Painted after the birth of my son, during the height of my Lovecraft period. Watercolor on paper circa 2010.
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Friday, November 29, 2019
To the Mothers
CW: Animal Abuse
Mothers, will you imagine?
Imagine with me if you will,
and put aside your preconceived notions
there is a hole in my heart I can’t fill . . .
This hole exists for the mothers
boxed in their prisons of dirt
pregnant, and weak and afraid
their eyes stagnant mirrors of hurt
They exist not for themselves
not even for the children they bear
the child they will never get to know
their voices they will never hear . . .
Except for the screams.
The screams drown out the others
the others have faded with time
these ones are suddenly different
these ones are coming from “mine.”
Crimson runs red in the dust
forming droplets like orbs of glass
they are violated, amputated and slaughtered
having never felt a single blade of grass.
So mothers, will you imagine?
being trapped in cold iron bars
your child stolen from birth
nothing to remember, but scars.
*****
Mothers, will you imagine?
Imagine with me if you will,
and put aside your preconceived notions
there is a hole in my heart I can’t fill . . .
This hole exists for the mothers
boxed in their prisons of dirt
pregnant, and weak and afraid
their eyes stagnant mirrors of hurt
They exist not for themselves
not even for the children they bear
the child they will never get to know
their voices they will never hear . . .
Except for the screams.
The screams drown out the others
the others have faded with time
these ones are suddenly different
these ones are coming from “mine.”
Crimson runs red in the dust
forming droplets like orbs of glass
they are violated, amputated and slaughtered
having never felt a single blade of grass.
So mothers, will you imagine?
being trapped in cold iron bars
your child stolen from birth
nothing to remember, but scars.
Copyright Stevie Aubuchon-Mendoza 2015
The Millpond
This story is almost twenty years old and started as a creative writing project in college. I spent a bit editing it down but I am not make any promises that I won't go through and edit it some more later on. I must have had a horrible case of verbal diarrhea in my latter teens/early twenties because HOLY ADJECTIVES, BATMAN! I still have great love for flowery language and detailed descriptions, but I hope I toned it down . . . . just a bit. I hope you enjoy!
CW: Child abuse, alcoholism, religious zealotry
The waters of the millpond stirred. As the wretched scent of death and decay spread thick upon the air, the whippoorwills screamed and the egrets trembled. The insects and the belly-crawlers, with stomachs gorged and appetites quenched, retreated into their oozing mud holes while the rotting willows swallowed the first rays of the sun.
He arose with the smoothness of an approaching serpent; his naked, emaciated form luminescent in the growing dawn. Droplets of marsh fled from his skin as thick strands of hair clung to his cherub cheeks and thin, Pinocchio nose. A young boy, he seemed to be, yet with the vacant, doll-like demeanor of a child found drowned on the surface of a lake. His impish nature evident in the smooth, sarcastic grin stretched upon his face, and the cloudy expression in his eyes. The remnants of a long rotted mill wheel stretched out before him, barely visible through the moss growing thick along it’s rungs. Ghostly cracks echoed out from the settling wood as the sun crept farther up the horizon.
The Urisk is what the Scottish had called him, so long ago; a solitary hobgoblin forever haunting the lonely pools of the marsh. As he sat within the palm of a dying swamp laurel, one leg tucked up underneath him, he twitched excitedly at the onset of a most glorious scent.
Flesh.
Never before was this scent so enticing, and he knew upon the entrance of his watery lair, that a new friend was drawing near.
Chris sat silently. Her floral print taffeta dress spread out over the grass like the dome of a parasol. The long, golden-brown hair trailing down her back was pulled up delicately by an elegant pewter clasp.
She stared down silently at the book of goose poetry perched idly in her lap. Her large, doe-like eyes watered with boredom. This, of course, was not enough to hold her interest. She had bigger and better things on her mind. In a dreamy loss of interest, she let her young, milk-white face turn in exasperation toward the unfurling branches of the willows. Her stockinged legs and saddle shoes stretched out like a little boy’s, twitching in anticipation. Squinting her eyes from the soft white glare of the sun, she let a low agitated huff flare her tiny nostrils.
