defenestrate

Stubborn words, settled in scene, unsettled by visions.

I’ve become accustomed to menthol cloves; there is a small green triangle on each to mark them as a faux-peppermint confection (masterminded by those geniuses in Indonesia). A lot has changed in the five years I’ve been writing at this desk, in this study.

My cloves, and my cognac, are not among them.

There is a pirate ship atop the armoire that wasn’t there six months ago. A wolf mask atop the small LCD television (that hasn’t been turned on in years). The Petty girls along the walls of the room have migrated based on mood and whim.

I have an additional knife. Two more floggers. A nautical hourglass and a harmonica.

Words, too; I have more of those – a viable babel tower of them.

There are ghosts here; friendly, quiet ghosts. They watch me type at my desk or curl up in the large leather chair to listen to another of my stories.

They’re waiting to see what I write next.