A Twisted Tale by Steve Sibra
I awaken and I sleep and I do not know the difference between the two. In one realm my wife and children have been brutalized and left to die; they have been sewn up, stitched into leather tubes while still alive. I hear the screams. But do I hear them in reality, or in a dream? I pray it is the dream. But I cannot tell.
The rhythm of Amber’s screaming lulls me into sleep. Or am I already there? I dream that I have gone to the kitchen for some applesauce, only to find that a naughty puppy has eaten all of it. Or is this real, and the other a dream?
I sleep and I awaken, over and over again. Some monster is sewing up my wife, just as he sewed up my son and daughter. They were alive; the heavy leather cords bound them tight as their horrible screams were muffled and finally silenced. I was asleep through all of it. I know I was. And yet I heard it. I heard the monster doing his work. I heard him eating my baby’s limbs. I heard the slobber, the lips smacking.
I awaken to find my wife, my Amber. At least I think it is her. It is a dark twisted tube of leather. It is so thick, so dry. How is it possible? I hear footsteps in another room. I hear a man whistling! He whistles a tune that I used to enjoy when I worked in my garden, with my tools. I hear him sawing. He is using a saw of some sort. The rhythm of it could put a person to sleep.
I will fall asleep again and when I awaken Amber will be gone. Then the only one left is me. Somehow I am making this happen. There is no one else, there cannot be. I am turning out leather and it is my wife, my children. I am sewing buttons over their eyes, using an elaborate stitch that I learned somewhere. But where? When? I fall asleep again and dream of applesauce. And when I awaken next time . . . I have been made into leather. I have done it to myself. I know that I have. There is no one else. There is no one else. I must find out what is happening. I know what I must do, as soon as I am awake.
I am going to find that naughty puppy. And I am going to sew him up. I am going to make him into a tight ball of leather. I am hungry and I really would like some applesauce.
Steve Sibra grew up on a farm in eastern Montana near a town of about 800 people. He made his own set of encyclopedias in fourth grade. After dropping out of law school he opened a comic book store and has made his living buying and selling old comic books for over 30 years. Steve’s poetry chapbook, “The Turtle Is Not A Metaphor”, was published this year by Three Frogs Swimming Press, and his work has appeared in numerous literary journals including Jersey Devil Press and Jawline Review. He lives in Seattle.
Trigger Warnings 