“Wake up everyone! She is finally blooming,” the old Rose bush shouted.
The Lilacs leaned over to examine the bud they had all watched for so long. It was a new species and one they had never seen before.
“I tell you it is just a weed. Blew in off the southern breeze and now we have to share our garden with it,” the Dandelions roared in disgust.
A hanging Wisteria whacked the back of one of the Dandelions, silencing it, and forcing a light dusting of spores to break free.
One by one, small green triangles gently peeled away exposing a white core with purple frosted tips.
Morning dew steamed gently under the rising sun as the first light poured into the garden.
All were silent.
Suddenly, the Rose bush seized, popping off all her thorns. The Lilacs withered down to nearly nothing, desperate to be forgotten. The Dandelions exploded seeking refuge along any willing wind current.
The Wisteria, she recoiled up into her high perch and watched.
She watched the carnage and the reckless mayhem.
The Deer grunted and crushed the young sojourning flower between its flat teeth.
Once there was a flower that was supposed to be, but never was. That flower drifted into a Garden that was to be home, but never was.
Danny Machal September 20th, 2015
The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.
The Devil’s Abode was special cemetery where only those who were particularly nasty while living could be buried.
I know what you are thinking. It isn’t just criminals that inhabit this hallowed ground.
Some criminals can be down right pleasant in comparison to these monsters.
This Cemetery is for the worst offenders of societal order.
The woman who insists on paying with a written check for a pack of gum, does nothing but infuriate the self righteous road rage maniac next to her plot.
Astral channels buzz to life at night with long debates, between organic anti-vaxxers and a pack of old ‘Right Wingers,’ who have so much passion for their political opinion, they would die twice just to see those hippies wiped from the planet.
I sit here watching it all, leaving notes on the front of their caskets.
No one knows who the passive aggressive one is here, but they ALL hate their dead guts.
Danny Machal September 4th, 2015
“Leave a glass of red wine for the Fire Elementals,” my Mother would say.
I’d always ask, “Where?” just so she would tell me one of her stories.
Mom was an accomplished leader of a local coven of Witches. They mostly got together in the back yard on Saturday Nights. I always liked it because they would let me roast marshmallows on the fire pit while they danced around.
“Over by the fireplace,” she then went on to explain. “Chimneys, in any form mind you, are the gateways through which we can interact with the Elementals. When I was a girl we just called them, Fe’ Tunnels,” she stared at her own reflection painted on the black glass window of the night. Remaining quiet.
“Funny thing that,” she said looking at herself.
“What?” I went and stood next to her. I discovered she was not transfixed on her reflection at all. There was a full vision of her past life playing out right before us on the black glass.
“Mom,” I whispered.
“Ignis cuniculum,” she whispered.
We watched on as a young Roman girl placed a small clay cup of wine near the open fire pit of a small stone home.
Danny Machal September 2nd, 2015