Yesterday was the Lenores first birthday!!! 
Shes my beautiful Eastern Indigo Snake one year and 37 inches long (16 when I got her 11 months ago). You can check out string of photos chronicling her first year HERE.
I'm still plugging through my notes on my thesis. It's an epic in prose and poetry about a voodoo priestess and a fallen angel (one of the angels who didn't choose sides in the war in Heaven).
I'm dug up the prologue, which I had done months ago. Here it is:
SOULS UNSURE: PROLOGUE
Joshua Alan Doetsch
The door opens like a mute scream. She does not remember when she stopped bothering to scream when beer bottle blows to the head convinced her to be silent, to go inside.
And theyll say the story starts with an old priestess and a chant. They wont remember. But it begins with a little girl and silent screams full of broken dolls.
Hes in the shadows, in the doorway framed horror. Dull eyes stare. He never blinks. The Devil never blinks.
No Daddy.
She crosses her legs, pulls the blanket. But her legs are not strong and blankets dont protect. Closed eyes cant protect.
He stares and licks his lips. Stands and stares and breaths loudly. She holds her breath. The stuffed animals all face the wall. She doesnt want them to see. He stands and stares and she holds her breath
A clank, a mumbled curse, and spilled booze. He always smells of old booze. Shell smell of old booze.
Then, the door closes like a happily-ever-after. But happy endings only happen if the story stops. Death and corruption are two steps past every happily-ever.
Bump. Scrape. Down the stairs.
Bump. Scrape. He limped and lurched when he drank a penny dreadful shuffle.
Bump. Scrape. The drink put a demon in him, Mama always said, before she was silent, before she went to heaven.
Where are you now Mama?
She creeps out of bed and locks the door. Therell be hell to pay, but she locks the door. Back in bed, she prays in the flickering yellow light of a street lamp dying slowly in the night.
Prayers to Mama and prayers to God and prayers to all the saints prayers every time he scrapes up the steps and prayers every time he shadows her doorway but it always happens. The damage is done; it will just be done again.
Bump. Scrape.
Bump. Scrape.
Outside the door, full of fumes, taboos, and imps perverse, he twists the handle. She prays in desperation. He preys in depravity.
Please God, take me to Heaven. Please God, send him to Hell.
Bangs and shouts and curses. The door groans. Shes all tears and prayers now; tears and prayers and both flow free and translucent between sobs. When you pray that theres a God, who do you pray to?
The door buckles.
Hands folded to the sky, she always prayed in the same direction. But now she scatters her prayers to all four winds, scatters her prayers to anyone who will listen. Prayers, like radio waves, travel until received. But where do things go when theyve flown past their purpose? Let us say they go to a place, and that is enough.
Through the tears she sees something gather in the blackness above her bed, a patch of something darker still. It materializes, all dark dust and ebony mist, like a fairytale boogeyman. But shes not afraid. She knows real monsters wear masks called Father.
She stares up at it. It gazes down on her. She breathes and it pulses and the breaths match the pulses and at the end of each undulation she sees the outline of a wraithly head and spectral hands in the mist. And she reaches her hand, running it through the phantasmal shape. A sable, wispy finger, from out the cloud, brushes her cheek. The sooty digit mingles with a tear, leaving a muddy-dark trail down the eye.
She looks at it and then the door and continues her prayer. It pulses. Considers. It flashes, faster than a false promise, to the door through the door outside the door, a scream.
Bump. Crash.
Bump. Crash.
Bump. Crack.
Flashing reds and blues announce that all is not well in this place where even social workers fear to tread. Black and white cars sit in the gray slush. The snow comes down white, but always ends up gray.
They wheel the man in a stretcher and a neck brace, found him at the bottom of the stairs. Some kind of stroke, they say. May never walk again, they say. Then, they found the girl and the beer bottles and the bruises and they gave each other knowing looks. But the girl did not say a word.
Family members were contacted and reports filed. Just one weird thing, said the younger officer to his venerable friend, between bites of cold wind. And they both nodded and recalled the graven image on the girls bedroom door. Sketched in ash and burnt in bas relief was a portraiture, a definite shape, that they could not explain but only hearken back to the snow angels made in their youth, hearken back impossibly far to a time and place where snow was still white.
