The Black Cat

A Fairy Tale

In through the back door

with the southerly wind,

from the lush Autumn yard,

the black cat strode in.

Meanwhile, the bats

colonized the easternmost face

of the house, above

in the attic space.

Wrapped in magic,

the house was cocooned.

A metamorphosis transpiring

within every wall and every room.

Inside, in the dark,

the couple slept and sometimes cried,

but mostly smiled, with the black cat

at their side.

Until one day, the woman cut her golden hair.

Unknowingly, she broke the spell.

And the bats dispersed into the darkness of morning,

banished from the home where they used to happily dwell.

The wind stole in

as a crack scarred the cocoon,

and caught in a gust,

the black cat flew.

The couple gasped

and grasped for her,

even as the black cat sprouted

her own wings of fur.

Then slowly the sun rose,

dissolving the illusion —

lighting the emptiness

of the devastation.

And the woman with her golden hair

now graying in the sun,

Looks with anticipation to the west,

for the wind, again, to come.


~ M.


Cruel Flowers

Cruelly, the flowers
grace my vision. —
Their beauty fills my senses
and feeds my soul.
This fleeting, beautiful moment
that I cannot hold.
The expansion of my heart,
turns concave.
Towards the lives of those
I cannot save.
I breathe in deep
the sweetest air,
only to exhale into
the sudden darkness there.
Cruel flowers reaching
for the light of the Sun,
rooting downward towards
the less fortunate ones.
Bloom as they wilt,
in the breeze, free to sway.
I still long to gaze upon them,
while I may.

~ M.

The Dark Half

This June, I read Stephen King’s The Dark Half, a story in which an author’s alter ego competes for control of his life. As a Gemini, I naturally identify with the concept of duality. With this book, it’s especially interesting to consider what it means for an individual to live as their “true self,” versus who they think they should be. For example, in terms of personal interests versus professional success, while many of us want to live true to ourselves, a high-paying, though soul-sucking venture can also look awfully tempting.

Continue reading “The Dark Half”


In our minds, the wheels turn, playing our memory tracks over and over again. They get scratchy. Begin to sound dated. Begin to sound foreign. And yet, in remembering, we continue to identify with past times. Past versions of ourselves, even as we evolve and the wheels turn and churn and burn for new recordings. Like the girl from the movie, The Ring, our past selves haunt the tape spools of our minds, and yet we can’t resist watching, even in horror. Continue reading “Re-remembering”


My earliest memory was of being caught at the end of a fishing line. I was standing behind my brother on a fishing pier at the Virginia coast when he cast his line behind him, not realizing I was standing there. I was three years old then, and our family had begun what would become our summertime ritual of traveling east for fishing, crabbing and soaking in the beach sun. For my brother, the redhead of the family, this usually meant getting burned to a lobster red. Despite the sunscreen, hats and white, long-sleeved shirts, the ultraviolet waves reflected brightly around, infiltrating on the breeze. Continue reading “Hooked”