koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

prezrene.

The Neighborhood has seen better days.

The shorthand-
The line of angry red [ants] marches down her thighs.
And it’s no picnic.

...one by one; hurrah, hurrah...

Additionally-
We have a Hyde situation, folks.
The casting director isn’t sure how to list The Banshee on the credits-
She’s making more than her alloted cameo.
There is panic in the screenwriting room.

Clawing & ruckus are commonplace in this industry.
Both are usually figurative, however.
This phantasm lends a new and far more literal meaning to all of the above.

Spectral anger is a thing to behold;
The interns agree dumbly to her every demand.

A wise choice, by all counts.

The neighborhood has definitely seen better (read: less haunted) days.

mearganta.

Sixty.

Seventy-two.

Eighty-six.

“Gun it, girl.”

She obeys.

Ninety-eight.

“Take it all the way.”

She will.

She does.

kilele.

Like a cursor on a bone-white page,

Subtraction.
This is a subtraction equation.
She looks at her watch (the object in question).
Its mathematical terra-bound spiral matches...

Thoughts shift to the natural disasters filling the space between the ellipses in the sentence last.

It lines up.

The tornados, hurricanes, waterspouts, and maelstroms are always headed for the same place.
That damn four-letter word.
We don’t speak of it.
WASP Rules.
[this.is.how.we.do.things.

this.is.how.we.do.things.]

Jumbled in the jungle, drowning in the air -no water necessary-
Compasses are for pussies.
If one can’t use the heavens which were alloted to us for this purpose, one must just deserve to be lost.
Mustn’t one?

‘Good luck, Chuck,’ she thinks, ‘with your wind-up dolly.’
The doll hospital’s out of business, and there’s a wrench shortage.
Hard times, these.
She was torn out of her pretty plastic packaging long ago by an over-eager two-year-old destructivo.
Batteries not included.

d - o - w - n

we go.