Nectar of the gods

 Nectar of the gods

 

 This was my story for a Flash Fiction contest in June.

These were the story criteria:

Each story had to include (word for word) the following SEVEN descriptions at any point in the story body and be 500 word or fewer:

1. THICK AS HONEY
2. SILENT AND STILL
3. GOLDEN GLOW
4. HEART-SHAPED
5. DELICATE PERFUME
6. SOFT AND DOUGHY
7. RAZOR-SHARP 

Nectar of the gods

Alice Gray was seventy-three and had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. They had given her less than a year to live. She did not take this news well, having been an explorer all her life and beaten death several times over. She’d kept an ace up her sleeve just for this.

This is how she came to be in the heart of the forest, the foliage was so thick that the golden glow from the noonday sun only let through dappled patches of sunlight. Her quest was to find the elusive giant honeysuckle. Deep in this ancient forest was where it was supposed to grow. She was roughly in the center of the woods if she could rely on her GPS, it was having problems connecting to the satellites. She’d made it past the bogs that were soft and doughy and would suck you down without warning, never to be seen again. If she didn’t find it soon, she would have to make camp and this idea did not appeal to her in the least.

Up ahead she noticed a lightening in the perpetual gloom of the forest. It was a small clearing that hadn’t shown up during her aerial reconnaissance. There in the middle of the clearing was a towering oak tree. About half way up the tree was a heart-shaped knot hole. As she stepped into the clearing everything went silent and still. She felt like she had crossed the border into another time and place. Almost at the same instant she smelled the delicate perfume of the honeysuckle. There were vines of it as thick as your arm winding around the oak tree and disappearing into the heights. She could see the flowers dripping their nectar as thick as honey. That was what she was here for. The nectar was purported to cure all know diseases, return youth and even imbue immortality upon who ever tasted it.

What stood between her and her goal was a wall of brambles with razor-sharp thorns. She’d not come all this way to be thwarted by a thorn bush. Using the climbing gear she’d brought with her, she went about thirty feet up in a tree closest to the oak. She shot a barbed spike with a steel cable attached to it into the trunk of the oak. Then she ratcheted down here end until it was taut. With her zip line in place she made her way to the oak keeping her speed down so as not to crash into it. She reached up an pulled one of the honeysuckle flowers toward her. As the nectar dripped into her mouth the only word she could think of to describe it was ambrosia. Looking at her hands she saw the age spots disappearing and felt a vigor that she didn’t remember having for years. She took samples of the nectar, set a way point in her GPS and headed home for her next adventure.

No More Vampires

 No More Vampires

Jessica hadn’t had any problems with her first two husbands. George’s death was a fluke and had left her sitting pretty until that real estate deal collapsed. Harrison, she had liked Harrison except that he kept her on a short leash with a shorter allowance. It took a while, but the combination of switching his coffee to decaf and spiking it with Benedril had a wonderful effect. The fact that he had untreated sleep apnea also contributed to the accident. He fell asleep at the wheel on the way to the office and ran into the overpass. "

Here's that ad again Phil, this must be the fifth time I've seen it this month," she said reading from the paper. "Tired of watching your loved ones grow old and die? Tired of having to move from place to place? Want to feel the sun on your face again? Looking for volunteers to test potential cure for vampirism. Call for an appointment. It gives a phone number."

“What are you reading Jess?” He knew perfectly well what it was.

“It’s the Dark Times, I know you don’t like me to read it but there are some good articles in here sometimes.”

"It must be some one's idea of a joke. Everyone knows that there is no cure for being a vampire, other than a wooden stake through the heart, sun light, or being decapitated. I don't want to volunteer for any of those options," said Phil.”

She just looked at him over her newspaper and said, "I guess you don't love me

enough to want to grow old and die with me."

"I love you enough to not turn you into a vampire, so you wouldn't have to grow old and die," he said.

"Well, there is that," she replied.

"If I thought there was the slightest chance of getting rid of this curse, I would call right now. I need to go out for a while. I probably won't see you till tomorrow." He kissed her on the cheek and said "Good night."

"Good night Phil, I love you!" she said and then he was gone.

