 Asked to visit Moscow
By a prince of thieves She exposes more Than ink along sleeves. Her tattoos proving How her promise delivers Beyond the wild wish Of devoted believers, A saint selling miracles To royal criminals. She stands naked as a promise To any doubt who's Thomas is In search of sure proof. A gesture, a shark's tooth Silencing a skeptic With bloody empiric Sign of her gifts. Then every mood shifts. Her tattooed body a story: Fashioning Hands of Glory, Torture with a verbal lancet, Conjuring the Black Pullet, The aspersion of waters, Corruption of virginal daughters, Solomon's mirror for divination, Spells to induce self immolation, And knowledge of seals Revealing routes to Faustian deals. Her voice a wicked rasp Every syllable sure to grasp The attention of these men Who so timidly summon; She speaks, "Let us not distort That I am more than last resort. Yet, no offense to this thieves' court, What failures of yours must I thwart?" So it comes that a king must die The witch, in no need of why, Asks, "How brutal should it be?" The verdict demands he die biblically. She dresses and departs Anxious to practice her black arts. Outside she takes to the air Riding a storm to where A shadowy tenement dares Trespassers she never spares, Those fools out to prove they're fearless As well as the witch hunters peerless. The latter, often vicious ox, Discover she's the Teumessian fox -- So regularly sought, But never likely caught. In her benighted rooms Dark as forgotten tombs She harvests parts of a natterjack toad While playfully reciting a witch's ode Thanking Clotho for the shears That all humanity fears. Heart, liver, kidney, lungs, Blessings in demonic tongues Then by herbal means she enchants Seasoning with a smattering of plants: Henbane, oil of aniseed, Angel's Trumpet, dash of richweed, Safflower, fresh bladderwrack Crushed walnuts, preferably black, And devil's shoestring Almost completes the thing. Mixed in the melted fat of a suicide She plays a chandler with pride -- Skillfully crafts a killer candle. Lit it allows a shadow to amble From the tenement, down the lane, All the way to who must be slain. It will not take all night. Meanwhile, the witch's eyes go white Save for pinpoint pupils glowing red Thru which she puppeteers the dread Assassin shade moving with celerity Delivering death with unholy barbarity. Mary Kelly's corpse doesn't compare To this vicious nightmare, Leaving no need for further discussions. Ježibaba is the witch queen of the Russians. Recently I got to partake in yet another fantastic evening of BYOT (Bring Your Own Theater). This monthly event brings together some of Chicago's most ambitious creative folks as well as a host of first-timers looking to cut their teeth. Essentially, a group of people get together, and inside of twenty-four hours create a series of one act plays. There's always a theme to help steer the course. On this occasion we got "I just wanted to play board games," and it couldn't have worked out finer. Each play stood out on its own running the spectrum from touching tales of battered veteran games to a comical paranormal bit about Monopoly. I especially enjoyed the former, "The Bottom Shelf" written by Meg Reilly.
However, obviously in the interest of shameless self promotion, I must push my own piece. Since all performers are selected at random I feel very privileged to have gotten such a wonderful cast. In particular I lucked out getting the chance to craft a character that allowed the singular Ross Childs to explode on stage. For those not yet familiar, Ross is a highly enthusiastic, and energetic performer as is well evidenced by this piece. In addition to being a quality actor he's also a seriously accomplished musician, and I recommend checking out not only his body of work, but to also keep an eye out for his album which will be dropping soon. For more on that visit this link: https://www.facebook.com/events/2201202260098137/ For more regarding BYOT, especially if you reside in the Chicago area, and wish to participate: https://www.byotproductions.com/ https://www.facebook.com/byotproductions/ That all said, my best to the wonderful cast and director. Please enjoy "Word Nerd Vengeance." WORD NERD VENGEANCE Director: Cathy Crocco Actors: Sarah Althen, Sarah Roberts, Ross Childs, & Leo Jimenez Tech: Megan Richards The explosion didn't look that big, but anything bright enough to be shine in a black hole is obviously potent. Alarms sounded almost immediately.
