“A Grim Parlor”

The flames chatter to themselves in the fireplace, an eerie dialogue of insanity for any who walk near. Two armchairs, leather skin pulled tight over their flames, duel in silence. Each is precariously turned towards the other, foul words of a previous conversation hanging in the stale air.

But my calamity lies with the heads.

A line from a novel comes to me,

“We bear the grins of the smiling dead.”

So truthful a description, for a place such as this.

A macabre theatre of plaques and glass eyes, static veins and dull teeth. A glass of amber liquid – whiskey probably – sits on the coffee table, a buffer zone between the somber chairs.

It reflects the cruelty, the sourness, of this grim parlor.


They say eyes are windows to the soul,

panes of glass in which to glimpse a person’s whole.

They say eyes speak with words untold,

pages never to be written.

Books never to be sold.

Some say eyes are orbs by which to see, and nothing more.

Those who adhere to one thing are destined to ignore,

for the eyes are so much more than glass, unspoken words, and orbs.