Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti © 2008
Lullaby
© by Nick Bakshi
They keep me up at night, the bats. Flapping. Squeaking. Scratching at my window.
Momma used to tell stories to put us to bed, the bats and me. I'd lay next to her, staring out past the shutters, and watch it all happen as she spoke.
The pixies that live in the woods behind the brook meet once a year for a humongous feast...
I try to recreate it now, to hear her tell it one more time, but it doesn't seem to sound the same over the bat's tormenting lullaby.
... with ripe red berries, and cinnamon twigs, and gold dust sprinkled all on top like sugar...
She'd croon the words, slow them down and load them up, so that they came through rich and smooth, tasting like honey.
...and then, when all the eating's done, they sit in the nooks of the branches of their old oak tree and play lutes, and flutes, and tambourines, until the sun begins to rise ...
I look out through a crack in the blackened shutters, try to see the feast once more, but for berries there are only blood-red eyes, and I know I'll never hear the screams like music again, not since Momma died.