All night the thought that there might be a cure fluttered around the back of his

mind. He wasn't a very good vampire anyway, not at least to the tabloid standards. He had never killed anyone; he would just drink enough, heal the wound and make them forget. He never hung out with other vampires; they tended to scare him. It was about fifty years ago that he had become a vampire, and not because he wanted to, but being immortal did have its perks. He had amassed a tidy fortune, mostly by reading his victims thoughts and using the information to his advantage. Phil was a New Yorker through and through. He loved the city and could never see himself living any where else. He tended to go for stockbrokers and do a little insider trading without the risk. Of course he had signed most of this over to his wife because as she had said "Phil, we can't get insurance on you; you would never pass the physical. A will is no good either, because if you ever were killed, there would be no body and I would have to wait seven years to have you declared legally dead." Jessica was not good at wait for things.

The next evening Jessica once again pointed out the ad. Phil grabbed it from

her and went to the phone. He dialed the number, and on the forth ring a woman

answered.

"Hello.”

"Hello, I am calling about the ad in the Times, the one where you are looking

for volunteers."

"Oh," said the woman at the other end. Then Phil heard some muffled

conversation on the other end as if she had covered the receiver. Then she said, "If you are calling about the cure for vampirism I will have to ask you a few questions first."

"O.K."

"First, how long have you been a vampire?"

Phil thought for a moment just to make sure, "about fifty years."

"Can you trace your vampiric line?"

He thought for a second and then said, "Do you mean do I know who made me a vampire, and who made them a vampire and so on?"

"Exactly."

"I have no idea; I never wanted to be a vampire to begin with.”

"Well, then I guess we won’t get any history to work from. Would you like to schedule an appointment? I have an opening tomorrow night at eleven, if that will do."

Phil was not sure he wanted to go through with this, but he said "Sure eleven is fine," and he wrote down the address on the edge of the newspaper then tore it off and stuffed it into his pocket.

"What name should I put down for the appointment?"

"Phil Stevenson.”

"Oh just one other thing," she said "Please eat before you come, it makes the orderlies less nervous, goodbye," and she hung up.

Phil stared at the phone for a couple of seconds before he hung up, as if he had not heard her correctly. Then he looked up at Jessica.

"Well, I have made an appointment, but I don't think there is a cure."

"You never know, medical science moves forward by leaps and bounds. Just

think, if you do get cured we could move to Miami and start a new life."

Phil had never liked Miami, but he wouldn't tell Jessica that, besides it would never come to that. Phil said "If they can cure me, you can take me to Miami and let me bake in the sun."

"Oh, it would be great Phil!" she said. "I could have friends again, I mean we could. I could stop making up all of these stories about what you do for a living and everything." Phil apologized once more for taking her away from her friends; he had lost track of how many times he had said sorry. What fool said, "Love is never having to say you're sorry?" Phil couldn't remember.

The next evening about ten thirty, Phil pulled the paper out of his pocket and headed for the address. It was in the warehouse district, but that didn't bother him. He assumed the rent was cheaper and it also made the clients less conspicuous. As he approached the door he saw a small sign with the name VIRUS, LLC and just above the door was a surveillance camera. To the right of the door was an intercom that had a sign reading "Please press the button and state your name." He pressed the button and said "Phil Stevenson, I have an eleven o'clock appointment."

He heard the door buzz and a voice say "Please follow the hall to the first door on your left."

Phil went in and looked around. It was nothing special just cheap paneled walls and a drop ceiling. He walked into the office and to his surprise it was a pretty regulation doctor's office waiting room. Several padded chairs, a magazine rack with the requisite two-year-old magazines and a receptionist behind a sliding glass window.

He was the only one there and he went over to the window. He said "Phil Stevenson, I have an appointment."

The girl behind the counter didn't even look up as she said, "Please sign in and someone will be with you as soon as they can. Is this your first time here?"

"Yes."

She handed him a clipboard and a pen.

"Fill out the front page and sign it, read and sign pages two, three, and four."

Then she closed the window and went back to the paper back book she was reading.

Phil sat down and began filling in the form, all the usual stuff, but no mention of insurance or payment. The next of kin box worried him for an instant but he got over it, after all what could happen. The next three pages were all in legalese and talked about not holding anyone liable for anything that might happen. Phil skimmed over these pages and signed them all then he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist and sat down to wait.

He didn't have to wait long before a woman dressed in a crisp white lab coat

came in and greeted him. She had his clipboard and glanced down at it as she said, "Welcome, Mr. Stevenson. We are glad you have come to help us with our research. My name is Dr. Seward."

