Unnatural Disaster, etc.
By
Lindsey Goddard
Unnatural Disaster
“It won’t happen again,”
he promises, and his words
hold as much meaning
as the tectonic plates
beneath her feet
promising not to shift
and cause an earthquake.
He’s a volcano, assuring
the nearby village he won’t
erupt, as if scientists
can suddenly stop monitoring
gas emissions
and groundwater chemistry,
as long as the mountain
promises not to explode
and unleash lava.
The only difference is
these days,
she’d prefer a natural disaster.
At least her heart
doesn’t miss
volcanoes and earthquakes
once they’re over.
His Playthings
His playthings came back to play,
Shambling through dark streets,
Unseen by slumbering citizens,
They found his mansion on the beach,
Gathered near the roaring waves,
Their eyes clouded over with pain,
But hungry for a chance to air
Grievances that this man had
Put the past away, repented for
His sins and moved on to
Brighter days, retirement with his
Wife, canvas folding chairs
In the sand and watching the tide
Roll in, the sun sitting fat and
Swollen in the sky like a ripe
Blood orange, ready to burst.
He had been a man of wicked
Secrets and lustful manipulations
Of power, but through prayer,
He’d been absolved of his sins?
Not according to the forces that be,
Calling forth these souls on the beach.
The way he’d turned his authority
Into abuse had faded into history,
But he hadn’t sought forgiveness
In the right place. So, they came
Back one night, his playthings,
Each of them still broken in all the
Ways he’d individually broken them.
Sarah, with cigar burns like badges
Of dishonor on soft white skin and
Britney with permanent pink cuffs on
Her wrists from where he had
Made the ropes too tight and left
Her there to struggle for hours
While he watched her on camera
In his lounge and drank bourbon,
Growing hard when she cried.
Tamara, the corners of her lips
Bloody from where he’d placed the
Gag and yanked those ropes taut,
Like shoelaces before a ballgame.
Of course…
He didn’t know their names.
Not a single one.
They’d told him, but he
Never
Once
Cared.
So…
One by one, in his mansion
On the beach,
The ghosts of spirits he’d broken
With each selfish act
And each painful thrust
Gathered as he awoke,
All of them,
Smiling down at him now,
Reaching for him,
Pulling him into the place
Where their yearning for vengeance
Had gathered
And where their energy
Had been waiting
To teach him a thing or two
About the abuse of power.
Hot Dish
I’ll
Not be
The meat on
Your plate, not a
Hot dish, served up
To slobbery maws that
Devour too quickly what has
Ripened, just right, to lure explosions
Of flavor, we could savor to the last
Drop, over and over again,
Like heaven sighing.
But not if you put
Me on a plate
Like steak.
Not then.
No.
Lindsey Goddard is an author of dark fiction, poetry, and true crime, living in Missouri, whose short stories have been published in e-zines such as Gamut Magazine and Carnage House, as well as in anthologies such as Error Code and The Asylum of Terror, Vol. 1 and 2. Her work has been performed on popular podcasts like Creepy Podcast and Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. She is the author of four short story collections, two poetry books, and a novel, Ashes of Another Life. For more information, visit: LindseyBethGoddard.com
By
Lindsey Goddard
Unnatural Disaster
“It won’t happen again,”
he promises, and his words
hold as much meaning
as the tectonic plates
beneath her feet
promising not to shift
and cause an earthquake.
He’s a volcano, assuring
the nearby village he won’t
erupt, as if scientists
can suddenly stop monitoring
gas emissions
and groundwater chemistry,
as long as the mountain
promises not to explode
and unleash lava.
The only difference is
these days,
she’d prefer a natural disaster.
At least her heart
doesn’t miss
volcanoes and earthquakes
once they’re over.
His Playthings
His playthings came back to play,
Shambling through dark streets,
Unseen by slumbering citizens,
They found his mansion on the beach,
Gathered near the roaring waves,
Their eyes clouded over with pain,
But hungry for a chance to air
Grievances that this man had
Put the past away, repented for
His sins and moved on to
Brighter days, retirement with his
Wife, canvas folding chairs
In the sand and watching the tide
Roll in, the sun sitting fat and
Swollen in the sky like a ripe
Blood orange, ready to burst.
He had been a man of wicked
Secrets and lustful manipulations
Of power, but through prayer,
He’d been absolved of his sins?
Not according to the forces that be,
Calling forth these souls on the beach.
The way he’d turned his authority
Into abuse had faded into history,
But he hadn’t sought forgiveness
In the right place. So, they came
Back one night, his playthings,
Each of them still broken in all the
Ways he’d individually broken them.
Sarah, with cigar burns like badges
Of dishonor on soft white skin and
Britney with permanent pink cuffs on
Her wrists from where he had
Made the ropes too tight and left
Her there to struggle for hours
While he watched her on camera
In his lounge and drank bourbon,
Growing hard when she cried.
Tamara, the corners of her lips
Bloody from where he’d placed the
Gag and yanked those ropes taut,
Like shoelaces before a ballgame.
Of course…
He didn’t know their names.
Not a single one.
They’d told him, but he
Never
Once
Cared.
So…
One by one, in his mansion
On the beach,
The ghosts of spirits he’d broken
With each selfish act
And each painful thrust
Gathered as he awoke,
All of them,
Smiling down at him now,
Reaching for him,
Pulling him into the place
Where their yearning for vengeance
Had gathered
And where their energy
Had been waiting
To teach him a thing or two
About the abuse of power.
Hot Dish
I’ll
Not be
The meat on
Your plate, not a
Hot dish, served up
To slobbery maws that
Devour too quickly what has
Ripened, just right, to lure explosions
Of flavor, we could savor to the last
Drop, over and over again,
Like heaven sighing.
But not if you put
Me on a plate
Like steak.
Not then.
No.
Lindsey Goddard is an author of dark fiction, poetry, and true crime, living in Missouri, whose short stories have been published in e-zines such as Gamut Magazine and Carnage House, as well as in anthologies such as Error Code and The Asylum of Terror, Vol. 1 and 2. Her work has been performed on popular podcasts like Creepy Podcast and Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. She is the author of four short story collections, two poetry books, and a novel, Ashes of Another Life. For more information, visit: LindseyBethGoddard.com
