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


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


It’s raining white cold in my bit of New York City. Looking out of my balcony window, I see the bare limbs of my favorite trees through a curtain of white dust. I dream of going out to play, of letting winter’s kiss flush my cheeks, of catching snowflakes on my tongue while giggling cackles to the sky. But since the snow is falling too hard, I postponed my wintry dreams… and played with my Edgar Allan Poe’s and Sigmund Freud’s magnetic poetry kits. I used the kits to create a wee poem for the Imaginary Garden (Play It Again, Toads!): Words Count with Mama Zen. Also linked to Poets United, Poetry Pantry 286.


She kisses a storm on his skin;
and in his heart
lies desire.
♥ the scarf framing the poem is knitted love from my sweet Gina
♥ her gift makes winter warm and sparkly ♥