New Spring

In the plain where mandrakes spring from the loam to dance in the burgeoning purple thunderheads of new spring, the crone huddled in her gourd shaped house, surrounded by rounded, organic things. A traveling bible salesman knocked at her door, his red galoshes trailing biting snakes fang trapped in deep rubber. Waggling a finger, she told him, “No squares!” The round door was slammed in his bulbous nose and he slunk away, his pride damaged as much as his nose, for his nose and his pride was the one and same. When night fell, a fire crackled in the center of the house, its smoke pluming upwards to a hole on top of the gourd shaped house. Oval windows let in the pinprick lights of the millions of stars that adorned the world-ceiling. Bathed in warmth, the crone’s severe features were dampened somewhat by the fire’s frolicking light, smoothing the harsh lines of her face, the thinness of her limbs deceptive in the shadows with which light played. “I have a tale…” the crone said, her gapped teeth sounding sparks into the gloom. The crone cackled at the strange mandrake child doll that sat across from her, its green fronded hair bound with a leather thong.


2 responses to “New Spring

  1. It’s a great honor coming from a wonderful writer as yourself
    It’s funny. It’s kinda hard for me to really accept that others do appreciate the balderdash I spew… to me, writing’s all a work in progress, a compulsive outlet for the phantasms that pass through my mind. What makes one want to give life to their thoughts? It’s immortality of sorts, for stories, despite the possibility their thinker-uppers are some other thinker-upper’s thoughts, and that everything turns to dust eventually.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s