The old man who I never really knew and yet for years after his death I aided in cleaning the house he nearly suffocated with hoarding. Like sifting through sand for gold I dug through countless boxes of junk that he had held precious and priceless. Stacks of newspapers and empty cereal boxes reached near to the ceiling creating a chaotic city of rubbish. And did you know he had a sister? How appropriate to be named after her. This Katherine was a smart woman who lived to be 96 If I’m not mistaken. I recall visiting her in at the old folk’s home in Florida. A small room featuring one window open to a view of the tropical garden. Stacks of books in large print spines cracked and torn from the rough love of reading. Books full of crosswords and various paper puzzles lay in a wicker basket by her bed. And did I mention Katherine was always happy to see us? Did I mention that she spelled her name K-A-T-H-Y-R-N? Thus provoking the spelling of Katy to end with a Y. Why indeed because my mother put K-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E on my birth certificate so according to the government that is my name.
In the front yard of my house is a tree whose branches I know as steps to a ladder. Looking straight up the sky becomes a mosaic where brown boarders frame various hues of green. It is a church of its own to the faithful. The patch of bark raw from my clumsy climbing feet is the welcome mat of an old friend.
Being outside, some distance away, the sounds of the storm from inside is muffled. Turbulent waters can calm suddenly sometimes. Think gently shaking water surface beneath the rolling dark grey clouds.
One tree can lift up to 100 gallons of water out of the ground and discharge it into the air in a single day, think of a heavy morning fog wrapped around you, think of shelter from the sun, shelter from a storm.
There is a point at which the hill is its steepest. A point when your face gets red and your breath gets short and you really have to force your legs to peddle up up up even when your muscles are screaming. There is an old man’s house and it’s such a place I rarely stopped or thought about. He had a perfectly manicured yard and no trees. He had flowers and bushes. He was a retired old black man and nothing more to me.
Until one day I was riding my bike and I stopped at this place within the steep of the hill. It is a strange land where the trees grow out sideways, and the bushes are cut with more care than my hair had ever received. No trees to cover, bigger driveways but not the bigger everything like you’ll find from the houses at the very top. This was some strange in-between place and even stranger yet I found a rabbit there.
Brown creature with flecks of gold in its fur. Its big eyes are glossy black marbles. Its nose bounces up and down as it chews on some grass very casual like. Its ears twitch to the side as it hears all of Queensbury, all of it at once. Acutely aware of many things it was like an omnipresent being.
On behalf of Kate E Lore as an independent freelance writer for Dayton City Paper I would like to make a formal retraction and sincerest apology to Folks of Dayton Music Festival to whom I have greatly wronged in my error a few weeks ago.
I do not own the rights to the term Poptart.
I do not have permission from all of the original creators of TKO from which this comic is inspired.
I am not making any profit from selling this comic.
Presenting the first ever Melancholy Evil Poptart!!
I do not own the rights to the term Poptart.
I do not have permission from all of the original creators of TKO from which this comic is inspired.
I am not making any profit from selling this comic.
I’ll be honest here I really don’t know anything about building a website. I should never be trusted to be left with only my own devices… things get destroyed.