Dinner?
It’s your father.
Born out of the darkened pool of blood, dripping ceaselessly from the cold veins of your ancestors. Do you feel the wind?—it’s cackling—whipping the ground, knocking on your soul.
The ghosts will eat you now.
Where did the family go?
They went to Atlantic City, or somewhere across the border; perhaps a physical border, or something else—either way, gone from the land of mystic, dried skeletons, of grandpa’s moaning. Though the tapping from underneath the old, molded floor never stops, no matter what ground you step on.
Let us eat. Raise your glass to the decrepit, the never dead—to you.
You’re so young…such a pretty face to…to be eating from this table…soon it’ll…crawl away…all the food gone away…dragged into the mist…
Ha. But it’s all theater. Take off your mask, and you’ll see; the blood is fake. Fake as your steely, burdened body, fake as your tragic soul. And as the curtains come down, and you hear the roar of the crowd, then you’ll know you’ve been betrayed. And your hands will begin to wither, and you’ll grab at anything you can and see everything you’ve let die…oh woe is you—and me—and you—
Could you imagine breathing in this space? When I can only try and be the matriarch of this deserted family; whispering to these soulless objects, pass the salt, how was your day…and the emptiness starts to flood in when you’ve been replaced by the goblins and ghosts of all the sad men that lived in these streets for the last one hundred years.
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