In another pot, she began cooking rice - a copious amount because she loved rice. She added too much of it to a medium sized saucepan and the boiling water spilled onto the stove. In fact, you could say: "The pot was boiling over."

She was so engrossed in her cooking that she did not hear he stranger creep behind her, clad in black, his eyes concealed by a black balaclava, a knife in his hand. She was still tidying up the mess that the overfull saucepan had caused and did not even have time to react when he plunged his knife into her back, ending her life instantly.