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
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
There They Go
There they go.
High or low.
First or last?
They don't know
Laugh in play.
Scream in fear.
Seize the day.
Shed a tear.
Hold them near.
Hope and pray.
Some will hear.
Pine for night.
Need a break.
When the light's
Too much to take.
Exist to wonder.
Exist to pry.
Exist to ponder.
Break the sky.
Dream for years.
Hear the call.
Fail and Fall.
Own their fears.
Own it all.
Don't know how?
Here's a mirror.
See them now?
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."
A Fall Meal
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."
A Summer’s Tragedy
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.