An artificial voice announced, "All hands brace for distortion." Already ripples undulated out from the black hole. Reality -- time and space -- warping in the wake of the explosion, Watching it race towards the ship Martin couldn't help thinking how much he wanted to be home in bed. Martin jolted upright. Looking around he didn't recognize the room. He felt a hand touch his chest, and he almost jumped out of bed. "Oh my god, are you alright?" a vaguely familiar voice asked. Dotty, he thought, her name is Dotty. Then, slowly, it returned to him. Mopping sweat off his forehead he said, "I'm fine. It was that damn dream again." She rubbed his back, "Nixon, and the infinite ostrich?" He felt a tear roll down his cheek. No one would ever know -- no one but him -- that Richard Nixon saved the universe. Lying back down Martin said, "Go back to sleep. I'll be fine." He hated lying to her. The next morning he made eggs. He loved eggs, but remembered a life when he didn't. One bad meal as a child, erased from the timeline, and suddenly an adult immensely enjoying eggs. Fourteen recipes under his belt, Martin considered himself a bit of an egg gourmet. He checked his watch. Dotty would be down soon. Martin always liked to have breakfast ready for her -- one less thing for her to worry about. A flicker like static that made him flinch. Lightning quick, a painful headache exploded in his skull, blowing itself away as soon as it flashed. Gritting his teeth Martin checked his watch. Don would be down soon. Martin always liked to have breakfast ready for him -- one less thing for him to complain about. Glancing at the pan he wondered why he chose to make eggs. He liked them, but never really knew how to cook them. Don sauntered into the kitchen. A brief good morning kiss soon turned into Don's usual grumbling recitation of the day's expectations. While Don prattled on Martin stared out the kitchen window. He frowned. Across the street a somewhat familiar, jowly man stood fighting an ostrich. The bird's feathers glowed in a rainbow of dark colors like some sinister neon sign. The jowly man pulled out a switchblade, and dove for the ostrich. Then a car drove by, and once it passed the two vanished as if they'd never been there. "I asked, 'Does that work for you?'" Don said. "I'm sorry, what?" Martin said. Thoughts of a black hole kept popping into his head. "Dinner with Todd and Lisa. I was thinking we could get together with them this weekend." Martin nodded -- flicker of static. His brain felt shredded for the briefest of moments. Shaking it off he plated the flapjacks while saying, "I don't know, Lisa. Don and Dotty can be a bit exhausting." "Yeah, Don complains a lot, but Dotty, I miss her. She's the only one at work that doesn't make me want to jump out a window." That last bit inspired a memory, someone saying, "I have to do this. Not just for America, the whole universe is at stake." Then Nixon ran forward, and tackled the infinite ostrich. The two tumbled over the railing of the star cruiser Persephone. They fell into the black hole, and... static. Martin looked around the empty kitchen. Sighing, he bit into dry toast. One day he might have company. Of course, he couldn't help wondering if, perhaps, he played it too safe his whole life. He used to take chances until goofing around in college he fell off the roof of a car doing forty miles an hour. He often wondered what kind of daring adventures that might've set him on course for, assuming he hadn't fallen off, cracked his skull, and almost died. Since then he avoided risks. The thud of a heavy foot. Furrowing his brow Martin turned. An ostrich nine feet tall slowly advanced into the kitchen. Its flickering feathers cast an insane kaleidoscope around the kitchen. In a deep guttural voice it said, "You are the tether; the road back." Martin got up from his seat, "I don't know what you're talking about." A jowly man burst through the kitchen window. Clumsily Martin dodged out of the way as the ostrich, and the man battled around the kitchen. At one point the man grabbed the bird by the neck, and head-butted it until the creature managed to kick free. It let loose a hideous cry, and vanished in an explosion of multicolor sparks. Finally able to regard the man Martin said, "Richard Nixon?" "Correct," the former president panted. "You're one of the worst presidents in history." Nixon nodded solemnly, "I knew the timeline might change for the worst. It was a risk I was willing to take. By the way, I'm not the Nixon you know, I'm the Nixon you knew." Seeing Martin's confusion Nixon said, "There's no time for explanations. Just remember: when the ripples stop, move the ship away." Pieces of a distant past intruded for a moment allowing Martin to recall -- static -- the kids needed lunch. He couldn't make peanut butter sandwiches since that new student transferred in because Jordy, his future serial killer of a son, kept trying to poison the poor kid. Static; Wendy hit him with a frying pan because he smoked the last of the meth without her; static; He slapped Wendy for doing the last of the meth without him; static; ripping out the copper piping Marty thought, It'd be nice to own a house like this someday. Static -- the bear picked up a rock with both paws, struck it against a stone, and soon understood how to make fire. Static. Floating in the Caribbean, M-dawg dozed in a small boat while sipping a banana daiquiri. He considered whether to go with strawberry next, or perhaps devise some new concoction. Staring out across the sea he saw an ostrich running across the water. A great white shark burst out of the depths, chomping into the bird, Richard Nixon riding on its back. The whole of reality quivered like jelly. M-dawg felt what could only be described as a meat hook snaring him, and pull him through a swirling vortex of light and sound. He desperately didn't want to leave this life, but couldn't resist the pull. In the cacophony he caught glimpses of other lives that seemed as if they should be familiar. Then he landed hard on the metal catwalk of the star cruiser Persephone. Shaking off the nauseating disorientation, Martin pushed himself to his feet. A dozen new memories demanded attention, but he pushed them aside. Looking out he saw the last few ripples falling back toward the black hole, the explosion of time recoiling on itself. Getting on the intercom Martin ordered the ship to pull away. "Roger that. What about Nixon?" "He died a hero," Martin said, though he doubted anyone would ever know.  "Lovely, Never Heard Enough"
Never heard enough To act as handcuff Choosing the promise of Thomas -- Doubt to dictate the shape is As wide as eyes willing To see what's filling A burning vacancy; quelled By a sincere heart weld Bonding brittle steel together Stronger, though little better Than stained glass, The fragile lad and lass None ever told Beautiful to behold. Yet, as such they see, Reflected so readily The beauty in the freak show Only they may know, And feel such pity For those too pretty To comprehend a love Some can never conceive of. |
AuthorJ. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards. Archives
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