They like to show up between 8 and 9pm. That’s just when the street becomes quiet and traffic along the paralell street, Godebrun Street, is half as busy. They don’t live in this area, but know they can get away with racing their evil little riceburners down the road. Once in awhile they just barely miss getting hit by a driver coming up the Godebrun hill at just 15 miles per hour over the accepted speed limit.

This week Godebrun was torn up; repair is in order for the next three months. I heard them as they began their run at the dead end where the crickets and frogs sang at night. Pulling aside the curtain, I looked toward Godebrun to see one of the large machines, now asleep after its long day. I then took a glance toward the rude, flatulent sound of the mini-bikers. There were two of them.

With long, greasy hair fluttering behind them, they shouted laughing insults at each other. They weren’t looking at what was ahead of them. They were looking at each other as they both urged the little bikes to their highest speed. The great yellow monster at the end of the street seemed to realize that something was headed for its scooped claw. I could feel the start of its rumbling heartbeat shaking the earth beneath the house. I turned away from the two teen thrill seekers for a moment; the large earth-mover had moved, but there was no one inside it.

Engines were revving and the laughter had increased. The two boys were closer. As my eyes returned to them, I saw another set of eyes across the street; my neighbor, Mrs. Coarselyn, the witch. I raised my cup of tea to her and she waved a spindly hand my way. Our eyes fell upon the two errant riders.

From that moment, their ride’s end was swift. One of them had a moment to pause before being impaled upon the thick teeth of the claw. The other one tried to stop his bike, but oil from the yellow cat had slicked the jagged edge of the road. The bike flipped, throwing the boy through the plate glass window and into the driver’s seat.

It’s nice to know that this early in the work, the construction repair has a positive side effect.

I walk dark streets in the deepest shadows of my thoughts. There is no light from the sky, but sometimes the windows glimmer with feeble light, or there is something, not always wood, burning nearby. In that wicked light, the street will glisten blackly from a recent rain.

It’s always warm here. Even when it is cold. I do not know these streets, this place, as well as I think I should. It can change so quickly. And it is influenced by so many outside forces. There are entities that walk here. Many are fictional beings that do not frighten my normal self; some are real and terrify me even in the light of day.

Some of the entities disappear after awhile. Some have existed for nearly forty years. The “thing in my closet” is very hard to destroy. I have it greatly weakened, but those times, when my body is attacking itself, it seizes its chance to invade the worst of my nightmares. One day, though, it will be completely gone. I know how to strike back, hard.

My path is never the same. A street can very easily become a door leading to a dungeon in the blink of an eye. There are times when my imagination beats me and then I can smell the foulness of this shade of mine. Stale cigarette smoke, illness, and death. In my weakest of times, the ghastly odor has caused me to physically rise and race to the outdoors for fresh air and the scent of healing; the gardens. Just to write these words… I must go, now.

I’m going to punish you by not calling.

You don’t call me.
I’m going to punish you by not visiting.

You don’t visit me.
I’m going to punish you by not talking to you.

You don’t talk to me.
I’m going to punish you by cutting you from my life.

What’s wrong with you?!