A single speck of iridescence fills a bubble of space, 

 

Flooding 

A smooth 

Garnished surface like a spotlight 

On a dark stage. 

 

Paper rustles, itching to be free, through

 

The gaping 

Mouth of dark nothing, still 

 

Yawning as the day 

Turns. 

 

A sturdy paperweight of flesh slams upon the

White cream cardstock, 

 

Rolls of fat 

Filling in the 

Concave, 

Pale white knuckles peaking 

Through the layer 

Of blubber as the other 

 

A suffocating 

Fist, the way her mom always told her not to. 

 

From the tunnel emerges 

A tip as short and stubby as that of her 

 

Seeping 

Fingers, 

new crayola box just last week. 

 

Now the night creatures blew cold gusts of breath from their grimy mouths sending the black fringed curtain to fly from her forehead 

With 

 

Red eyes and puckered lips, 

  She carves 

Each stroke 

In increasing speed black horse 

Riding through the sandstorm 

From her side the rider reveals her final weapon in a flourishing 

Wave before stabbing the sharp prongs of 

 

The javelin 

Into the heart 

Of the beast 

 

Again and again again and again 

 

nothing but a white carcass and an angry pool of 

Red 

 

Billowing in the desert wind. 

 

So this is her idea of fun?