Candle in the Attic Window Part 10

conundrums erected to your mad genius

Be yourself, my dear

not like limpid Gaimanettes, pallid leeches

wrapped in ebon leather, sweating perfume

unsure if they exist outside a frame of reference

or were fabricated within the nimbus of a thought

without the molten core to heat their lives, they try to fit

discarded casings, fallout from courtesy and composition

one sudden solar flare would etch distinction

with the half-life of attention as long as youth

they willingly open any orifice to suck

fame from their dark prince, grow on his glory

you s.h.i.+ne as bright in any galaxy, yet set

your sights on this year's fleeting asteroid, forgotten in a moment

Dream divine, my dear, in dreams

leave life's nightmare, escape death's coma

wander the ornate halls of opium infatuation

the shallow dance of guttering candles

pipe smoke curls, a seductive foreign screen

unveils a ma.s.saging marriage, hallucinations

delirium's slow, sensual lovemaking

caresses as you court romantic death

you will not leave, cannot exit quickly

until life has bled youth and vigour

a.s.sisted by your ghoulish thoughts, vampiric verses

then, shattered beauty discarded, attired in neither dream nor mystery

Life, a jealous lover, will toss you to death's portal.

Colleen Anderson writes in various genres and has over one hundred 100 published stories and poems appearing in magazines and anthologies, including, Evolve, Chizine, and On Spec. She has a BFA in creative writing, received an honourable mention in the Year's Best Horror for her story "Exegesis of the Insecta Apocrypha" in Horror Library Vol. IV, and is an 2010 Aurora nominee in poetry. She also edits for Chizine Publications. New work will appear in Polluto, Witches & Pagans and New Vampire Tales.

Desideratum.

By Gina Flores.

Another sleepless night, with only the dim glow of her cigarette for company.

Lorena turned on her side, using her elbow for support, and stared out the window. Sweat pooled in the hollow of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the backs of her knees, at the nape of her neck beneath her thick veil of hair. It was September, time for rain and cloudy skies, cool breezes, but they were elusive this year. She inhaled deeply, using nicotine to get rid of the night-taste inside of her mouth, and pitched the b.u.t.t out the window. Watched the pale-orange ember until it hit the walk with a small show of sparks.

A few lights were visible in other buildings. Parked cars lined either side of the street, but nothing moved. Only Lorena, awake in the dark. Alone. Wis.h.i.+ng for a cat, a television anything to break the monotony of waking up every night at the same time, to stare out at the same emptiness with the same yearning that kept her from sleep. But cats were not allowed in the building and the television was nothing more than a stand for dying plants and lost books. Books also covered the single sagging shelf in the corner. Two boxes without tops sat on the floor in front of it, leaking paperbacks; stacks piled against the wall wherever there was room.

She ran her hands over the books nearest her bed, her favourites. Traitors, all of them; not one could numb the yearning she felt for real human company.

She thought, as she always did when loneliness got the best of her, of her mother. Her mother loved to talk, even if the conversations didn't last long, and usually wound up in bitter arguments. Lorena sat up and put her hand on the old tan phone before remembering it had been disconnected over a week ago. That was probably for the best. The call most likely would have ended with Lorena feeling guilty, while her mother tried to talk her into coming back home. Most of the time, being alone, independent, was what she wanted. Except on nights like this, when the heat was unbearable and the shabbiness of the apartment grated on her. On nights like this, she wanted more, something she couldn't describe, even to herself.

Sighing, she absently braided her hair and continued looking outside for something, some kind of variation. The last few weeks, she had felt a horrid yearning, but she didn't know what for. It was just a pull at her stomach, her brain, her heart. A pull that made her stare out the window for long hours. As she worked the plait, she wondered why she kept her hair so long, when all she ever did was to pull it back and away. But Lorena's hair had always been long, a comforting s.h.i.+eld to hide behind when she wore it down, something to swing around and play with when it was bound back, and to pull on when she got nervous. Comfortable. She looked out the window again to see if anything had changed. A few pieces of trash blew around near a sewer grate, but that was all. She secured the braid with an elastic band and flopped back on the bed, sighing loudly.

She knew she wouldn't sleep much, if at all, the rest of this night, so she got up and pulled on a pair of cut-off sweat pants. The walk was becoming a nightly ritual. She grabbed her cigarettes from the bed and stuck them in her waistband, after slipping on a ratty pair of tennis shoes she had bought on sale at work.

The outer hall was dark with imitation-wood paneling on the bottom, faded yellow paint on the top. The smell of rot lingered in the hallways, emanating from other apartments and fast food bags left in the corners. I can't wait 'til I'm outta here. Just a few more months. Lorena had been saying that to herself since first moving in over a year ago. She hated the hall, the narrow stairway, the apartments and the people in them. Her life. But not enough to go home.

She walked around the block five and then six times, willing somebody to come out and rape, rob, mug, stab her.

No one obliged, so it was back up four flights to her one-room life. Maybe she'd get an hour or two of sleep before work. The walk had exhausted her physically, if not mentally. I want, she thought. I want.

The want stayed in her thoughts until she got up and paced the small box of her apartment. Even then, it ran like a train in the back of her mind. IwantIwantIwantIwant. She pulled on her hair, nervously twisting the ends with one hand while she alternately smoked and paced. Finally, she went to the kitchen and dug around in the messier of the two available drawers. Found a pair of scissors. The shears were old and rust-spotted, not as sharp as they used to be. Kind of like me, ha-ha. But they'd do.