Phil shook her hand and said, "I am really here just to please my wife. I really don't think there is a cure."

"Ah, most people don't really think there are vampires. Please come with me to the examining room. Have a seat on the table and extend both of your hands palms up." Phil hopped up on the table and stuck out both hands.

"We give this test to all of our prospective volunteers," she said and produced two eyedroppers filled with clear fluid and put one drop on each of Phil's palms. Phil immediately grasped his right hand in pain and shot the doctor a withering look. She explained, "I am so sorry, but we have to do this. We get so many cranks that think they are vampires. We use this test to separate the wheat from the chaff so to speak."

"What was in the eye droppers?" Phil asked still holding his hand.

One dropper has tap water and the other has Holy water. The one I dripped in your right hand had the Holy water, so you passed. You are a vampire."

Phil could see the logic in this but it still hurt like hell, but that was the general idea. Dr. Seward took Phil's right hand and dripped something in his palm and the pain went away instantaneously. Phil was amazed and it showed on his face.

"It's a remedy we have been able to synthesize from vampire blood. It heals the wound and deadens the pain." said Dr. Seward smiling. "Now that we have the formalities out of the way, let me give you a tour of the facility so that you know what you are getting yourself into."

Phil was led through a labyrinth of laboratories, walk-in refrigeration units, X-ray machines and more equipment than he had ever seen. They even had their own MRI unit.

"First we want to get a base line MRI and take some blood samples. Do you have a problem with any of that Mr. Stevenson?"

Phil said, "he didn't have a problem, but had a question or two."

"What would you like to know Mr. Stevenson?"

"Well," said Phil "has anyone been cured and if so can I get some references?"

Dr. Seward cleared her throat before answering Phil, "Yes we have cured several individuals but I am sorry that due to patient confidentiality we can't give out their names. It is kind of like being in the witness protection plan." Phil could understand that and had a glimmer of hope that a cure was possible.

"What does the name VIRUS stand for?"

"Oh that," she said, "It just worked out that way. The VIR is Vampires In Recovery and since we have chapters world wide, we get the US on the end. I suppose that the Brits get VIRUK which is almost as bad."

First he had a MRI done, the after that they were going to draw some blood. Phil thought that was ironic, humans sucking blood out of vampires and he chuckled to himself. The room that he was to give blood in had a long stainless steel table with four straps on it. Phil didn't like the looks of this and told the orderly. The orderly explained that due to the great physical strength of vampires it was necessary to strap them down while taking blood from them, there had been several mishaps due to reflex actions.

Phil was not entirely convinced, but got on the table and allowed himself to be strapped down. The orderly extracted four vials of blood and the released the straps.

"I am all done with you," said the orderly "but the doctor might want to see you before you leave."

He found his way back to the waiting room just as Dr. Seward came in.

"Mr. Stevenson, we need a day to evaluate your MRI and process your blood

work. Can you come back the day after tomorrow at the same time?"

"I can be here. What will you know by then?"

"Let's just wait and see."

So Phil left. It was too late to go home and too early to go to his coffin. That was one thing Phil wouldn't miss, sleeping in a coffin. It still gave him the creeps even after nearly fifty years.

The next evening Phil told Jessica all about VIRUS, the MRI and the blood work. When he was done he looked for her reaction. She had a tear forming in the corner of one eye and looked happier than he had seen her in a long while. She deserved some happiness and friends; she was nearly forty and was married to an old man in a young vampire's body. Maybe soon that would all change. Phil was about to leave for the evening when Jessica said, "Phil, I need to tell

you something."

"What? This sounds serious."

"Oh ... I just wanted to say thanks for doing this for me."

"I'm doing this for us. Remember, I get my life back too." He kissed her on the cheek and told her he loved her and left.

When he arrived at VIRUS for his second appointment Dr. Seward greeted him. "Good evening Mr. Stevenson, your MRI looks promising but the lab broke one of your vials of blood and we will need to draw one more." She ushered him back to the examining room to the table with the straps. This time he didn't fear being strapped down. After the orderly had inserted the IV, the doctor came in to take his blood. She attached a vial but injected something instead of drawing blood.

