A.G.E's Joint

  I was spending my morning doom scrolling Facebook. It's a bad habit and unproductive, I know. But it allows the time to pass while I drink my morning pot of coffee. I flip past a repost of a Garrison Keillor interview. I'd seen it before. It made fun of a church  I used to be affiliated with. The reason I'm no longer has more to do with internal politics than scripture. Down at the bottom was a post from a Faerie past who had moved on because of a specific faith issue. For no apparent reason, she reiterated her position in no uncertain terms. As I was debating whether to respond, my wife informed me it was time for her to go to work and the post drifted away into the timeline of doom. Ain't that a kick in the head. I've been thinking about it all day and it may have been sheer luck I was called away. My reply would have only furthered the break existing between us and better she stays in my past.  It's better than being called a turkey. 

As the flowered bus rattled down the road, Kari made a vain attempt to tame her curls. The witch image stared back from the mirror. Accurate, not that she advertised it. She rarely went to the Coven or associated with most of them. To the outside world, she was an old hippie selling jewelry at craft shows. Nonetheless, she had spiritual power, the gift of transition and healing. Something she did not take lightly, especially this one. It wasn’t often she serviced herself. ***** She couldn’t remember how old she was when Billy McCormack moved across the street, thirteen or fourteen tops. It had begun innocently enough. He would tease her about her wild hair, calling her Witchy or Hag. She would get mad and tickle him until he begged for mercy. Something about him drew her like a fly to a light. They became inseparable as spring rolled into summer. Holding hands, they walked to the playground to climb the ladders or to the woods to explore. It was a dream. The nightmare came the week b...

Hate Anger Death, the stock in trade Of  data purveyors online Bleeding leads Body rot and moulder Titillating the  baser instincts Pain Power Over flocks and herds Who's existence is only Creating imaginary wealth From the ashes of Trees and rubble of the ground Comes now Is the vineyard keeper What will be His reaction When instead of vines Breaking with fruit Sees only desert twigs. 

She felt dirty when the call came. Like a stain on the carpet that wouldn’t clean up.   And it was his fault. A sack of potatoes looked back from the mirror while she thought this. She never had been very pretty, and she certainly wasn’t pretty now.   Drooping breasts against a beach ball stomach. She took a slug from the pint and the tears came. Cheap booze is a false economy . She had read that somewhere. The voice began its litany: “It’s time. Kill him and kill me. It is the only way to end it.”   Maybe another drink would help. No. The fever kept rising as she applied her makeup.   She selected the silve r corset, rigged it could be tightened without help. The carbon colored stockings, held   with silk garters, were a garden design and didn’t stand out. A maroon chambray top, long black skirt and simple three inch black pumps rounded it out.   She put on a couple of bracelets and a spray of Obsession.   Before she put on the...