by Josh Crosson

She is a widow who lives all alone. Her house is bright, brighter than her fine features. The golden curls of her hair light up the kitchen, where she stands over a piece of toast. Slightly burnt. And rich butter melts on top to match her bright hair. She once had a husband caught in her web, although she didn't bother to eat the fellow. For the sea swallowed him whole. He was a handsome older man. Proper. Just like his widowed bride. He stood tall before the hungry ocean. A rage at his back. In his suit and cap. Tough stare, salty demeanor. Eyes that took on the green of the sea. And sails stronger than the wind that pounded against them. A foamy substance sprayed from his cracked lips. A real fisherman. Every time the waves crash, her ears twitch and her eyes caught. She can almost hear the wood of the ship moaning, and sucking in the thick sea water. She thinks of where he's at now; sitting around a host of captains in some heavenly room. She pictures the room dark and beautiful with several tall candles lit on the table. And the other captains are elegant and translucent. But, as quick as her mind went to these places ~ she is quick to snap out of it. Back to the comfort of warm toast crumbling in her hands. A cold glass of milk would compliment the toast. Already, she could feel the sweet milk rolling in her belly ~ when she opens the fridge, only an empty glass jar is there to greet; and some residue from the last batch of milk. She shakes her head, this won't do.' Before this little, old widow is even out the door she has devoured her toast and is pulling her coat on. She slinks outside before the fridge closes. For such a lonely lady ~ this sweet, ol' thing isn't rushed. There is patience to her stroll. She wipes the last few bread crumbs from her lips. A few crows spring from the tree limbs, and speak to one-another. And continue to circle the widow as she strolls on. Her deep orange robe and dark jacket resemble a walking pumpkin, if it had rolled from its patch. Or a street-lamp along the endless gray sky, and the gray earth it's reflecting. Her looks can make any man swoon. And she has far surpassed one-hundred years. Her shy blue eyes dart. The city is many miles from here. But she loves any opportunity to get out and breathe the fresh air.

. . . . .

The city is a haze in the distance. Its structures look like arrowheads that stretch far above the clouds. Other structures seem to mutate off of one another. The widow keeps her steady pace. With time to look at every limb of the forest that welcomed. Her purse swings to the flow of her movement. Sweet gusts brush under her nose. And the air is sweet. She couldn't tell if it was coming from the city. Those factories at the end of town, and those hot ovens ~ baking those delicious, buttery pastries. The city is closer now. And the fragrance stronger. Pecan pies, butter soaking into the thin crust. She had now decided ~ firstly, to fill her belly with a delicious piece of pie.

. . . . .

The caf is a hole in the wall. But inside holds vibrant suits. And its ceiling croaks into a twisted design, ending at the tip some 80 feet up. Even with the noise of its customers, the scent is worth hanging around. And the widow is most patient.. In a quick exchange, she orders a Classic Key Lime Pie. The waitress is kind, and pretty. Color doesn't seem to manifest within the caf. Only flares on other people's suits give off constant glow of color. The widow sits at her table . She gawks at the constant array of advertising being forced. She feels a deep disrespect. For she prefers to eat undisturbed, on sturdy wood tables And only the fireplace to keep her company..

You can see the hazy outline of an atmosphere trying to reveal itself. Somehow, a sorrow fills in these beings. These fleshy things. The widow stirs... Adrift. The outline, still in atonement. She peeks back over to her pulsating table, and watches what is displayed.


The sea? A flashing mass appears on the screen. It's green and looks like plastic. Not even the sea is real. It's been reanimated for the public eye. A muscle seizes the old lady's skin.

"Coffee ma'am?" The waitress's voice is swing, and rolls about. She holds up a fresh batch.

"Please." The widow pulls from the plastic sea. A sleek arm extends to pour. She fixates. Needle-like work. Arms that smell of fruit. Then, she pulls away. And soaks in the coffee. Some of the best coffee she's ever smelt. The old lady swipes the mug before it fills to the brim. And sips. Perhaps the sweetest coffee to touch her tongue. Before the waitress could form the words~

"No cream or sugar. Thanks." The widow speaks to prevent anymore questions. Our needle-work gal disappears into the colorful crowd. The hazy rush. Back to square away her duties. A few more sips to drown the riff-raff. To focus on her tickled taste buds.

How the birds would hate such banter. These fleshy things are sleeping inside their own goldmine. Greedy miners stepping on one another. Birds think this to be rude. Not one dialogue can creep from the noise. Impatience grows and a grisly look takes the widow.

Our waitress returns with a steamy piece of pie. Her arms reveal freckles of flour and dough. A real baker. Without a single word, she swims back into the crowd. The pie is warm, but still only a small slice for this pretty widow. One forkful and it vanishes with the coffee. She soaks in the air. If only it would vanish too. A thick presence, almost like sex.

While her fellow tiptoes back into her mind, she can hear her own shrieks. The sailor in his prime, thrusts deeply into her thigh. Another shriek! The widow wraps around her young lover, like a snake before it devours its prey. She can feel the salt when he sprays.

. . . . .

The city rots around the corner. Termites eat the sub-floor and scratch at the walls. The widow peeks. Jokers dance with their fires in the alleys. Rats shout, and then flee. The prettier buildings sit in the heart of the city, coiling and clinging at their tips. People even prettier look out in their shiny suits only to see hungry mice and their coveted cheese.

The widow steps out and continues. A strong wind picks up carrying the rest of the street. She stops at the bare feet of a little boy in the street. He's gray and cold and looks around seventeen.

"My dear boy, I can feel you trembling." The young boy, transfixed on this beautiful queen, can't find the courage to speak. His eyes are as gray as his feet. "Come with me doll and I'll fix you something to eat."

Blood rushes to the boy's genitals. His balls shrivel and his cock swells. Still, he can't speak. A strobe of fantasy flash in his brain. The gray begins to glow and the shouts in his stomach settle.

"Come dear. Come, come." She grabs his hand, dragging the boy home.

. . . . .

Her house emerges. It appears sturdy . But the boy's mind can't catch up with his feet. The widow pulls him into her hotbed. He stands at the center of her parlor without breaking his gaze. If only he knew, his queen is shrewd. In fact, there won't be any words exchanged between the two. Just silent smiles. This boy is rash. Feeble. Not even sex occupies his mind.

. . . . .

The stovetop bites. An empty pot sits patiently, gathering heat. The widow sucks on her knife, looking out to sea. Once again, she is all alone. At her back, the animal hangs from a beam. He is pink.


2012 Josh Crosson

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