The Dirty Queen of Leeches ( particulars for & dedicated to Lydia B. Scott)

Here is a preview for a tale I wrote with out so much as a twenty second break between chapters.

The Dirty Queen of Leeches

Her hair disheveled as she leaped from the porch slamming against a fence it opened at the pressure. Her arms in fit of anger flung the metal back closed you could here it click shut. Feet, the sound of her shoes long gone. It took no time but so much time as she approached the corner. She looked back not really expecting anyone to be behind her but you know the mind can come up with some other stories in collaboration with the mental sphere.

I would imagine four or five other plays happening at that time, but really only one. She didn’t expect anything to happen but could feel that emptiness that space that is a representation of anticipation.

At the phone booth her toes played with neglected pebbles, rocks, and soda cans her fingers boldly grabbing at a phone that smelled of piss. The connection not needed to be identified although it was. The dial tone. Where was her intuition. Where were you then?

I know!

Singing softy in the bowels of her stomach. Singing truly in the depths of her womb. Sending trembles up her intestines. Ringing, cooing in the stomach. A phone is now answered on the other end by a temple line near the horn, near the brain, in the head. A thousand and one miles from the safety nest manger of the heart.

Oh say what you must to me dear child. She has spoken already for the solitude. The autonomy of her own thoughts that said she dreams of being greater more fairer than before. Better greater more fairer prayers like elliptical magic. Freedom’s energy lifting her own virtuous richeous mother carrying her a feet, a few inches off the ground in a heap of bliss and ecstatic enthuse.

A child who would love to reach out

lick the subtle electricity like candy canes

gifted by submerged lovers in the breasts keeping

who wipes the backs of wailing children turned to light tears

falling swiftly from their cheeks

caught on the cleft of the chin

running then falling sunken sucked in by cotton t-shirts

knitted by grandmothers who wear blue fabric tissued pants

on their backsides

in a group of other knitters using the leg bones

of kitty cats who laid their life down here to go traveling there

ditching one planet for the other

following a map they noticed in the rivers intimate eyes

when they saw moles on their furry paws

thinking they were kin to cheetahs

when they saw arrows in their tales

thinking they were kin to zebras

when she saw needles pointing waiting calling sweetly

in rhyme for lightning

and waiting still longer for thunder’s roar

who baby

who will notice behind the clouds a mane of gold and pubescent lion cubs

who made that sound ecstatic

that they sounded like their mothers in honor of their fathers lingum

touching deeply where he can only touch

they have known a love that looks and races across Atabay

known scorpions jagged peircing

because it went by so noisily

sprites still with might like forevers

keeping that spirit’s image in the cube of ice

green was the color of the strings falling lucid out the phone

when she had dialed a code

for beams she knew would come too soon

will you rescue me and mother what of my father

But you are him too

Share with me that sacred side of you so that he may know I love you ever still

fix my hair in the best of perfumed oils that when I shake my mane

children in far Italy wipe the tears from their eyes

they hadn’t known a scent so strong

That when I shake my mane

running my fingers through my hair

touching a person

unsuspected,

walking by

they will know that that scent was worn my bathed priestesses

who could bring

gods through to earth

The Dirty Queen of Leeches -> Sabrina Davidson Copyright 2012

Introduction to the Tools Master

Introduction to the Tools Master

The foolish covet his tools. The munchkins walk by his side. The dreamers admire his agility. He is not the jack but the master of tools.

Through out history and to this very day he has been a hoarder of names. The first step to being a master of tools is to be able to change tools at will with as much simplicity as a breath. You must be formless to be a master of tools. That chaotic organization, formlessness, is at heart what it means to be the master of tools.

He wears a suit of the finest of fabrics. He weaves it himself I’ve heard. It smells of the finest dark chocolate soil. His suit is a mirror for the spirits to use. His suit is a book of information.

I remember a girl named Jessica who unwittingly happened upon a tool of the Tools Master. It was in one of the places you least expect it to be. Laying at first in a section of her memories she hadn’t touched yet, there it was safe for a time. It was the ability to rally the spirits, I believe it was. It was the incantations, words, it was the very library for this type of art. The tools master is so well organized he utilized several other information holders such as gems and these hidden rooms in the memories of anything to store his libraries. But for Jessica it was different. Something in that selection touched her and awoke in her. It is not quite clear if the master of tools knew that he had done this. But I have heard that if you are able to access the tools he places in those hidden rooms in your psyche, you can keep the bounty. He made himself a pact that he will only take what you will not miss of his. I have faith in this. I want to believe this with all my heart.

I have been searching all of the hidden rooms in my psyche for a glimpse of a possible stored library. Although some of these opened doors have unleashed more than I thought would be there. For this I am grateful to him and his pact. I am grateful for the ways my body has begun to self procreate, creating multiple fluid bodies to join me on my search into the wonderland of my very mind. I appreciate that with this task I have become whole. Even though I can call forth the thunder, even though I can play wildly in the forests with the nesting spirits, even though I can dream and open my eyes without opening my eyes. I am sitting here in this park with my deck of cards secretly divining if I will find a library of his and become a magus of tools. Because for all of this to happen to me with just the intent to reach out for one library I can only imagine what it would be like to actually have one. And on the winds I spit these words that if I do find a library of his I will steward it like it was gold. I will care for it as if it was myself. I will nurture it as if it was a child. I will the will to play with this sacred selection of knowledge knowing that I cannot mention to you the rest of what I would be after. Hunters have their secrets and we are at war.

I haven’t seen Jessica since but I can feel something brewing. I think she has something to do with it. It’s like a warm hearty soup for the souls. I also heard she changed her name. Joined a team. The rest is a mystery. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to tell you what happened to her. I happened upon how to make myself a suit of the finest fabric. I wove it myself.

Introduction to the Tools Master by Sabrina Davidson Copyright 2012