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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required On the late night train away from sense and into the midnight wasteland, Old Lady Morbidica vomited blood, I swore it was the blood of unsuspecting travelers. She bent her back, then sank to her knees, and spewed into plastic bags, it was her lifelong custom, three plastic bags at a time at least a couple of times a day. I trembled with my travelling companion, a changeling as I might have predicted. Her only child, nameless and mythical, traveled with her, high crimes in tow, high crimes not directly known but surely the highest crimes just the same. Legend was he had a fourteen inch legend but we were more concerned with high crimes. We feared that Old Lady Morbidica would cast a spell that we could not escape, we dared not close our eyes or with her spell she might reach our arteries and vomit our blood into plastic bags, it was her lifelong custom. We feared that her son, one alone, would cleave us open from throat to groin and feed our innards to the pigs running alongside the train in the night, offering magical pig-like power in exchange for the innards of unsuspecting travelers. We lay alongside one another and she came to us in the smallest hours. Strangely, Old Lady Morbidica smiled, she looked unexpectedly benign, she fell into my arms and whimpered, I said nice things and comforted her. Her nameless and mythical child stood over us, he was quite plain, next to me, still, my travelling companion, now changed, as I should have known; we all sang silly sweet songs, the kind you’ll only hear on Radio Kindergarten, or on family-friendly CheeseTV; we laughed with relief and sobbed with shame. 4th March 2019
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