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| Photo by Anne Middleton |
The sunlit moon beckoned - to the purple door. The dogbit cat beckoned - to the purple door. The fence was the sole defense - to the purple door.
The skies grew dark, the purple remained. The breeze grew stark, the purple remained. The sound was 'round while the purple remained, but slowly opened.
The purple yielded only to the blackness until the gasp of the room exhaled into the night air. Smells of old potato chips and fortune cookies called to the weary, the curious, the hungry. A soft aroma - perfume? Aqua Velva? Aunt Bea? - surrounds all, comforts all, lures all to the darkness.
No need for flashlights, candles, unnatural illumination - just follow ahead to the green eyes at the end of the long, dark hall. Was that a lick to the back of the neck? A nip at the pant leg? A silent, massaging grasp to the arm? The purple door tells no tales, it just closes behind the latest visitor. Oh the purple door....the purple door...
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| Photo also by Anne Middleton |
"My spine is a slinky. My paws are venom-tipped weapons of doom. I have lived nine times my nine lives and shall live another ninety-nine. You create a shelf, I shall claim it mine. You shall illuminate me from above as the god I am. I am Bastet. I am He Who Must Me Fed and Feed Me Only Shreds or Your Sheets Shall Be As Shreds. I am - oh, is that some yarn? Be right back..."
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