Skip to main content

Visiting Dolls by Tianna G. Hansen

Sneaking into a wizard’s home offers risk
to a high degree, Dalmation guarding doors
toss a juicy steak to occupy his jaws and slide
inside, feet pattering soft like any ballerina does
like a dance with no audience, swinging your body
into a dead-silent house, you want to reach her, his
living doll. Not sure what your plan is once you do,
kidnap this macabre creation or kill it before it can
destroy you, your allure once seemed enough but you’ve
come to realize, he never wanted you, it was always her.

He keeps her in the sunroom which reflects moonlight
piercing beams straight to your heart. Creep across to
darkened dollhouse; one ring of light shimmers
in the center like a beating heart, or sliver of moon.
upstairs in a Victorian draped bedroom lies the shrunken
ballerina, perfect as ever even 10x less her size.

Creak of floorboards alerts too late, you’ve barely caught a
glimpse before you feel him, sinister shadow crawling overtop -
you are in his sights, bullseye, your heart tremors knowing
he could kill you in an instant or shrink you down to
mousetrap size - you’ve heard tales of a wizard who could
capture mermaids in a globe of glass
Who could turn men into starfish without a thought.

Dark magic curls its finger at you, beckons alluring and seductive -
you hear him calling to you, he is below…
you turn from the dollhouse, tiny dancer dreaming
anything but peaceful, tossing and turning in a miniature world.

Follow his dark pull through halls, black and blind. Reach
for something to grasp, nothing — entering a black hole.
Feet hit stairs, he calls you to join him, below,
beneath the earth, a secret cavern belching from
the house’s belly and why are you surprised a wizard’s
home has a mind of its own? your body automatic heads
down
down
down, smell of earth and…
dead dreams reside here.

A glimmer off glass in one corner of the room,
walls close around you - Congested, cobwebs
wrap you like film around thin arms, claiming
your ability to dance for their own.

This darkness is a human, breathing, beating heart
and you are now a basement dweller, door
closes above behind you, fear you will
never see the light again.

You will never see the light.

---

Tianna G. Hansen has been writing her whole life. You can find her published works on CreativeTianna.com or check her out on Twitter @tiannag92. She founded Rhythm & Bones Press in 2018 and continues to work for progressing the idea of turning trauma into art. Find them at RhythmNBone.com or on Twitter @RhythmBonesLit.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time...
91 comments
Read more

Why Men's Judgements of New Clothes Shouldn't Be Trusted by Simon Williams

I join four men outside the fitting room, while women try on size 14 with 16 in reserve. We’re trying to look in place and failing. It’s important not to let your eyes settle on any racked garment for over 30 seconds or any racked customer for over five. This is especially true if the fitting room in anywhere near lingerie. Nobody is interested in our slight discomfort; five expressionless faces keen to compress time, urgent to breathe less material air. People want to read Big Thoughts on how we were misused as boys, how we were louts on bikes. But it has come to this; such a longing for a brief appearance from the cubicle, a show-off of prospective wear that all clothes look wonderful on you. --- Simon Williams  has eight published collections, his latest being a co-authored pamphlet with Susan Taylor,  The Weather House , published in 2017 by Indigo Dreams. Simon was elected The Bard of Exeter in 2013, founded the large-format magazine,  The...
27 comments
Read more

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene...
25 comments
Read more