This was too much to ask! Way too much to ask of a six year old girl! How could they possibly make her sit here and read a book of boring rhymes when there was so much out in the world to explore? What new and unusual slimy creatures lurk under every stone and stump! What an array of curiously colored amphibians lay waiting to be chased upon those green leafy pallets! Scrunching up her nose, Chris threw her book aside. Echoes of her mother’s voice thundered all too loudly.
“Christie! Get up off the floor and act like a lady. The dogs will make friends among the dogs and you, my dear, will make friends with other young ladies!”
She had not much to say about this. In fact, she never really spoke at all. Comfort was the ability to hold her thoughts within her own head and not having to share them with anybody else. She understood speech. In truth, she understood it very well, yet she never felt the need to utter a single word for herself. Intelligence was a given and evident in the Mona-Lisa smile that would occasionally curl along her face. She understood the curiosities of the world and the fallacies of parent logic and this infuriated her mother.
Jumping to her feet, she wandered impishly around the marsh. Her tiny, delicate hands grabbed at every interesting twig and rock that seemed to catch her eye. The twitch of a rabbit’s ear sent Chris dashing after the nervous creature before sending her tumbling over her own feet. Chris watched the rabbit dash into a burrow and crawled, hands and knees toward the opening. With the courage that only young children seem to have, she jammed her arm into the hole up to her shoulder hoping to catch it. Without much luck, and a few red scratches, Chris lifted herself back up and turned back toward the Manor.
Her mother was a “sophisticated” drinker. At least that’s what she told everyone. “Drunks drink alone” she always said “I only drink with friends and family!” Yet, when you are one of the most popular women in the social circle, time spent alone was few and far between. Lifting onto her tiptoes, Chris strained to see where her mother was perched and to make sure she had not noticed her casual meanderings. The woman sat at a small wicker table and chairs. Three glasses of Sherry rested in front of each frumpy old gossip that sat with her, giggling and whispering as if nobody else in the world could see them. Chris noticed that her mother was wearing her “special” hat, the one she only wore when she was trying to impress somebody -- or make them jealous. It was a hideous hat in Chris’s opinion. An intoxicated cat upon a hornets nest would have been more lovely settled on her mother’s obsessively groomed wig.
In any case, the woman was not paying attention. Chris was free to reign her Faeryland as much as she pleased. That is, until her mother sent the servants and the dogs out to find her. Chris loved those bloodhounds almost as much as these little moments of freedom and when they greeted her after a long night of exploration, she was almost happy to be discovered. She enjoyed the servants company as well. They were always kind and accepting of her.
But why think of this now?
Chris skipped along the base of the creek. The silver bodies of the fish darted this way and that as she threw flower petals along the surface.
CW: Child abuse, alcoholism, religious zealotry
******
The waters of the millpond stirred. As the wretched scent of death and decay spread thick upon the air, the whippoorwills screamed and the egrets trembled. The insects and the belly-crawlers, with stomachs gorged and appetites quenched, retreated into their oozing mud holes while the rotting willows swallowed the first rays of the sun.
He arose with the smoothness of an approaching serpent; his naked, emaciated form luminescent in the growing dawn. Droplets of marsh fled from his skin as thick strands of hair clung to his cherub cheeks and thin, Pinocchio nose. A young boy, he seemed to be, yet with the vacant, doll-like demeanor of a child found drowned on the surface of a lake. His impish nature evident in the smooth, sarcastic grin stretched upon his face, and the cloudy expression in his eyes. The remnants of a long rotted mill wheel stretched out before him, barely visible through the moss growing thick along it’s rungs. Ghostly cracks echoed out from the settling wood as the sun crept farther up the horizon.
The Urisk is what the Scottish had called him, so long ago; a solitary hobgoblin forever haunting the lonely pools of the marsh. As he sat within the palm of a dying swamp laurel, one leg tucked up underneath him, he twitched excitedly at the onset of a most glorious scent.
Flesh.
Never before was this scent so enticing, and he knew upon the entrance of his watery lair, that a new friend was drawing near.
Chris sat silently. Her floral print taffeta dress spread out over the grass like the dome of a parasol. The long, golden-brown hair trailing down her back was pulled up delicately by an elegant pewter clasp.
She stared down silently at the book of goose poetry perched idly in her lap. Her large, doe-like eyes watered with boredom. This, of course, was not enough to hold her interest. She had bigger and better things on her mind. In a dreamy loss of interest, she let her young, milk-white face turn in exasperation toward the unfurling branches of the willows. Her stockinged legs and saddle shoes stretched out like a little boy’s, twitching in anticipation. Squinting her eyes from the soft white glare of the sun, she let a low agitated huff flare her tiny nostrils.
