Stories

Malín and I

Malín was mischief made muscle and mane. Together, we were a wild miracle some thought a curse. Malín and I were magic… with bite.

When I was 9 and ¾, too old to be told “Uncle X is just a friend” (who only visits someone else’s wife when her husband is working the land), Malín nearly uni-eared Uncle X while I full-scowled at my uncle’s wife.

My uncle’s wife took a stick to the horse and shared it with me.

Malín and I roared and hissed and bared our teeth as one beast. Malín and I galloped, galloped… the souls of my feet thundering through his hooves. Malín and I galloped, galloped… my heartbeats his marching drums.

Malín is memory and bone, mischief and magic forever living and leaping through me.

 

Girl’s Story, by Shelle Kennedy

 

the wee notes…
– in Spanish, Malín can be translated as “a bit bad” or “a bit wrong”.
– written for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: Life Is Ripe, where a gloriously attractive hostess invites you to “write a new poem centered around a childhood memory, which brings you joy as an adult.”
– linked to Poets United.

 

The Ghosts of Amontillado Fumes

Tunnels are made of Poe things that go thump-thump… through the red in your bones, thump-thump… until they squeeze the tell-tale frenzy bruising the inside of your chest.

When I was swallowed by my first tunnel, I screamed. My face smacked the deck with a crunch that leaked through my ears. The pain stunk of rot and the ghosts of Amontillado fumes.

Something laughed, and shouted, “I advise you—”

“No,” I said, eyes open, knowing an unsolicited advice is as needed as an enema is erotic.

I was frightened, but I would face the dark with my Self unmolested.

 

photo by Dawn M. Miller
via

 

– for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read all the yummy tales that emerged out of this tunnel, follow this link.

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