🔸Twirling🔸 You blink, and it’s over.
The man dressed, and painted in black, is triculating, triangulating, and descending, naked and vulnerable, spiraling into tribulation. Shadowy silhouettes fall with him, parasites sucking his last drops of warm, crimson blood.
Twirling, twirling. The man in black descends through the dark starless night of the eternal abyss. It has no time or space.
The translucent red moon
peers down, and lights the path for the cosmic being falling into nothingness.
“Harold!” Are you twirling again sweetie. I told you to stop twirling. It’ll mess up your mind.”
“Yes mommy, whatever you say. Sheesh… Did Poe have to go through this shit with his mother? Doesn’t she get it? I’m a writer. Writers always twirl. I’m a twirler everyone. See me twirl.”
Little Harold looks out his bedroom window at a small, baby raven perched on a tree branch, staring back at him. The boy twirls round and round.. He stops and looks down. The bird is now on his window sill, looking up at him with its black beady eyes. It begins to twirl. Harold parts his thin rosy lips into a delightful smile, both chocolate eyes glinting in the morning sunlight.
The boy writer flaps his arms up and down, as if in flight, inhales a deep breath of the pristine morning air, and smells the sweet flowery odor wafting from the garden below.
And then, he joins the little bird, and together they twirl.