The Inky Blackness
By
Julie Allyn Johnson
Miscreant
I am not your garden-variety monster.
No animated grotesquerie
staged for Netflix or HBO
but I am a monster nonetheless.
Ruthless, brutal, blood-thirsty.
If I can strike or maim you, I will.
Camouflaged claws
conceal a penchant for brutality.
Your virgin-sweet ears
ascertain mere whispers,
my vicious howls and shrieks.
Vindictiveness, my calling card.
I clamp down my razor-sharp teeth
into the creamy flesh of your unsuspecting trust.
I swipe at your blossoming naivete
without a shred of conscience or decency.
I disarm you with my callous guile
and sneer at your faithful innocence.
Steeped in the demonic, I am evil and unjust.
I relish your waifish simplicity
and yearn to gain
forever access
to your
pathetic
beautiful
soul.
nearly vertical
woman, mentor
trusted friend
I see your face, your truth.
my hands grasp at tree roots,
I dangle above the depths.
with sharpened blades
you scissor off the fingers of my left hand
then the right,
for good measure, two more whacks
and yet I do not fall.
I understand, now,
your tell-tale heart
maligns all
who might seek shelter there.
Nantucket Slough
Airborne insects buzz and whine,
cicadas drone on, an infinite loop.
Shimmery wings
skim the fetid stench,
the muddy ooze
of this desolate marsh.
Papery appendages soar
amid a hushed spectacle of sound.
Cattails burst on gusts of wind,
nocturnal beings creep into the night.
Onlookers,
mindless of the pending menace,
flit and skitter and alight in the gathering dusk.
White noise, boggy waters.
Twin beams pierce the twilight:
1961 Lincoln Continental
Tahitian Turquoise
rusted fender
broken antennae.
Sweet crunch of rubber striking gravel,
tires rolling to an ominous halt.
Driver’s door opens, then — thunk — slams shut.
Footsteps
slow and deliberate
taunting.
Nursing the stub of a Camel Light,
the driver squints his eyes
and inhales the smoke of his delayed longing.
He pauses then pops the trunk
peers inside
tossing his cigarette.
Mockingly tender, he reaches for her.
A struggle ensues but quickly ends
for one is bound
the other is free.
Unshackling her,
he speaks in low measured tones
then utters a
single
paralyzing
command:
Run.
Eyes wide, so wide:
the match has been struck,
her fate determined.
He nudges her forward.
She stumbles,
falls to the ground,
arms outstretched,
eyes grasping at the black veil before her.
Slowly she rises.
The man waits, relishing her fear.
Hesitant at first,
she steps forward
then does as she's been told.
The game begins.
And in the inky blackness
an upright creature snarls
and roars his bloody mouth.
Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer's daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her poetry can be found in Star*Line, The Briar Cliff Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Lyrical Iowa, Moss Piglet, Lowestoft Chronicle, Cream Scene Carnival, Coffin Bell, Haikuniverse, Chestnut Review and other journals. Julie enjoys photography and writing the occasional haiku, some of which can be found on her blog, A Sawyer’s Daughter.
By
Julie Allyn Johnson
Miscreant
I am not your garden-variety monster.
No animated grotesquerie
staged for Netflix or HBO
but I am a monster nonetheless.
Ruthless, brutal, blood-thirsty.
If I can strike or maim you, I will.
Camouflaged claws
conceal a penchant for brutality.
Your virgin-sweet ears
ascertain mere whispers,
my vicious howls and shrieks.
Vindictiveness, my calling card.
I clamp down my razor-sharp teeth
into the creamy flesh of your unsuspecting trust.
I swipe at your blossoming naivete
without a shred of conscience or decency.
I disarm you with my callous guile
and sneer at your faithful innocence.
Steeped in the demonic, I am evil and unjust.
I relish your waifish simplicity
and yearn to gain
forever access
to your
pathetic
beautiful
soul.
nearly vertical
woman, mentor
trusted friend
I see your face, your truth.
my hands grasp at tree roots,
I dangle above the depths.
with sharpened blades
you scissor off the fingers of my left hand
then the right,
for good measure, two more whacks
and yet I do not fall.
I understand, now,
your tell-tale heart
maligns all
who might seek shelter there.
Nantucket Slough
Airborne insects buzz and whine,
cicadas drone on, an infinite loop.
Shimmery wings
skim the fetid stench,
the muddy ooze
of this desolate marsh.
Papery appendages soar
amid a hushed spectacle of sound.
Cattails burst on gusts of wind,
nocturnal beings creep into the night.
Onlookers,
mindless of the pending menace,
flit and skitter and alight in the gathering dusk.
White noise, boggy waters.
Twin beams pierce the twilight:
1961 Lincoln Continental
Tahitian Turquoise
rusted fender
broken antennae.
Sweet crunch of rubber striking gravel,
tires rolling to an ominous halt.
Driver’s door opens, then — thunk — slams shut.
Footsteps
slow and deliberate
taunting.
Nursing the stub of a Camel Light,
the driver squints his eyes
and inhales the smoke of his delayed longing.
He pauses then pops the trunk
peers inside
tossing his cigarette.
Mockingly tender, he reaches for her.
A struggle ensues but quickly ends
for one is bound
the other is free.
Unshackling her,
he speaks in low measured tones
then utters a
single
paralyzing
command:
Run.
Eyes wide, so wide:
the match has been struck,
her fate determined.
He nudges her forward.
She stumbles,
falls to the ground,
arms outstretched,
eyes grasping at the black veil before her.
Slowly she rises.
The man waits, relishing her fear.
Hesitant at first,
she steps forward
then does as she's been told.
The game begins.
And in the inky blackness
an upright creature snarls
and roars his bloody mouth.
Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer's daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her poetry can be found in Star*Line, The Briar Cliff Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Lyrical Iowa, Moss Piglet, Lowestoft Chronicle, Cream Scene Carnival, Coffin Bell, Haikuniverse, Chestnut Review and other journals. Julie enjoys photography and writing the occasional haiku, some of which can be found on her blog, A Sawyer’s Daughter.
