For the approaching storm was already fierce,
Billowing clouds raced over the ruins of the east tower;
Raindrops thudding against the shuttered windows,
Chilling the room, warmth and lighting only given by
The flickering of burning logs in the bedroom fireplace.
There was a howl when the wind tore through the hallways,
Screaming along the empty house passages,
Reminding Danielle she was alone,
Alone with only a wisp of memory of family,
Of loved ones,
Of love.
She coughed deeply, rough with raw throat, into her hand.
The illumination was poor, but feeling viscous in her palm,
Danielle Knew there were flecks of red spattered among the sickness.
She knocked on the wood mantle of the fireplace three times,
Moving her limp, long brown hair out of her face,
After adding one of the remaining logs to the dying fire,
Three times,
As she knelt closer to the flames,
Closing her limpid brown eyes,
Opening up her pale pink lips,
Tasting in the hot air of ash,
Recoiling only when a spark struck her cheek.
Three times she knocked on the flooring before she rose,
Three more times on the wooden bedposts,
Three last times on the wooden headboard,
As she climbed onto the bed,
Tucked herself firm under her mother’s quilt,
Clutching the edge,
Bringing it up to her chin, and then,
Turning on her left, her heart side,
Danielle drew the cover over her head
To disappear among the noise of the storm that finally arrived.
Walking
Danielle was walking amongst the garden that was
She lifted her hand to touch a vine that grew over a broken brick wall
Yet she could not see her fingers.
There was no feeling, but she grasped the vine,
As it pulled her through the wall of stone.
Danielle fought to yell, but even then, a cough bloomed,
Running down the front of her best-tattered gown,
Dripping red against the jagged rocks.
Face down
She found herself face down in dirt
Her mouth was full of loam soil,
Remembering the taste of it as a child
Helping to plant her mother’s garden.
She was chastised again for lying on the ground,
Squirming through the dirt
“Like a worm?”
“Are you a worm?”
A resounding boom drew Danielle awake.
She was sopping, night sweats, and threw the quilt off.
Her nightclothes were drenched,
And Danielle shivered, uncontrollably,
For the fire was now only glowing ashes.
She took the remaining three logs,
Placed them as her father had once shown her,
Steepled and conjoined,
Adding kindling to the remaining burn,
And blew
And blew
And the kindling caught
And she blew once again,
This time ending in a racking cough.
As the fire caught,
Danielle removed her nightclothes,
Placed it over the back of a wingback chair to dry,
Returned to the fireplace,
Naked, pale and thin-framed,
Sunken chested,
Danielle crouched down to grasp the warmth that grew
And knocked on the wooden floor three times
As coughing consumed her.
Tale Spinning 