Babyface sauntered over to
the stranger and stopped only
a couple of inches in front of his face.
I made the heartbeat stop, he declared.
Aanteekwa swore that she felt
a frigid wind blow in the fjord between
the two men’s faces, forming an icy sheet
of silence which Babyface shattered
with a gelid blue stare and a question:
What are you gonna do about it?
The stranger smirked and chuckled.
Sorry, I don’t feel like a fight today.
Would be a waste of my time.
As he spoke, Aanteekwa filmed him with
a lingering vertical gaze, birthing inside
her bone dome brain chest little curled up
celluloid snakes stamped with his image:
black leather, suited and gloved, except for a
bare white chest crisscrossed by black nylon.
Those serpents quickly grew into
slick, thick coils stroked by a lurid sun.
When she asked him for his name,
he replied: That’s not important.
She shook her head. All right, Fishnet.
But will you please help us?
The musician then pointed to the
open worn wound in the wall’s skin
and said: Our friend is in here.
Fishnet nodded. I know, he said.
He approached and peered into
the lightless galaxy of void and tear
at their lost friend. Please come out,
he pleaded. You will die in there.
Why should I, you bastard?
D.S. thundered from inside.
Aanteekwa heard his storm
sobbing itself in sheets of tears:
she imagined his brow crackling
with black lightning as he spoke.
You created me this way!
And you are responsible for the
monster I have become.
© 2014 Nicole Nicholson. All rights reserved.
This poem was written for We Write Poems prompt #195 where Elizabeth asked us to write an emotional weather report. Continuing the story from Through a Dream, Darkly I chose this scene to give a few short reports: icy wind between Babyface and Fishnet, a heat wave inside Aanteekwa (and judging from how our stranger looks, you can certainly understand why) and the storm erupting inside D.S. As George Takei would say, “Oh myyy!” Having fun yet? I am.