The glowing sepia room was
crammed with objects from a
virgin century past.
Aanteekwa saw faded medical sketches
plastered to the cracked, abused skins
of the dingy brown walls. Deformed,
yellowing skeletons of every species
reigned ubiquitous in every corner.
A curio cabinet lined with jars held
preserved organs (human, she guessed,
and shuddered at the thought)
suspended in pale gold fluid.
She heard footfalls scratch the
gritty floor behind her. She spun around
and saw Babyface and the musician
peering around the room with eyes
animated by freshly charged fear.
What is this place?
asked Babyface, his voice quavering
in the quiet of the room.
I don’t know, replied Aanteekwa,
But our friend is in here, somewhere.
The trio softly called for D.S.,
trying to coax him out of these
shadowed corners. Aanteekwa sensed
the morose aged air hanging noose-like
around them: she hoped they had
not arrived too late. But suddenly, she felt
the floor throb loudly; the noise rippled
upwards into the air and into her ears,
which she shielded with cupped clamshell
hands. She looked in the direction of the
throbbing and saw a live heart attached to
an ivory chair which arched its back
one hundred eighty degrees backwards
in agony. The disembodied heart beat
a perfect square rhythm: throb on the one,
hiss on the two. Hoses ran to and from
its chambers, instead of arteries and veins.
No one spoke, and no one screamed.
They watched, transfixed, while the heart
kept on beating, oblivious to its voyeurs.
© 2014 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written for We Write Poems Prompt #194: Happy New Year. Following Elizabeth’s suggestion, I created a list of words that looked a little like this:
I used these word pairings: virgin/century, reign/ubiquitous, animated/fresh, morose/age. And boy, what a horror this is. This poem, a continuation from “Wrecking Ball!“, uses a scene is modeled after a famous music video. I won’t tell you the artist or the song, but I dare you to guess who/what.