I have been dead a very long, long, long time.
Yet surges of vermillion burst to my
It is routinely terminal.
My veins are electric and the
fever coursing through
me is akin to a sheltered virus.
With no hope for camaraderie,
dusk comes to my mind.
I am a lonely patient zero.
And here I am running out of ink.
My study does well to confine me
with its oaken, tattered shelves;
I’ve come to scribble, leaving the rain alone outside
And it’s gone and got itself lost.
I never let a coin drop without
it having first been flipped.
I often choose the inveterate echo
over either shiny side.
My thinking cap is brisk and knowing
full-well of its poisonous nature
I don it daily.
It is a bit tight, but
It suits me.
This is a tale I began in 2009, writing half of it then and leaving it until February of 2013 to finish the other half. I started out wanting to write a horror story and ended up writing a ghost story.
In the dank, cobble-stoned basement of the Richmond’s summer cottage there sat many stacks of boxes filled with all sorts of old, discolored papers. Across some were printed faded headlines, being newspapers from decades ago; there were old tax forms; report cards; stories and love letters; simple letters, birthday letters, letters of greeting or Christmas letters. Avery wondered why his parents kept all that junk down there.
“Well,” his Father sighed, “You never know when it might come in good use.”
“Dirty old newspapers?”
“Some of those are historic,” his father retorted. “Like the day you were born!”
Avery looked uninterested.
“Besides, there’s much more than that down there.”