Wicked games they played back then,
Childhood trickery (painful trickery), all masked in fun,
One was called the Sin of Chasm,
And she was the lucky one,
The chant still sticks –
First comes Faith, at the end, Reward,
Don’t look down,
At the Chasm of Gore,
The chittering teeth, the rot of the pits,
Lose your wits and they’ll ask for more,
But think of the reward!
The rope was taught between the rooftops,
And night around us – starry and cold,
The schoolyard dirt was the chasm below,
But naught to be seen in the frosty chill
of those evenings.
“Next Walker, Next slave!”
“Fallers force the Daybreak!”
Erma was a friend that night,
A friend of a friend,
She came not to be seen, but to watch,
Last girl in sight,
But the Chasm hungered, and forced a growl,
“Next Walker, Next Slave,
Chasm’s Worms on the prowl!”
She shook her head, shook her legs,
Tried to shake herself from their icky hands.
They pulled and prodded and forced her to stand,
Feet on the edge, and pushed up her hands.
She balanced and shook, and tears filled her eyes,
And the first step she took held our breath in the night,
Three steps across, we could hear her sniffles, her whines,
Though not a word did she yell, when her feet missed the line.
Not a second passed then,
Plop – crack, plop.
She was still.
I looked down at the rope,
Eddie picked his hands off the line,
Wiped them on his outer vinyl.
His words loosed a gasp of smoke into the air,
“Nope!” he laughed.
“The Chasm claims another victim!”
Victory hit him and his arms darted
Over his head, Over his head.
He cheered in the night.
It was cold, so cold,
And under the stars, who knows how long she lay,
Before they found her,
Dismembered, I imagine,
A quiet girl, a lonely fall,
Victim to the Chasm.