Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Murdered, ghost-like mist of beauty, sips the ice-cream dream, regains her shape; murderer sees; she seizes cone and cold delight while he instead lies dying.

Sweet maid, vanilla frozen in the sunlight, melting pale, her dress like water on the ground, her hair like grasses in the breeze, rises unseen.

She, all unknowing red was less than wholesome, blood of her dying, while her assailant streaked ahead, she bled; he bought his murdered-for ice-cream cone.

“I could murder for an ice-cream,” said Ellen, sunlight's lava thick on sweat-drenched hair dripping till silken red like raspberry ripple streaked vanilla arms.

He hung his mother’s picture back on the wall, felt memory’s blank space filling with the smile he always wanted. Pictures can tell, “I love you.”

Remembered never being good enough, not dressing, walking, talking right, never wise enough. Remembered anger. “Wake up.” Remembered love and no-one meant to hurt him.

“Sleepwalking” said the doctor. “Dealing with hurts of the past.” “By hiding paintings?” “Hiding memories.” “So what do we do?” “Wake him up.” Or try.