my first forage into a netherworld

Me, a week ago, I saw the big bad wolf. I didn’t expect to see him—but I suppose I should have known. Eventually it would happen: if you tread old haunts you used to share you’re bound to come a cropper. I caught a glimpse of him and my heart started. All the better to eat you with, my dear. The wolf, he rocked my every sum and substance. Effortlessly.

Rocked? you say. How so?

Like, rocked—he made you feel amazing?

Or rocked—he knocked you, shocked you, destabilised your mind?

…this wolf, he made me feel such a mess of feeling that all my secrets went thumping through my rigging. Just like that. Easy as pie. Hate—love—the memory of love. Pain. Excitement. Fury. The dog-man slew me by his very person, from some way in the distance—without even knowing I was there.

Me, I was out running in the park. I run every day, obsessively, as if to keep running from my once-was life—as if?!—come on, girl, face it—you are running from the life you had! (See, I’m intelligent enough to see what I’m doing, and dumb enough to keep right on pretending). And running from it—surprise, surprise!—I ran right into it, didn’t I?

You could say I had it coming.

Him.

There.

Triggering our history in freeze-frame images, full colour, too lurid, strung with swish and whiff. And his oh-so tender maw. Those paws. Me, my now was torn and busted and fell away like a dried up snake skin, exposing my past in all its former gory. All that sticky. The wolf, the pig, without even trying, he blew my house right down. You wouldn’t want to feel that kind of blow. I just stood there, stock-still, staring as he heartlessly wandered the glory of our beech trees; I stood and stared til he was gone. Un-there, a phantom-shadow of time gone past. And me, I gathered the mess of my heart and my guts, packed them roughly away. Dismayed. Keyed up. Terrified. What the sight of a person can do. I turned and I took off, running hard and away, back the way I came.

Seeds, they come from the most unlikely places.

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