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A pretty flawed, but somewhat forcible footslog I penned some years back.
Gethsemane
The outer walls held no Spring scent.
“What was spoken?”
The cloak-veiled Praetorian voice was beyond depth. Passionless, a mere eye-face severed in the steel moonlight.
“I…He…in the garden, there was talk of sleep. Of a sleep…” the Centurion coughed.
The dark pathway seemed strangely clear, despite the heady heat of mist. No sound was heard –
“..and yet all could be cleared to travel in an instant” the Centurion thought fleetingly.
He was scared.
He was ill.
Not right.
“What did they say?”
The Praetorian’s voice lowered in depth but gained volume – the odd, peculiar, nothing presence grown bigger.
The Centurion felt his armour grow heavy. His heart raced, eyes blinked.
“He bid them stay awake…”
“Speak not of Him!” The dark figure’s voice was all around him now, a senseless crushing deep.
“What did THEY do? Say? They who were with Him? They that are Of Him?”
Wretched, wrecked and crouched the Centurion could hardly breathe in the overwhelming oppression.
“His own took Him.”
“Fool! Not of them. They shall wander… that has been seen to!” the Praetorian sounded, shifted, unbound.
Surrounded now the Centurion heard it say ” But of They who follow? They who have looked long? The Twelve? Speak!”
He Heard his own voice break in the storm of silence “The Woman. The One He loves. She wept for Her love. She stayed awake. She stays. A form.. a form of sad waking? Oh I don’t know.. Palm leaves.. Her palm!”
A horrible laughter filled the dense mist.
Shattering of souls.
“One Mother and One Whore shall be chosen. That is all! Speak to me of Peter? Of John? We shall provide our Paul! We shall see to it all from here on in! Speak??”He no longer could.
Dreams of Olives and the thrones of Peter. Of great drops of blood falling down to the ground.In the waking hours of a Spring morning, the Centurion’s body was consumed by a Loving Mother sea.
Wow..as in a weirdward of wayment, Sgt. A thaumaturgy in type. =D>
NOSTALGIA.
She never looked back, not once.as all around her wayward sisters were being reduced to latter day Pillars of Salt. She heeded the words that told her to look to the brighter future. A clean slate. An almost self procured lobotomisation, a removal of a thousand clanking Skeletons from her internal Cerebral closet. The firm,blank refusal of determination, that life IS on the up and up and She would look into the Sun.
The sun made her blink rapidly, and caused Watery eyes, that did zilch for the new Rimmel Mascara ! She attempted the sunnier climes till she was bitten and mauled by several thousand angry mosquitos. They replaced the skeletons. She tried to measure out her life on paving stones,never stood on the cracks Into the sun.always forwards..Like limp washing on a fine day,she made sure her sheets faced North. Ignoring the pitying looks of the well meaning folks,She remained herself, and Solitary.As in Her solitude she managed to look forward. She could pretend to herself,in fact convince herself, that she needed to be alone in her task, Her own personal weight upon shoulders. Atlas’s of the world unite,, you have nothing to lose but a helpful hand,offered.. and shunned.
One day she looked back.. horror upon horrors !! there was no Pandoras box that flew open, revealing personal torments. Nothing Bad happened at all. Faced with a feeling of almost dissapointment,which soon turned to the serene nostalgia of the cursed. The smile and the sleepy realisation, that it is indeed OK to look back. Just dont take too much now..( as the bible says) , or was it Billie Holliday.. She confuses the two.
She stood upon a seaside Pier, looking over the Irish sea.All stormy and black as the Oil that causes wars. Then the salty hearty tears fell. silently at first in memomy of her own childhood,and her childrens. re- living moments they did exactly the same things as she was doing now. The pictures on her Camera, almost mirror images of HER as a child,with her mother. She tried to dig all the way to Australia you know? Even as a child She longed to escape ! She never made Bondi Beach, But then again, the Sun would have only irritated her Scottish Skin.
She watched in amazement at her own Grandsons amazement at a grand Majesty,in need of a lick of paint.His eyes like saucers, mirroring her own childrens, told her what she needed to know.That the Pictures of her, then a Generation later of her own bairns , caught forever in a snapshot on a disposable camera and 2 generations later another set of pics from a modern day Digital Camera… the SAME pictures, with different characters. Each with their own role to play in Her life. Parts of a jigsaw, with a missing piece. ALWAYS a missing piece, but then.. does that NOT add to the suspense? She thinks of it as theraputic. Others may view it as “boring” .
An English seaside resort,, harbouring memories deep down that were maybe finally exorcised. just NOT too many of them, and not all at once :) She smiled, knowing she had finally did the right thing, by looking back.The thrill of the eternal traveller..searching forever unravelling. Wherever she sets her face………………no place. Of dreams untold of Aztec gold and love in the Pampas grass.
maybe She never reached Bondi, But SHE reached a wee bit of personal heaven, amid the tackiness,the run down looking facades, but eternally the Grand Majesty. of simpler times,of happy times. The Great Dame of her mere being.
She is easily pleased. But she is happy she reached an almost cathartic level.
If life is a mere dress rehearsal, She has played her personal lady Macbeth :)
brilliant rubes, hits ya in the heart like a diamond bullet hun
@toybulldog wrote:
brilliant rubes, hits ya in the heart like a diamond bullet hun
och TB i was only being honest and off the cuff..just the way i am :) i know my limits and what makes me happy.. im SUCH a cheap date :)
PMSL @ the caramelised one
was good tho
x@esmeralda wrote:
Wow..as in a weirdward of wayment, Sgt. A thaumaturgy in type. =D>
Very kind of you to say so, Esme :)
As I said, a somewhat fledgling effort from many moons back :roll: .. sharp at times, but mostly raw, self conscious and inaccurate.
I drank a lot of chinese green tea back then.
Come to think of it, I still do :-kAs ever..raw and honest Ruby..and thoroughly readable..and re-readable.
@Sgt Pepper wrote:
@esmeralda wrote:
Wow..as in a weirdward of wayment, Sgt. A thaumaturgy in type. =D>
Very kind of you to say so, Esme :)
As I said, a somewhat fledgling effort from many moons back :roll: .. sharp at times, but mostly raw, self conscious and inaccurate.
I drank a lot of chinese green tea back then.
Come to think of it, I still do :-kI think that far from being self-conscious, it’s a very exposed subconscious which elevates this piece.
So keep imbibing that oriental emerald nectar, Sgt, it’s having the desired effect.@esmeralda wrote:
BLIMEY!
great reading and quality thread folks. Thank you cath x, sarge, and forgetmenot.
I N N I T
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