Candle Boy drips candle wax on his body. It dries in strings and lumps. His hair is light pink. It’s greasy and lies unevenly around his shoulders. His head is far too big for his body. He looks very mischievous. He is rude. He would say anything to anybody! But he knows a lot, more than anyone else.

He peers out of the corner of his eye; he’s just said something cheeky. He’s checking to see if he’s hurt the person’s feelings. His black-painted clown lips stretch to one side of his face in a sneer.

“I’m always melting,” he says to no one, “but never completely. If I was for sale in a fine shop, I would be called “The Eternally Melting Boy.” Can you see my row of fangs? Sharp teeth with plenty of gaps in between. And my nose is upturned like a naughty schoolboy. I sit here on this bench all day and all night, waiting for someone to pass. When they do, I can tell right away what they might be self-conscious about. I make fun of them in the most sarcastic way possible. And laugh like a witch! Mostly they ignore me and walk right by. Or worse, throw me a coin or two.”

“Some would say I’m wasting my life. But the wax is damn hot and my head is so big and heavy I can hardly hold it up. Isn’t that worth something?” She awakens at dew drop o’ clock to stalk the garden. Her only clothing black lace panties. The lady gardener whose expertise is comprised mainly of watering the plants with her tears. She’s Bette Davis, a tongue that’s always smacking away, yakking about the neighbors. Doesn’t care if they hear her. A purple fox fur falling from her neck. A purple fox furrrrrrrrrr! Mania expressed in the false eyelashes and in her lover, the mad scientist croaking at the moon. He goes on a bender and sticks her good. A blood n’ hair clotted knife sticking out of her heart. And lime green child’s snot oozes in lumps from her fingers. Remnants of the five-year-old son she gives up for adoption, years ago. Drip drip drip the tears fall from the hose. A neighbor says hey Bette, whatcha cryin’ about? Want me to water the plants for you’s? Impulsive and with knife blades in her shoe. It’s the seventh morning of June. The old woman lies quaking in her bed, nibbling on the nails of the hand-claw that grows from the wattle under her chin. Her thoughts thunder like horses on the roof. Oh! The racket downstairs! The little man has broken into the house again. Banging pots and pans in the kitchen. She seethes, I’m leaving all this behind, leaving behind my little house, my prized horse, the gentle chickens. I love them dearly, but I’m done with the harassment and must be gone. I can’t take anymore. This little man knocks at my door day and night, asking for things I need for myself. Things like a hand saw, a bucket of lye, and the pitchfork. No, I don’t have limbs the way some folks do; instead, I’ve got a blobby mass of pink flesh, that’s all! No legs! I’m wearing fishnet stockings. I’m hampered in many ways. But this man pursues me; he’s broken into my house; he’s stolen my chicken; he’s cooked a tall man’s breakfast for me. I can smell the drippings!

“Dearie!” he sings, “Wouldest thou awaken to partake of the scrumptious breakfast I have cooked for thee? The liver and heart of my last lady love, freshly slaughtered. Full of blood. Oh! and eggs from the coop.”


Kim Silva lives in Rhode Island with her musician husband and their dog, Zelda. She loves nature and is vegan for the animals. Writing poetry is a way to add color and playfulness with a societal undertone to her world.