"Mr. Stevenson, I know you can hear me even though you can't respond. You

have been injected with a neuromuscular inhibitor that has essentially paralyzed you.

You were correct when you said there is no cure except sunlight, decapitation or a wooden stake through the heart.”

Phil's mind was racing, he hadn't told her that, only Jessica. What were they doing to him? What were they going to do to him?

"We are a research facility and depend on government grants and donations."

Phil wondered why she was telling him all of this.

"We normally carry out extended experiments with our subjects, and it can become, well, let's just say quite painful. Due to the generosity of one of our patrons, you will not be put through any of those ordeals.”

Phil's mind was working at top speed. Who would want him dead but not to suffer? Then it came to him and he could not believe it.

The doctor went on, "I see in your eyes you have worked it out. Your wife is a very charming lady and very generous. All she asked was when it was all over could she have your dust. She said she wanted to put it in an urn and set it in a sunny window when she moves to Miami."

Phil didn't even feel the stake being driven into his heart . . . and then he felt nothing.

At a bar in Miami Jessica was chatting with a handsome young man. Jessica said, “Hold out both of your hands palms up.”

If Walls Could Talk

 

If Walls Could Talk

 

            George Landis had a PhD in quantum physics and was well respected in his field. George worked for the past three years on a project that is colleagues thought of as, to put it bluntly, crazy.

His funding from the Department of Homeland Security had almost dried up when he had his “ah ha” moment. This came while listening to a book on tape while stuck in traffic. Suddenly the words had become garbled, then went on like this for several seconds and then returned to something he understood. He hurried back to the lab, as fast as the traffic would permit.

He had been trying to prove his theory that that sound waves are trapped in inanimate objects, much like they are on a piece of recording tape. Up till now he had never gotten anything that even passed for an intelligible sound.

His last experiment consisted of a fresh partition of drywall set up near the coffee break area for five days. It was then brought back to the lab to be “listened” to.

The apparatus to do this listening consisted of a highly modified MRI and a high-end workstation computer to control and decipher it all. Although the partition had been in place for five days all he was able to hear was a garble of sound, sort of like a saturated audio tape that bleeds through from the other side.

He suddenly realized that if he were to isolate the top most layer with the MRI as opposed to the full depth of the drywall, he might have better results.

Better was an understatement. There were voices and words. Not digital quality, more like a bad phone connection, but they were there.

His department head would be thrilled with the news. Dr. John Walter was the most supportive of any of his colleagues. In fact it was John that had helped get his last funding from Homeland Security.

George picked up the phone and dialed John’s cell number. It rang several times and then went to voice mail. George hung up, he wanted to share this with someone, and then it hit him. He would go home early and surprise his wife. Early he thought, if you can call 9:45 p.m. early. It was much earlier than he had been coming home, if he made it home at all. Some nights he would just sleep in his office and not see Annie for days. That was all over now. He had proved his theory. The grad students could tweak it while he wrote a scholarly paper on the subject.

As he pulled into the driveway of his house he saw the lights on in the bedroom on the second floor and downstairs as well. He didn’t really think much of it. He wasn’t sure what hours she kept anymore.

Coming through the front door he yelled, “Annie, I’m home and I have some fantastic news.”

No reply. He went upstairs thinking she was watching TV in bed and didn’t hear him. The bed was still made and no sign of Annie. He was beginning to worry. Her car was in the driveway, so she was home. “Annie!”, came his shouts now. “Annie where are you?” he thought.

He headed downstairs. Annie’s sitting room was a small room at the back of the house on the first floor. It had bookshelves on two sides, a large south facing bay window with a door beside it. The remaining wall was still blank, having been recently replaced due to a leaking pipe. He still hadn’t gotten around to hanging her pictures; they lay stacked against the wall.

As he entered the room a wave of relief came over him. There she was, asleep in the recliner, a book in her lap and a drink on the stand by her chair.

“Annie,” no reply.

“Annie?”, a bit louder this time, still nothing. It was then he realized she wasn’t breathing. He dialed 911 and got her on the floor and started CPR. He was quite certain that this was useless but continued until the EMTs arrived.

That had been two months ago. It had been ruled a suicide, after they found the note beside the glass. “It's over. I cannot go on like this.”

It was only half of a sheet of paper, no signature, but it was her hand writing. The police also found her sleeping pills mixed in her drink.

