ALT Scenes From High Perches A crow is landing on a high branch of the old linden tree. The bird calmly eyes a mandrake root lying between the Cheshire pumpkins in our front yard. The salty aroma of the river quenches the dry Autumn breeze. Behind the curtains at my bedroom window I notice another presence. The silk of my covers shifts within seconds as I retreat from the resistance in the chamber's still air. The linden tree wonders how many more chances a sociopath needs. The human in question doesn't take it personally. He is smitten by the decay of my nervous system. Fascinating how this causes so much sorrow, he thinks, as his gaze wanders out of the drawing room window. A crow is landing on a high branch of the old linden tree. The bird calmly eyes a mandrake root lying between the Cheshire pumpkins in our front yard. © Stefanie Neumann - @KokopelliBFree

ALT Remains Willow looked down at the soaked bench, then up at the rainbow. An unprecedented anticipation wrapped in sparkling drops was spread over the landscape. There was no consent in falling, only a festering commitment to clinging onto matter in the breeze. Lumen skies brightened to a disturbing morgue white, revealing the full destruction. The landscape as she remembered it had forever changed. One gust brushed all the glittering drops off. They splattered into liquid fragments that merged with the grey pavement like camouflaged exits. This was not simply a metaphysical therapy for letting go. It was the realisation of being the only one witnessing the horror that was manifesting after rhyme and reason were washed away. © Stefanie Neumann - @KokopelliBFree

ALT What Silence Keeps Saucy darlings fall silent as black satin wraps around the bodies of possessed paladins. Their inclination to argue freezes, allowing my tranquillity to rise. Pansies wilt in the cold ... but a new seed is already sprouting. With a shaking hand, you show me your lottery ticket. Congratulations! You won the first prize: a trip to the carnival, including a meet and greet. Once we are alone, the walls are moving in with a whiff of cedar. Your lips are moving, yet your voice fails. Words are obsolete. They only disturb the show. The quiet fear in your eyes is delicious. It deserves a glance behind my mask. Your soul tries to run. But my scythe is faster. © Stefanie Neumann - @KokopelliBFree