Charles Clifford Brooks III

Fate of a Dream Keeper At twenty-two I stumbled upon a wistful fairy, wilting in the sun. Her little-lithe singing soul had sadly come undone. I couldn’t hear her cries, they were less than whispers, sad as if the whole world had died. “That’s it! That does it!”      -She screamed to the human race, “My heart has turned to ashes, of the light-hearted youth there is no trace!” She said, “The world doesn’t care. The children no longer dream. Wishes just stopped wishing. The sun itself has become spiteful and mean!” I understood completely, I knew her plight, for my heart also knew bleak visions. We’re both cursed with an Honest Second Sight. A shame, her satin dress, was shaken free of magic. Face a mess from so much sorrow, her little sobs so tragic. I touched her, wounded and meek, wrapped her in my palm. I whispered to the precious orphan, “Hush now, dear. Be calm.” Then I strangled her, saved her, she there, barely resisting death. She welcomed it and stayed calm, Stardust drawing one last breath. But I keep her reflection safe within an agnostic’s silver locket. Her butterfly wings and elegant passing now immortal, Sleeping Beauty in my pocket. --- So, all that’s left are monsters. Some beneath the earth,      others skulking in the skies. Yet my memories of giggles are safe, tucked away in her choked, cerulean eyes.   The Myth of Igor He sleeps for me with crystal eyes in a globe of glass and glitter. A stone saint on my bedside table; an innocent in that cemetery’s center. Children play outside because you do not. You dream the world where we burnt auburn-haired and braided babies spin in the grass, laughing. Those dirty dishes downstairs, the reality of telephone bills, you sleep so we can manage the muted gray. Dream me some more money. Daydream me famous. Roll over in a fitful dream and release the lot of us. See, little man, the legend reads that you sleep so your granite brothers on church tops stay vigilant, ever staving off our demons and bad omens. Frilly gig you’ve got. Was it a lottery you won? Sometimes I want in there with you. I just do. Utterly silent without pretty rhymes and such. I have a crystal ball where you cannot stare at me. But I can look in past the sparkle and bubbles, and envy you.   Meeting Mr. Scratch The Devil was sitting on my front porch when I got home from work this afternoon. He had a pressed white shirt on, a hat on even in the shade. He was swishing a fan with Jesus on it to cool his smile. I first paid him no mind. {Demons are best left unseen.} But I knew he was seeing me. He had it smeared across his face. I am beside my self, vaporous flesh, quivering when the Old Goat tells me “Beautiful Day!” He sees me and he wants me to know it. He stands in a fluid motion reminiscent of lava on ice, then saunters my way, that fan in his hand, hollow eyes always on me. “How’s life, little Cliff?” I look at him because I know he wouldn’t be easily thrown off, “Life is good.” I stiffly whisper.   He chuckles, dabs at his mouth with a blue handkerchief, then just peers into my head, in my thoughts, looking for something. Just when I think it is over, that the Devil greeting me at the door is mine enemy, he releases me, steps back, mutters, “See ya around”, then hisses out. It is a strange day, one that began well enough, hopeful, but then I met this, on my front porch, looking to collect I debt I never took out.   Or did I? Haven’t we all? Just a thought that struck me like mace the other evening after midnight. Now I absently wonder about the next time I have a meeting with old Mr. Scratch.

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