WINTER ' FOURTEEN
“Darrell.” She says it only once, but the name echoes through the room like a chant and her voice
is backed by many voices --- voices that speak with the pounding of her veins emptying her blood onto
the floor of the old house, voices that echo with the stilled heartbeat of their never-breathing child.
“Darrell. Darrell.”
The man draws his eyebrows together still tighter, inclines towards her, clenches his fists, considers
a single menacing step. The pulsing grows louder, measured bursts of rage rimmed in colors of fire and
ice. The corners of the room deepen and become rounded and something in time very violently shifts.
The man craves his revenge, yet his hatred is a paltry thing next to the forces unleashed on a snow-filled
night in a small house in Maine.
Vera is a tiny woman-child, but she fills the room, recedes to normal size, fills the room again. She
is solid, not solid, a pulsing fury and now the man shines with fear-sweat and cocks his head back ever
so slightly. The pounding of his own heart thrumps loudly, erratic in the way of terror. “Darrell. Darrell.”
“You bitch,” he mutters. “What kinda trick is this?” He wears the stink of his vileness like a shield.
“Goddamn, you, Vera. I’ll get you for this crap.” He takes that step forward.
The air sizzles and the room strobes and the floor and the ceiling give way until there is only light
and vibration and a noise the sound of centuries, rage gathered to crescendo, justice as lightening. Eyes
and wings and clouds and creatures of fire and wrath. And from the center erupts a vast horse, a winged
stallion, and his coat glistens as a heart jewel, and his hooves show the man no mercy until the man is
also red, and the room is overcome by silence.
Except for the man and his redness, the house is abruptly empty and snow drifts in through the
broken glass of the door.
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The Linnet's Wings