It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell in torrents, like sheets of glass. The lights were not lighted. The beams not rising. In night's obscurity of a wandering shadow. Like a chameleon lost among hapless souls. Beneath the pillars of a fog, scenting death. Rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the fire struggling against the darkness, boiling my porridge.
Then the knocking of the ghost between the walls scattering the mice in their hidey holes. Dropping their fleshy cheese of decaying Roquefort, as the crickets played on. While mama rocked in her bones, a toothless smile. Maintaining the family status quo. She had come in from the cold at potters field.
I in my kneesocks staggering leeward away from my sins, as I scribble a novel, like a second-hand Poe. Listening to the myna bird chewing its seeds. Not asking where it flies. Life never being my strong suit. Feeling the death beat wings. Beneath the fluted catheter in my bastardized fiction.