Random Midsummer Toads

Summer Solstice, sometime after we retrieved as much of your light as we could, in the ritual which marked an initiation for me and a rebirth for you, we were invited by our friend, Ben Watts (the beautiful Lieutenant) to a champagne party on the piers in Williamsburg. We were all to wear white and be fabulous.

You were in a scowly, anti-social mood and had no interest in going, though I cajoled and coerced you, and, in true Cancerian fashion, you appeared, at any rate, to have a marvelous time.  So freely you expressed your affection when we were in a social setting, or on display, while in private so much less forthcoming. Alas.

Returning home, we stopped at the Cedar Tavern for something to eat. As we approached the pub on that warm, first night of Summer, a young man around our age, also dressed in white, looked at me with an intense, puzzled expression and asked, “Shannon?”  I stopped and asked him if he was addressing me. He seemed a little dazed and after a minute replied that he .. thought I’d been someone he knew.  As we proceeded to our destination you said something about the (Scots) Grays – you thought he’d been among us then, perhaps that had been my name (but Shannon is a decidedly Irish name, so who TF knows…)  It was a strange and electric night, however, and – on this longest day of the year I recall, for the first time in ages, the bizarre and disturbing demonstration of conjuring what you said were poison toads, underneath a napkin, as we sat across from one another at the table in the Cedar fucking Tavern.

“We used to slap them on the backs of enemies,” you said, as napkin after napkin seemed to come alive with something small and moving inside it.

“Get rid of it!” I whisper-cried every time (maybe four?) you played at that.

Which you did, only to manifest what you said was another such critter, which, without a doubt, looked like a small toad moving inside the freakin’ napkin.

The episode concluded, as we prepared to settle the bill, when you exclaimed in a muted voice about a burning in your hands, and you held them out to me.  A grey-white, pearlescent substance oozed out from under your fingernails, and eventually from the palms, themselves.  We wiped it off, used water, yet it continued to ooze forth, apparently causing great discomfort.

Ectoplasm.

 

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Posted on June 20, 2017, in Excerpts and Expurgations. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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