S.B. Watson

ALDEBARAN: GHOST

Montecristo. My Northwest Lodge.
Two messengers of death I saw.
Two chances given to change my fate.
But I spent my cash, and screwed around,
And drove my wheels, and drank and ate,
And when the final hammer fell,
And the final bullet bore,
It donned on me too late.

And now I stand within the sea,
Shod in cement and sand,
My blood run cold and hard,
My swollen eyes forever searching
In this murky land,
And finding only silty Hell
And Death to hold my hand.

He was there at Montecristo with my wife,
That painting of hers hanging there
Behind them like, like a burning eye,
Watching me watch them.
I should have killed them there and then.
But I was good, and now I’m here,
My death-mask face a frozen leer.
I sway alone in cold, deep currents,
Breathing icy-water air.

She’s all his now. And my money.
See if I damn care.


S.B.'s YouTube video reading of "Ghost":



Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.


S.B. confesses: "I am an occasional amateur astronomer, and while I don’t get as much time to observe as I would like, the stars are often in my thoughts. Centering a femme fatale’s concept of self in a sinister portrait just occurred to me one day, while my mind wandered."

S.B. WATSON is a writer from Keizer, Oregon. When he’s not spending time with his family, practicing historic English quarterstaff, or playing Bluegrass guitar, he can be found in his library, constructing mystery novels and writing peculiar pieces of short fiction.

S.B. Watson

ALDEBARAN: WIDOW

I was naked when he put brush to easel,
Not a robe draped round the curve of my breasts
Or the line of my back.
And when he was done, he turned the canvas
And my naked reflection was a burning sun,
A lonely star chasing after the Pleiades,
Not with the pack, but following after their trodden track,
Discarding its stellar mantle, hot and red,
Like my naked body throwing off the covers of his bed,
Like me standing then before that artist (now he’s dead).

My husband never asked about Aldebaran,
He just hung it on our Montecristo wall,
And watched me as I led them down the hall
And stopped beneath my sister sun,
And bared the bruises from the beatings
I myself had done.

A smile. A look. If they’re lucky a touch
—only ever the most chaste brush—
With the knuckles of my hand,
Painting that stupid puppy-stare across their faces.
A pause, a breath, our bodies close together where we stand,
The moment stopping time,
And then I leave, and my heart races—
—If they follow, they are mine.

They said that he was guilty. As he was.
He killed my husband. For that he must atone...
So, he sat there eyes down-lowered,
Like a coward, all distempered and alone.
But when he rose to leave, he lifted up his head,
And met my gaze, and smiled,
For he remembered...
The Montecristo wind, the warm sea air, the wine,
The painting hung behind me as I took his hand in mine...
Yes, he met my gaze, and smiled.
He would take it like a man,
All for these eyes of mine that shine the light
Of old Aldebaran.


S.B.'s YouTube video reading of "Widow":



Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.


S.B. confesses: "I am an occasional amateur astronomer, and while I don’t get as much time to observe as I would like, the stars are often in my thoughts. Centering a femme fatale’s concept of self in a sinister portrait just occurred to me one day, while my mind wandered."

S.B. WATSON is a writer from Keizer, Oregon. When he’s not spending time with his family, practicing historic English quarterstaff, or playing Bluegrass guitar, he can be found in his library, constructing mystery novels and writing peculiar pieces of short fiction.

S.B. Watson

ALDEBARAN: KILLER

I knew him from Montecristo.
He was a sallow little man, with bitter eyes,
That always had a backup plan,
That hid his candied lies.
He owned a 45-foot yacht,
(Or something like, that sailed)
And a little villa on the cliffs,
Beneath an endless open stretch
Of endless open skies,
And cars, and wines, and finer things—
A painting of Aldebaran,
The Following Star—which paled
Beside his lonely trophy wife
With perfect trophy eyes.

I met him in the Great Northwest.
He had a house, another nest
To hide more golden eggs.
And there his wife was with him too,
The bruises on her white arms bare,
And on her lily legs.
Their guests made sure they didn’t stare,

But everybody knew.
She poured him yet another glass
Of wine from one of their old kegs,
And as he drank his brimming cup
She calmly sipped the dregs.

I saw him last beneath the bridge,
The night was dark. His skin was cold
Beneath the misty headlamps overhead
I struggled by myself to hold
His body.
He was dead.
I rolled him underneath the waves, and
Watched the cement shoes he wore
Make him sink like lead.

She saw me last there at the trial.
I only noticed towards the end, but after
“Guilty” I stood up
And turned, to look her full in face
—she smiled—
And the eyes that paled the Following Star
Seemed then to grant me grace.


S.B.'s YouTube video reading of "Killer":



Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.


S.B. confesses: "I am an occasional amateur astronomer, and while I don’t get as much time to observe as I would like, the stars are often in my thoughts. Centering a femme fatale’s concept of self in a sinister portrait just occurred to me one day, while my mind wandered."

S.B. WATSON is a writer from Keizer, Oregon. When he’s not spending time with his family, practicing historic English quarterstaff, or playing Bluegrass guitar, he can be found in his library, constructing mystery novels and writing peculiar pieces of short fiction.