Days of Quarantine

I prayed for the silence of a cat

In the days when the bats returned

After what time I cannot say

Many of us are visitors to our homeland

When the downpours murmured to drizzle

The roads held their breath, waited

Birds in leisure scatter, dogs stilled

On the warm tar that came after

The world stopped, but still hungered.

Spider horror

There’s a lot of intresting things you can do with spiderman rather than just keep him a four legged crime fighter.

Let’s travel to this more… intresting alternate reality where Peter’s bitten by a radioactive spider unlike the one’s we know.

We meet our late adolescent waking up with haste, straight out of a fever dream. His body burns and unknown to him he’s about be awash in hormones, puberty like no other. You may even call it a… Metamorphosis.

Feeling stubs and strong, thick hair on his back that defied any explanation, furry finger tips and swelling waist, our hero stumbles, rolls over trying to catch a glance at the mirror.

Except he doesn’t have to turn that far. Small rows of beady eyes open seeing bone crushing pincers on his hair covered face. Then he sees the extra limbs.

We see now the agony he feels, as his body twitches and pulls in ways he never thought possible. All this whilest he’s learning he can no longer stand upright. Of course he’s having all sorts of new hormones pumping through his veins, driving his rage as he bounces, stumbles between between fear, hate, glee and new emotions we cannot know. But in all these urges, he’ll feel the primal hunger slowly creeping up on him.

While his limbs flex and twitch, as his face melts into a cold, boneless stare. He looks at the mirror again, all 8 limbs to the ground, he is lost to that primal hunger.

As he pushes around stretching and contorting in new ways, we see he pauses to examine, perhaps admire his new cold and springy body, ready for his next command.

He looks down his thorax,past the pulsing tracheal system and pulls inwards causing bubbles to foam up between his pincers and several strings of web shooting out to stick to his walls. He mindlessly tries a pattern for his web.

Now the deep hunger has it’s method. He gulps his spittle and foam, and in a miserable, desperate and surly voice calls out :

“Aunt Mayyy”

This story was inspired in part by “Metamorphosis”, “The Fly” and a Spiderman meme

Instruction for cleaning the mirror

I take my time, wondering who the stranger in the reflection is. Watch everything, read everything, hear everything. Well that’s I pretend to want. Feels like we all expect to emerge from the month in lock down with new talents.

The world has too many sharp edges and I have nothing to buff them with. Yesterday a phone call pinned me to the center of someone else’s world. The mirror has splotches and mystery marks I can’t pinpoint. “I prefer keeping work at a safe distance” I tell myself as I take the mirror to the window.

In the light, the stains jump out to me. I erase them, my hand steadily waving at the silent stare in the mirror. The surface is clearer but the image is still hazy, shrouded by fog. The mirrors edges are brittle and discolored, plastic shows its age even if it never goes away. In these times of isolation you have no excuse not to self reflect; so close your eyes, take a deep breath and look into the mirror.

Kite string

Kite string
lightening sun
leading the way
the winds have come
by the cracked window with freshly washed hair
I see the yard, mother, clearing the clothes line
leafy faces, on well water
out over the fields and flower beds
spring rain on the harvest
dripping down
planet dusk
small talk
after droplet burials
in the flowing stream


Bringing his paw down on my chest with all his weight behind it, his wide eyed stare and desperate mews informing me he needs a midnight snack.

He’s got a flare for the dramatic, mewing and howling while he darts between my legs. He pauses so we can make eye contact, then turns to the shelf where the cat food is kept, then back to my face and then to his reflection mewing at it. This is his little ritual, his foolproof method of making sure the humans understand what he wants.

He seems to know when I’m dreaming, his mews cutting through whatever absurd scenario I’m caught in. The scene pauses and everyone in the dream looks around till I realise I have to feed my cat. I smile apologetically while I leave the dream and rush to the cabinet.

Without my glasses he’s just a drowsy white blur in darkness. I’m quick to go back to sleep after petting him while he chows down greedily. As I slip back into sleep, I have him besides me looking for whatever it was I was dreaming.

These rituals always help me remember my dreams in the morning, the stories I recall begin with my pet mewing.

Dark eye

I dreamt we walked the paddy fields

Amidst the shells of yellow cars

Silver inscriptions from their authors

Glinting but dulling, with the dipping sun

I break from my travel companions

Pushing forward, caring not to look back

The rainwater has washed the path away

I skip and leap, through I know

My shoes are gone

Down by the wooden grain store

Under its cold wooden rafters, I felt

Trapped on a pillar, the breeze pushing

The only thing holding me down

Your shaded eyes

Lone crane

The crane flies low, dangerously close to the roofs of cars, so close that a careless truck could quickly knock it out of the sky. Everyday the swan swoops down, the same time, the same place.

The crane visits the green lawn by the bungalow, the dogs and inhabitants give him no mind. He feeds and makes his way across the street, slowing working his way up, towards the end of the patchy shrubs between the pavement and tar road. He moves methodically, disappearing and appearing on roofs, compound walls but never parked cars.

That is his afternoon, by evening when the sky turns grey and dull, he flies off. A fellow observer knew the cranes patterns and told me where to look for him. Their main takeaway was that the crane had a strict adherence to routine and that it was alone.

This was once a valley, named after the elephants who drank at the lake. Now the valley is flattened by apartment complexes, houses, roads and turns. The low storm drain was once a fast stream and maybe instead of the pigeons, kingfisher and hawks, between electric wires and dropping covered TV-dishes there was more to this valley for a crane.

Can you tell a crane to move? That the lakes are gone and that there may be one, but soon he’ll be gone.

Toy Land

A dragon crowns the fridge, a miscolored gremlin winks at me, the table is filled with heads and trophies.

My grandfather’s newest hobby, collecting lost toys he finds on the streets. Everyone else jokes: “he’s stealing from little girls” .

On the table besides an assortment of McDonald’s toys based on movies you have a faceless Lego, an amused (angry) bird, a cross between spock and the hulk, plastic ducks, Mario and a deformed hello kitty tied with rubber bands to a shot glass, a well dressed snowman, a pencil with a jester’s face. Oh and two dogs, one wags his tail my grandfather points out.

Getting old seems kinda fun.