This was too much to ask! Way too much to ask of a six year old girl! How could they possibly make her sit here and read a book of boring rhymes when there was so much out in the world to explore? What new and unusual slimy creatures lurk under every stone and stump! What an array of curiously colored amphibians lay waiting to be chased upon those green leafy pallets! Scrunching up her nose, Chris threw her book aside. Echoes of her mother’s voice thundered all too loudly.
“Christie! Get up off the floor and act like a lady. The dogs will make friends among the dogs and you, my dear, will make friends with other young ladies!”
She had not much to say about this. In fact, she never really spoke at all. Comfort was the ability to hold her thoughts within her own head and not having to share them with anybody else. She understood speech. In truth, she understood it very well, yet she never felt the need to utter a single word for herself. Intelligence was a given and evident in the Mona-Lisa smile that would occasionally curl along her face. She understood the curiosities of the world and the fallacies of parent logic and this infuriated her mother.
Jumping to her feet, she wandered impishly around the marsh. Her tiny, delicate hands grabbed at every interesting twig and rock that seemed to catch her eye. The twitch of a rabbit’s ear sent Chris dashing after the nervous creature before sending her tumbling over her own feet. Chris watched the rabbit dash into a burrow and crawled, hands and knees toward the opening. With the courage that only young children seem to have, she jammed her arm into the hole up to her shoulder hoping to catch it. Without much luck, and a few red scratches, Chris lifted herself back up and turned back toward the Manor.
Her mother was a “sophisticated” drinker. At least that’s what she told everyone. “Drunks drink alone” she always said “I only drink with friends and family!” Yet, when you are one of the most popular women in the social circle, time spent alone was few and far between. Lifting onto her tiptoes, Chris strained to see where her mother was perched and to make sure she had not noticed her casual meanderings. The woman sat at a small wicker table and chairs. Three glasses of Sherry rested in front of each frumpy old gossip that sat with her, giggling and whispering as if nobody else in the world could see them. Chris noticed that her mother was wearing her “special” hat, the one she only wore when she was trying to impress somebody -- or make them jealous. It was a hideous hat in Chris’s opinion. An intoxicated cat upon a hornets nest would have been more lovely settled on her mother’s obsessively groomed wig.
In any case, the woman was not paying attention. Chris was free to reign her Faeryland as much as she pleased. That is, until her mother sent the servants and the dogs out to find her. Chris loved those bloodhounds almost as much as these little moments of freedom and when they greeted her after a long night of exploration, she was almost happy to be discovered. She enjoyed the servants company as well. They were always kind and accepting of her.
But why think of this now?
Chris skipped along the base of the creek. The silver bodies of the fish darted this way and that as she threw flower petals along the surface.
Evanesce
Joseph heard something on the wind that he didn't like. The air had changed in pressure and his delicately aged ears ached. Everything seemed normal on the surface. The soft, rolling hills surrounding his home were the lush, dew soaked pelts that they always were at six thirty in the morning. Something was wrong, though. He could feel it in his brittle bones. Maybe it was a smell his nose couldn't detect or a sound his ears couldn't physically hear. After all, he was eighty three years old. His senses weren't exactly what they used to be and he considered himself rather lucky that they seemed to work at all. He sat on the small wooden porch outside of his house like a stereotypical storybook grandfather, drinking a mug of black coffee and letting the world appear around him.
He often wondered what might be happening around the world. He had a small radio set up in his sitting room, but his television set just sat in his wall unit gathering dust. It's not that he was against television, he just found nothing useful on it lately. None of the programming interested him much anymore and he found the flashing light had begun to hurt his eyes. Still, he kept it for when his great grand children came to visit. There were few channels, but they were fine with the slow, creative cartoons on the public broadcasting network. Joseph secretly loved this. Why did everything have to move so fast lately? Television was fast. Music was fast. Cellular phones were fast. These weren't things that he looked down upon, but he did feel as if people were rushing through their lives. As he sat quietly thinking to himself, he figured if we only had a limited time on this world, that it's no wonder people rush to fill it with as much information as they can.
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