Yellow Mama E zine

His House

​

by Steve Cartwright

 

            Whirling, swirling black clouds pressing behind his orbs, seeming to pop his eyes out.

           Cold, no-feeling, gray, sounds scurrying up and down the tonal range.

           Memory of a knife, in his own hand, blood spurting, splatter-splatter, drip snail-like down his wall.

           Confusion, questions: Why am I still here? Noise tattooing, crimson drips turn to shrieks at hitting his carpet. His body falling like the millionth tread of the millionth foot in a marching, chanting army.

          Time heavy on his wrist, digital watch with seconds frozen cold in rock, as are decades, none moving, even he no longer bleeding.

           Floating when he should be on his floor draining, now empty, yet floating like a dreambird tearing loose of gravity's grip, only to find himself back in that cold-numbing grasp.

           Why am I still here?

           Eyes that no longer blink adjust to the dark, see candle flame shadows pirouette and do-si-do. Figures at a table, interlopers in HIS room.

           Outraged, he rushes them, shouts for them to get out, this is HIS house!

           But they continue to sit, eyes shut, holding hands, six men and women at their flimsy table.

           "I can feel a presence in the room," one of them says, her eyes flying open and wide, searching every dancing shadow in the room. "There's definitely something in this room. . . ."

 

          Steve Cartwright is both a professional illustrator and writer and thus suffers as does anyone who serves two such masters. A former newspaper writer, former Atlanta cop, currently involved in dog Rescue, his published books can be viewed, with trepidation, here:   https://www.amazon.com/stores/Steve-Cartwright/author/B011EITC3W?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true&ccs_id=6df3b5b3-c7c9-4ce1-a6cb-f4e56b80ccaf