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.

Legacy of Imbalance

I’m a child of climate chaos, bred to breathe poison.

The babes of my generation wailed their way into the world missing pieces—eyes, intestines, trust… Those who came before us lusted after fossil fuel and didn’t love trees enough.

We paid for our forebears’ imbalance in disease and desolation.

Please, don’t take me for a techno-hater. I’m quite attached to my cyber-limbs. Without well-lubed metal, walking and typing and… claiming the coolest vintage oilcan collection west of The Floods would’ve been just a dream for me.

Still, I would’ve loved a leaf collection. The archives say they were lovely.

 

inspired by this image
photographed by Nick Allen
via

lingering post-chemo emotions
and this song

 

– for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To see what other stories were poured out of these cans (see photo), follow this link.
– linked to Poets United.