the clay court
I see a bird’s eye view, kind of like the cover of The Handmaid’s Tale, but with a stiff awkward queen and her ladies in waiting, all made of dusty brittle brown clay. They scuttle about on tiny pointy feet, glass marble words disgorging from unripe mouths. The Queen points at something, her sleeve—a drop of water has fallen on it. Such finery, meticulous hand worked details, tiny straight stitches, elaborate embroidery—all begin melting into mud. It’s just one drop but the Queen’s mouth forms a perfect squashed circle and the other women retreat in unabashed treachery. The small rivulet of moisture trails down the arm, carving a meandering red river, revealing bright gold thread and royal purple silk; a melee of jewel toned craftsmanship. She looks at her court, just one glance to assess just how disloyal they will soon be; the answer is very (she would’ve done the same). And her eyes shift gray, but with a glowing green behind it. She smiles, sees the color, and comprehension floods her body, a certain mastery of mystery, and her tiny pointy feet crumble into dust and she falls, shattering the delicate clay she was molded from, the face and arms and legs dissolving, the water still trailing, gluing the parts that haven’t crumbled and the ladies in waiting walk away.
then i made a maid!
I did, I gathered what was left and shaped a golem.
The golem rose (after an incantation or two), stretched its arms.
To be honest, I was freestyling the whole thing.
I made sure to leave its skull empty.
Its eyes turned to me; this untenanted glance was the first sign.
The second was the stench that rose from its new flesh (it was bad).
The third? I forgot – everything began moving quickly.
It got…pretty fucking big.
I think it hated me.
It scooped up a couple of tables and rolled them like dice.
When they landed, I guess it got the answer it wanted, because then,
With an enigmatic and desolate smile,
My golem calmly folded me like a lawn chair, inside a lawn chair,
And threw me into the Hudson.
I’m still here to tell the tale because that radioactive river sludge is perfect for crafting something to fight him with.
An army of mud.
That might have worked.
But I felt bad, and made him a lady golem instead.
An empty-skulled duo, beautiful and burnished by their own heat.
Hotter than any kiln.
Turning their soft clay bodies dusty, brittle, and brown.
I took that chair and smashed them flat.
There’s always tomorrow.