Kit of Foxes and Lights in The Black
There was a woman, in the house of Sweetwood, she decided to bring a boy that she had known for some time into the woods, the woods where things were a little strange, and it was for a purpose most unlike that the boy had seen before. The woman asked the boy what he knew, and as there was no response, she decided to find out. The woman told the boy that it was strange to see him in the light of the woods, and that she wished to take him to a place where there was previously a house. A lot, overgrown with beds of ivy, thin, twisting stems, tangling their way through the plane just above the ground, and it were as if it were floating through space, unattached through roots, or any other connection to the unseen dirt. The girl, as wistful and delighted in the cold air, said she wished to make the boy an initiate, and it was at first a strange occurrence, as the boy had never wished to be anything, but. Oh, as it were, though, time became an issue, and the girl had to be a little crafty with that, because, as we know, time is a fickle mistress, and if the boy were to be caught in the eye of a storm, it could not be that the waters would be warm. So, it was a meeting of the witches, and in the dark, there were two. The boy listened, and a circle was drawn. As the boy saw a path previously blocked, he went through, without fear, through a gate, and when he reached the other side, it were as if five were four. So. When the woman wished to see his countenance, turned to him and the two were sharply drawn. Though, it was not that the boy and the woman from the house of Sweetwood ever saw themselves as being that far from what they had been before the turning of the light to the dark. A game then. They drew a green plane, saw that when one card drawn was more than the other, created a kind of balance, that were as if it were to add a weight of purpose to the defeat of the lesser. The boy had to take a step back, and with the step, he drew the girl to him, but it was unclear how he had done it. A memory formed, where there were no previous lights to shine, and when the boy spoke, the woman smiled. She remembered feeling as if it were not a memory at all, and the boy saw that he had indeed become something darker than before. It was memory that made the boy what he was, and in the light, a song. It was a song meant to send a whispering intent, sent on metal, thinly folded to an singular edge. The wound was not known to be so cold in the past. Sleep came easily, and it were that the boy had not dreamed. In the morning, it was apparent that if the boy knew what to do, he would see another. And, as it were, morning after morning, that the boy brought his painful eye’s gaze to the light of another weak sun. Nothing hit his face like the light of golden dawn when it came, in a flat land of grey buildings and past flights through dark alleys. She was there when he arose, and asked him if he was even still coherent, from all those binges on cheap beer, weakened lungs filled with lightning and cold, cold air. It was a while before he spoke, and when the chest rose that spat out his response, it looked blackened and bolder than it had in past utterances of speech. Marked, as it were, by a wound, an accepted fate of diseased purpose, although, not yet finished in only dark places. He sent only two words, fuck you. She didn’t exactly know what to say about it, so she retreated a little to the back of her mind. It only drew up a portrait of his evil intent, and not the smile it carried while cursing her right as his erection was subsiding in its morning swelling. This was both hilarious, and absurd for the unspoken and unseen hate between them, because of this unexpected end to the painful healing process of sorrow and extinctions and burials. Bodies, bodies, and bodies of dead skeletons, rattling in the night before it would heal the morning glory. She drew herself into its skull and the snake’s lily white death throes made her laugh and laugh. Some song rang in the echoing, coming response from the woman’s phone, signing a line under the title of her inbox, full. Written words were the poison in her blood more often than the darker reaches of any man, especially the one in front of her. This man had the gaunt audacity to speak that couple of words to her today. Her fucking trip to Napa was today, that fucking bitch, as if it weren’t the last thing he needed to hear, this cold morning, as if it was never the life of a person, to take, that couldn’t destroy everything that person could never be in the end. If there’s life in his blood, she thought, and looked, next, to the phone, knowing what was written before it could reach her eyes, and knowing that she would have to take the life of either her new initiate, or the writer of the letter. It escaped her company’s mind that he had forgotten that this was ever not permanent. I’m not sure that the whispers of smoky pepper ever missed their mark when that bloodied vodka poured into her glass, every morning that she couldn’t stand to her feet, was not something she knew the man in front of her naked eye’s beliefs. She believed he knew. Knew that this payment of alcohol, as it were’s, content, would leave him not aware of the painful night’s toll on his relationship. The pepper’s small, wisps of black and white haze came across his palate first, never through anything but a passing from nose to consciousness of future tastes and effects. The words themselves, in the letters and emotionally charged sentences of poetic justice sent from the beer influenced sleeping hours of the man, that early witching hour about seven dream sequences and cycles ago. Round and round, the hand went with the bottle, as she thought of each letter, each messages content, that the man on the other end of her phone had sent, in the previous few days. Whether she was presently ever not aware of his influence on her it would escape the drink’s effect on her initiate’s hangover. The long cold hours of sleep hadn’t shown her dreams any kind token of his weight on her shoulders, and it was not an intentional initiation that ever went perfectly, she knew, she knew he had not been brought through correctly.
Maks Coren Wylt, written in the prayer room, Oakland, CA. 2001