TALKING DARK

There are page breaks in my conversations with the night.

That's right. I said page breaks. These are pro-choice pregnant pauses, my body my choice blank and shining white.

When the witching hour approaches to throw it's nets over the million snapshot dreams that the wise spin into spells, I know that's my cue. It's time for me to shock the lumbering dark into silence so it gives me room for one more shuddering breath.

One page, four pages or 17 pages. Yes, I know but "pages breaks" made my head hurt. I don't claim to understand how Her Majesty decides, but I like to think it's my most arresting story of heathen sin that causes the longest ones.

The argent moon illuminates the long string of clouds for the night to clutch as she gasps through her starry veil. It's as satisfying as bacon and revenge. Something has to silence the old crone as she labors to pull my secrets out like an angler reeling in a fish full of worms and holding it up to some ghoulish photographer with her smug almost-smile.

I'll draw that hard-won, shuddering breath gratefully and sit down for another round of conversation with the night until her sister arrives to drive her out.