Hiatus

Hi to those who have been reading. The point of starting this blog was to get myself back into the groove of writing regularly. Having done so for a couple months now, it's time that I focus my efforts back to more creative forms of writing; specifically I need to get back to work on a project that's been bouncing around in my mind for several years now. As such, if all goes well, it may be a while before I add anything new to my blog. I'll leave it off with a couple of short dramatic monologues that I wrote a couple years ago. The one entitled "The Last of Three" is actually part of the project I'm working on. Thanks for reading and hopefully I can get the written portion of this project taken care of and can then get back to updating the blog in the not-too-distant future.



The Cellar

It was well into November
When my dear Eliza drew
What I fear now to remember
Were her last breaths—one and two.

It was I who spied her lastly.
It was I who held her close.
But if I should grieve so vastly
I should tell then, I suppose,

Of the day I met this wonder
In the darkness of the lake,
Where I’d plunged myself deep under
Hoping never to awake.

But her hands with great compassion
Had from death’s grip set me free.
And I stared—my face turned ashen—
At the one who’d marry me.

Though at first she’d hear none of it,
Having done but what one would,
I had sharp desires to covet
She who’s wed, I understood.

After all, she loved me surely.
Had she ever his life spared?
She would not have saved me merely
To be one of two who share.

Thus I waited ‘til one morning
When my liberator left.
And with utter lack of warning
Did commit the minor theft

Of a vacant-valued lover
Whom my dear Eliza said
Was a pleasure to discover.
But I much preferred him dead.

Then to spite this beast I hated,
For the crimes he did commit;
And for raping my love fated;
I decreed he always sit

In the cellar—ever silent—
To repent intentions stark.
And to hear his sole assailant
And Eliza in the dark.

Though she wept for many hours,
And the hours, themselves, for weeks,
In a year I was empowered,
As my heart she did then seek.

We were married in the winter,
And of course I’d never tell
Why I lacked the surety in her
To unlock the dusty cell.

And she did as I instructed
For the first two years or so.
But the lover I’d abducted
Must have summoned from below.

For one night as I lay sleeping,
Or at least to her it seemed,
She decided to go creeping
And could scarce hold back her scream.

I approached her weeping madly,
For my deeds were now exposed.
And her eyes—those tears—were sadly
Evidence that, like my foes

She must be kept still to linger.
Thus I’m not ashamed to note
That I sealed with several fingers
My beloved’s meager throat.



The Last of Three

The stars were hiding ‘neath the clouds.
And oh! That noise was heard so loud.
The piercing screams that woke the town
Still echo in my mind.
With haste had I put on some clothes
And left my home to follow those
Who’d heard it too and also rose
Not knowing what they’d find.

As we approached that eerie home—
That place you’d never go alone,
Since you were children and would moan
That hauntings were for real—
We felt what could be best explained
As too much strangeness to sustain,
And thus, decided to refrain
Until the sun’s reveal.

By morn we had returned before
The edifice with boarded doors
From which the terror had been born,
And started making pleas.
How could we send a woman, say,
To enter and come face to face
With unknown evils of this place,
And keep our conscience clean?
And so a draw was fast declared
To single out, by methods fair,
The chosen few who—brave or scared—
Would then inspect the scene.

The first of three was an old man
Who held a cane so he could stand.
And letting go of his wife’s hand
He led off through the door.
We waited what had seemed to be
A fragment of eternity
Until we mindfully agreed,
That he must live no more.

The next name drawn was sweet Francine
Whose slender face turned slightly green.
But—once reminded she’d agreed—
Crept slowly up the walk
Again we watched with hopeful eyes
And prayed she’d meet not her demise
Until, they said, she must have died
According to the clock.

The third name drawn was mine, of course—
A teenaged boy of youthful force.
And thus I headed t’ward the source
Of that which I feared most.
And so I entered—slow at first—
As in my mind I had rehearsed.
Then up the stairs I ran headfirst,
Afraid I’d see a ghost.

Instead I tripped on the old man
Who’d lost his cane and couldn’t stand.
He seemed long-dead—his withered hands
Were oddly cold and grey.
I braced myself and did not shout
My sweaty hand cupping my mouth
And hurried on along my route
While fearing end of day.

The stairs veered sharply to the right
And as I turned I knew true fright
As near the top—a ghastly sight—
Lay lifeless, sweet Francine.
Her hair—once blonde—had turned to grey.
Her face, still green, now showed decay.
Up three more stairs I made my way
And left the rest unseen.

Then through the door found at the head
Of cursed stairs and blood so red,
I made my way and on the bed
I found an old oak chest.
And as I opened up this prize
Of mixed intentions, I surmised,
I feared it may be my demise.
Instead I gawked, impressed.

The chest was filled with gems and gold
And other riches to behold.
And in that moment, feeling bold,
I ran back down the stairs.
I didn’t look back at Francine
Nor at the dead man at my feet.
I ran back out onto the street
But none were there to care.

The crowd had left, or so it seemed.
And why they’d gone, I couldn’t dream
But I rushed home at breakneck speed,
And stepped in through my door.
My mother seemed much frailer than
When I’d last seen her. And instead
Of greeting me as she once had
She looked at me in horror.

She shrieked and ordered me to leave
I begged her, hand clamped on her sleeve.
And once I turned away to leave
I said “I love you, Mom”
She yelled at me to leave her side
And rushing tears clouded her eyes.
But moments later she’d confide
That she had lost her son.

And so I left my mother there—
Confused, alone, and unaware
That at her son she had just stared—
And went back to that place.
I ventured up those stairs once more
Back to that room on the third floor,
But by the end my chest was sore,
I had to slow my pace.

I fell upon my knees but still
I crawled upon them, feeling ill
And did so painfully until
My ordeal I’d surpassed.
I opened up the chest again
And spilled the treasure on the bed
And in the bottom lay my dread
But in the shape of glass.

A mirror, ornate and unused
And as I glared at it, bemused,
I understood my mother’s ruse,
For I was young no more.
Instead my hair was white as snow
And hands were wrinkled just as though
I’d grown up eighty years or so,
Since I’d walked through the door.

It seems each stair had aged me by
A year, which explains why they’d died.
Too old to handle, though they tried,
The treasure’s deadly price.
And as I sat there, lowered crown,
I screamed a scream that woke the town,
And knew my time was coming ‘round
For I had climbed them twice.