Her sitting room had remained empty and quiet since that day. He could not bear to go in there. There were the pictures stacked against the wall were still waiting to be hung.

His funding had run out as well as any interest he had in the project. George went through the motions of shutting down the lab. They had given him ninety days to do it.

For two months he had tried to figure out why Annie would kill herself. Things had not been that bad at home, or had they? He had not been there a lot in the past three years. They had talked of going on an extended vacation as soon as his research was completed or the current funding ran out. What would have made her take her own life?

An idea came to him that evening just as he was falling asleep. He reached over to the bedside table and jotted down a reminder note and went to sleep.

He actually slept for seven hours straight. The first good nights sleep he’d had since it happened. He woke refreshed, with a clear head and a clear purpose.

He was on the phone to Robinson Builders, the company that had replaced the drywall in his wife’s room. He was checking to see if the drywall could be taken out mostly intact. He got through to Dan, the owner. Dan said “Yeah, it can be done, but it won’t be cheap. I can get two of my guys over there by the end of the week.”

It was Tuesday now, that gave him four days to make all of the necessary arrangements. He called the lab and told them to stop tearing down the equipment. In fact get it back up in running shape by Friday.

George knew that when Annie was trying to work through a problem, she was apt to talk to herself. The first time he had noticed he had walked past her sitting room and seen her pacing back and forth carrying on a conversation. He had thought she was on the phone. On his way back, he noticed she had no phone and was keeping up both sides of the conversation.

Later when he asked her about it she just giggled and said, “I can figure out a problem better if I hear both sides of the argument.”

That problem had been how to lay out the back flower garden. If she had been talking to herself about the flower garden, he was sure she would do the same before committing suicide.

The next four days seemed to drag on for an eternity. When Friday arrived so did Dan’s two guys.

“Didn’t we just put this drywall up a couple of months ago?” one of them asked.

“Yes, I had a pipe leak and it ran down the wall, but now I need you to take it out as carefully as you can. I'd like to keep it in one piece if at all possible.”

The workers were able to get the drywall out in two large pieces. George then talked them into transporting the pieces to his lab, after offering them a hefty tip.

He had the drywall positioned so that he could scan it. At first he picked up nothing. Then as he probed, layer by layer, the voices started to emerge.

The first voices he heard were those of the two EMTs. He quickly went past them; he didn’t want to relive that any more than he already had. Next was a long section of relative silence, then Annie’s voice. He had known she would be talking. What he didn’t expect was the other voice. George listened with renewed interest.

Annie: “Well, you got my letter. I think it said it all.”

Male voice: “Can I have a drink? Can I fix you one?”

Annie: “Sure, why not, but you won’t get me drunk and change my mind.”

Male voice: “No my dear, I have no thoughts of doing that, I just wanted to make sure we were parting on good terms, after all I have my reputation.”

Annie: “I know John, and the fact that you could hurt my husband’s research, but it’s over and I can’t go on like this.

John: “Here let’s toast to the end of our little affair, bottoms up.”

Annie: “I’m tired now, please leave, and lock the door on your way out.”

John: “Sure, be seeing you.”

Sound of a door closing.

Silence.

Sound of door opening.

John: “Did you really think you could just dump me, throw me away like a used tissue? You couldn’t even do it to my face, had to send me a letter.”

Sound of paper being shaken.

John: “Well Miss Annie, when your precious husband finds you, you will have committed suicide. You already wrote the note; it’s just a matter of cleaning my glass, wiping away a few finger prints and locking up when I leave. I don’t think the police will investigate a suicide with a note, but better safe than sorry.

Sounds of movement and glasses clinking, door opening and closing.

Silence

George was in tears now, a mixture of sorrow and rage. How could John have done this? Annie’s only crime was infidelity and he could have forgiven her that, given time. There was no more time, John had seen to that. Now George would have to see to him.

His first thought was to throttle John with his bare hands, but that passed quickly. Then a plan started to form in that scientist brain of his.

He called detective Elliot who investigated his wife’s death. “Detective, this is Dr. George Landis, I don’t know if you remember me or not”

“Of course I remember you Dr. Landis, what can I do for you?”

“When my wife died, it was ruled suicide. Did the police check the note for finger prints?”

