Old Fingers of Frost Etch My Memories
In the cold of the night,
I remember…as old fingers of frost etch their way across windows scratching at
ghosts of memories gone by.
Birch wood crackles in the fire.
"I'll have a Merlot." Her voice a ghostly
visage of the woman I met echoes.
Our first innocent date disappears into dreamtime, years
cascade by. I learned recently how Celtic Wiccans seduce their desired partners
through bewitching incantations of the Cailleach through their eyes.
I sipped the wine becoming the fly trapped within her
web.
To dream, a chance to live those heady days again in
forgotten realms where life is magic and magic… was… unknown.
Her voice pulls me back to us. Naïve, innocent. There
were no heroes here. Only victims bound by enchantments. Ones that can never be
let go.
Not me, not her, as we sipped over Merlot. Casting spells
as Leprechauns played strip poker and unicorns drank whiskey straight. I
laughed to myself trying to inject some sort of humor into this moment of
surrealism that I still didn’t believe was happening, yet had long ago gotten
used to.
We talked endlessly, her hands warm in mine. Synergies
transforming, me, us. I fell into enchantments that unknowingly existed, hers
by carving. Myself, the prey.
I suspected nothing, until she told me as she lay dying.
The spider drinks all before it, even after death.
We had decades together. Her hands now cold, gone to the
earth to reclaim her.
Cailleach spirits, I learned, go to dwell in recluse in
Gaia, while their physical shells go into the all-encompassing earth. Further
strengthening their hold on our world.
Bastards.
Earlier I cried tears outside that crystalize on frigid
earth in the dead of winter, waiting for the release of springs calling.
Incantations I can't, dare not break.
True love or spell bound trickery? After her passing this
realm I began to research the how and why. Does her speaking of loving me
remains true or is this one tainted by her binding of us?
Again cold fingers etch across glass, threatening to
enter what was once our house. I sit before the flames, silence reigns supreme.
In remorse she begs for me to join her. I cry, I cannot,
not yet, my dear. Each sip of red takes me back there to the time of her eyes.
The touch of her soft lips. Skin on velvet skin, caressing the memories of us
naked in orgasmic splendor.
All I have to live for now is without you, without my
heart. My sundered soul lives with her in the cold earth as hers is without
mine.
A spell like a double edged sword can be enacted by both
and I made sure that without myself, she cannot go to whatever lands the Celtic
Wiccan spirits go to.
One day, my love, one day. If you remain mine, as I did
with you. The true test of love begins.
I smile, raising the glass of Merlot, to her picture on
the mantle toasting the memories of that first date. Chilled glass rents
electricity in my hand while outside hers caresses frigid panes to a time, long
ago.
Frank Talaber
FrankTalaber was born in Beaverlodge, Alberta,
where the claim to fame is a fox with flashing eyes in the only pub, yeah, big
place, that's why his family left when he was knee high to a grasshopper and
moved to Edmonton, Alberta. Eventually he got tired of ten months of winter and
two of bad slush and moved to Chilliwack, BC. Great place, Cedar trees, can cut
the grass nine months of the year and, oh it does snow here once or twice. Just
enough to have to find out what happened to the bloody snow shovel and have to
use it. GRRR.
He's had several short stories published, one in Ariel Chart, short-listed in contests over the years and a few automotive articles published in RV magazines. He has several novels published through BWL publishing, which include the genres of urban fantasy, thriller, crime and romance. He also has written in science fiction, spiritual, erotica and comedy genres as well.
Literary madness that drives his wife crazy when he leaves their bed in the middle of the night to pound out some sort of prosaic induced brilliance. “Here we go again, the next War and Peace, Aka 21st century,” she moans, only to realize it’s either gibberish or there’s no lead in his pencil and he's scribbled on sixteen blank pages in the dark.
When asked about Frank Talaber’s Writing Style? He usually responds with: Mix Dan Millman (Way of The Peaceful Warrior) with Charles De Lint (Moonheart) and throw in a mad scattering of Tom Robbins (Even Cowgirls Get The Blues).