Shes my beautiful Eastern Indigo Snake one year and 37 inches long (16 when I got her 11 months ago). You can check out string of photos chronicling her first year HERE.
I'm still plugging through my notes on my thesis. It's an epic in prose and poetry about a voodoo priestess and a fallen angel (one of the angels who didn't choose sides in the war in Heaven).
I'm dug up the prologue, which I had done months ago. Here it is:
SOULS UNSURE: PROLOGUE
Joshua Alan Doetsch
The door opens like a mute scream. She does not remember when she stopped bothering to scream when beer bottle blows to the head convinced her to be silent, to go inside.
And theyll say the story starts with an old priestess and a chant. They wont remember. But it begins with a little girl and silent screams full of broken dolls.
Hes in the shadows, in the doorway framed horror. Dull eyes stare. He never blinks. The Devil never blinks.
No Daddy.
She crosses her legs, pulls the blanket. But her legs are not strong and blankets dont protect. Closed eyes cant protect.
He stares and licks his lips. Stands and stares and breaths loudly. She holds her breath. The stuffed animals all face the wall. She doesnt want them to see. He stands and stares and she holds her breath
A clank, a mumbled curse, and spilled booze. He always smells of old booze. Shell smell of old booze.
Then, the door closes like a happily-ever-after. But happy endings only happen if the story stops. Death and corruption are two steps past every happily-ever.
Bump. Scrape. Down the stairs.
Bump. Scrape. He limped and lurched when he drank a penny dreadful shuffle.
Bump. Scrape. The drink put a demon in him, Mama always said, before she was silent, before she went to heaven.
Where are you now Mama?
She creeps out of bed and locks the door. Therell be hell to pay, but she locks the door. Back in bed, she prays in the flickering yellow light of a street lamp dying slowly in the night.
Prayers to Mama and prayers to God and prayers to all the saints prayers every time he scrapes up the steps and prayers every time he shadows her doorway but it always happens. The damage is done; it will just be done again.
Bump. Scrape.
Bump. Scrape.
Outside the door, full of fumes, taboos, and imps perverse, he twists the handle. She prays in desperation. He preys in depravity.
Please God, take me to Heaven. Please God, send him to Hell.
Bangs and shouts and curses. The door groans. Shes all tears and prayers now; tears and prayers and both flow free and translucent between sobs. When you pray that theres a God, who do you pray to?
The door buckles.
Hands folded to the sky, she always prayed in the same direction. But now she scatters her prayers to all four winds, scatters her prayers to anyone who will listen. Prayers, like radio waves, travel until received. But where do things go when theyve flown past their purpose? Let us say they go to a place, and that is enough.
Through the tears she sees something gather in the blackness above her bed, a patch of something darker still. It materializes, all dark dust and ebony mist, like a fairytale boogeyman. But shes not afraid. She knows real monsters wear masks called Father.
She stares up at it. It gazes down on her. She breathes and it pulses and the breaths match the pulses and at the end of each undulation she sees the outline of a wraithly head and spectral hands in the mist. And she reaches her hand, running it through the phantasmal shape. A sable, wispy finger, from out the cloud, brushes her cheek. The sooty digit mingles with a tear, leaving a muddy-dark trail down the eye.
She looks at it and then the door and continues her prayer. It pulses. Considers. It flashes, faster than a false promise, to the door through the door outside the door, a scream.
Bump. Crash.
Bump. Crash.
Bump. Crack.
Flashing reds and blues announce that all is not well in this place where even social workers fear to tread. Black and white cars sit in the gray slush. The snow comes down white, but always ends up gray.
They wheel the man in a stretcher and a neck brace, found him at the bottom of the stairs. Some kind of stroke, they say. May never walk again, they say. Then, they found the girl and the beer bottles and the bruises and they gave each other knowing looks. But the girl did not say a word.
Family members were contacted and reports filed. Just one weird thing, said the younger officer to his venerable friend, between bites of cold wind. And they both nodded and recalled the graven image on the girls bedroom door. Sketched in ash and burnt in bas relief was a portraiture, a definite shape, that they could not explain but only hearken back to the snow angels made in their youth, hearken back impossibly far to a time and place where snow was still white.