Old Fingers of Frost Etch My Memories



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.


            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 spent most of his life either fixing cars or managing automotive shops and is a licensed automotive technician. However it’s the little muses that keep twigging on his pencil won’t let his writing pad stay blank.’

 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.

 When asked once, "where does this creativity spring from?" He answered, "It’s the Gypsy blood from my mother’s Hungarian ancestry."

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). 

 PS: He’s better looking than Stephen King (Carrie, The Stand, It, The Shining) and his romantic stuff will have you gasping quicker than Robert James Waller (Bridges Of Madison County).Or as is often said: You don’t have to be mad to be a writer, but it sure helps.

 He is also working on a script and movie project and plans to get his works into films at some point 

Post a Comment

Previous Post Next Post