“Give me a minute to pull it up in the computer. I don’t think we did. Here it is, checked the prints on the bottle, the glass and the prescription bottle. No we didn’t check the note, why?”

George explained his research, in layman’s terms. Told detective Elliot what he had heard. Then told him his plan.

Saturday morning George called John and told him he had made a break through at the lab. Could he come right over? Reluctantly John came to the lab about an hour later.

“So what is the break through? I thought you were supposed to be dismantling the lab.” Looking around he saw no signs of the place being shut down.

“John, you’ve got to hear this.” And proceeded to playback what he had recorded earlier. John found the nearest chair and sat down as his knees buckled under him. Then he regained his composure.

“Are you mad George, why would you concoct such a story?”

“I may be mad, but I am not crazy. You were there that night and you gave Annie an overdose of sleeping pills in her drink.” “

“You have no proof, this side show attraction of talking walls will never hold up in court. Besides, only her finger prints were on the glass and the bottle.”

“Funny you should mention that. How would you know that? It was only in the police report and never released to the public.”

John stammered, “I just assumed.”

“You just assumed you would get away with it, you son of a bitch.”

“Now see here, I will not be spoken to like this.”

“You missed one thing though, your finger prints on the note, how did your finger prints get on a note that she had just written? Did you do it John? Did you?”

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I wanted her to leave you. I think that was the end for me. She wouldn’t leave you because she loved you, but I had my reputation to think of. Next year when the dean retires, I heard I was on the short list for his position, but not if this got out.”

“So you did do it, you killed Annie.”

“Yes, God forgive me, yes. If you repeat any of this I will deny it.”

“There is no need for that; did you get it all detective?” He slowly unbuttoned his shirt to expose the hidden microphone that detective Elliot had provided. “Detective Elliot has all of this on tape, real tape that is evidence in any court.”

John jumped up from his chair and grabbed George by the throat and began to strangle him. “You son of a bitch, you couldn’t leave well enough alone. I’m going to kill you too!” Just then Detective Elliot burst in and pulled John away from George.

“Dr. Landis, are you ok?”

Coughing and getting his breath back he said “I am now.”

The detective read John his rights and took him away.

The trial was fairly quick, he was sentenced to life without parole. Later on appeal he was sent to the state mental hospital for psychiatric evaluation. The doctors have a hard time getting him to talk. He keeps saying “the walls have ears.”

COLORS

This poem came about when we were painting our living room. There would be paint sample taped to the walls You'd think you had the perfect color and the later in the day when the light had changed it wasn't so great. So without further ado:

 

 

Colors

 

You try and you try

but no matter how hard

they all come out different,

you've missed by a yard.

So you tape up your samples

to check out the light

the colors keep changing

they just won't stay right.

 

In the morning they look great

by noon they're OK

but none of them look right

by the end of the day.

 

But finally you pick one

you gave it your best

they're all like chameleons

one's as good as the rest.

After the Raven

 To the die hard Poe fans out there, I apologize up front. The small foray into Poe-like poetry was prompted by a contest. that I found on the last day of the deadline. Feeling I could whip something up in the requisite twenty four hours, I went at it. I had it all ready to go with a bit of time to spare and then as it happens, I could not find the trail of bread crumbs back to the contest. After much searching and I finally found the link again and how to submit. I should have looked at the how to submit earlier, they wanted a $25.00 entry fee. This was not going to happen with something I'd cobbled together in less than twenty four hours. So it sat in the Word file for a bit, I tweaked it here and there and finally came up with something the might pass for Poe. I'm certain I will hear if I am way off the mark.

If you haven't recently read "The Raven"  I highly recommend doing so before you read mine. As "The Raven" is in Public Domain I will drop a copy in here, you may skip over it if you wish.

The Raven

 
By Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

After the Raven

 

As the morning's dawn was breaking

Suddenly I was awakened

by the light that came streaming

as it had done the day before.

Looking 'round the chamber's brightness

seeking out that evil likeness

black in eye and bill and wing

that had perched above my door

sat a bust of Pallas

only this and nothing more.

 

When the drapes I threw asunder

Letting in the sun's full rays

Gazing 'round in awe and wonder

at the chamber of the night before.

Then my brain all in a muddle

through bleary eyes spied a bottle

it's contents recently consumed.

Tortured dreams of late last evening

tortured dreams about Lenore

only this and nothing more.