Baseball the ritual of freedom and hope of potential

May 6th, 2012 by highpriestess

Baseball is an act for the purpose of demonstration.  This is the cause and affect of the game on the Diamond.  It is the spiritual side of Baseball that I write today.

The game on the diamond was played out so that the accuser could not
rule over man, but the law would. The accuser stands upon the mound 66 gilgul, or the place of the
skulls. The accuser’s dominion is the cycles of birth and rebirth, or if you are counting, 60 feet
6 inches.
I wrote all of this in my kabbalistic keys to baseball in 1989, so most of this stuff is already in my
ms. The accuser stands upon the mound to split you in two. He is trying to rule over you by
accusing you. The accusation splits you in two. To understand this better, Jesus stands before Pilate, and Pilate gives the crowd a choice,
Jesus, King of the jews, or Joshua Bar Abbas, Jesus son of the father.
It’s the same person, there is no other person there. What Pilate did is make the crowd choose, thereby giving
himself authority over the death of Jesus. The fact is Pilate split the name in two to create that
duality to use the power of death against Jesus. He accused him and split him in two.
Ok so back to baseball. The accuser is there to split you in two. The baseball represents the
pod, or the power of death, the BAT is beth (container) of et (whole image), the bat represents
the whole of the law. And by the law the accuser is thwarted, so that he can not use the power of
death, against the batter.

The batter is like Job, he takes a side. When you take a side, you leave a side unprotected. This is
why you must be successful at least one third of the time. So if three times then it is so, this is
why it’s three strikes and you are out. when you take a side, you are unprotected and the accuser
will surely broadside you, this is why the bat protects the side you have forgotten about. With the
breakdown of the law, the accuser finds your weakness and exploits it to make you fear the limit
of death, and make you believe he has power over your life.

The pitcher stands upon the mound to split the batter in two. This was seen as the greatest tyrrany,
in the world, those rulers who used accusation to thin the masses. To justify taking life by
accusation.  So the batter to get away from the accusing finger of the pitcher, and the judgement of the accusor, must protect his weakest  side,
he must hit the ball (pod) or power of death, where they ain’t. Yes, hit it where they ain’t.

Yes it’s the game on the diamond that catches the eyes,
making the spirit within us
scream never say die.

So the bat is a branch of Jesse, or Rikki, depending on who you put your faith into. The bat
represents the law. If men are ruled by the law, then he will hit it where they ain’t. Then  there is no judgement,
and he gets to run the bases freely, until he is safe at home.

The case of pete rose becomes very interesting in lieu of this, because Charlie Hustle hit the ball to
where they ain’t more times than any other man alive, and he’s judged in society. He standss
judged, this was the destruction of the great game on the diamond by the Illuminati who are trying to
destroy the ritual.

Now the Ball represents the power of death. Death only get’s it’s power from your belief in it. The
people of the United State had lived for a very long time without having to be fearful of the limit of death. That
too is being subverted. It started when Bush put the game on the white house lawn. He placed it
on the south garden, to overlook it, instead of facing the game north, where the law rules over all.
So the game has gone through terrific judgement since Bush has done that. It was no accident,
he mean’t to do it. The constitution is being categorically destroyed, because the highest magic, the whole image of the law, and the ball the power of death, play out on the diamond, which represents the three dimensional world of form, homeplate represents the body human which must
constantly beg the law to protect him against tyranny, or man’s rule over man. The bases are the
paths, that are open to all to roam, when someone hits the power of death, in this case the ball
out of reach of all judgement. That is the true seed of potential and why the home run hitter is the
ultimate hero. He has used the law to free himself of all tyrranny and in turn anyone on the path
at the time he has done it, all become free to roam the paths. This is kabbalistically the 32 paths
of humanity, all become open to tread upon and travel through…
.

This is important because it allows all men to reach their fruition in their time and in their place, the
timely hit, allows a seed of potential to reach absolute fruition, the flower opens so as to give full glory to god, and this is the crux of
the American dream, and gave birth to the cult of personality. England hated Babe Ruth, because he was more popular than the queen. Baseball was creating heros and people of fame well before Hollywood, and helped all other sports in america do the same for their players.
I have written volumes about the origin of the game, it originated in Egypt as the game of rounders
and it was played by the inhabitants of Goshen, who finally figured out the best way to use the law to free
themselves from the tyrrany of pharaoh.

The freemasonss at one time believed in individuality and the seed of potential and they certainly
believed in the law. On sinai, in Exodus, 24, 74 men or 70 elders (represented all the nations of the
earth) and Aaron, his two sons, and Moses stand at the door of heaven and they see god. They sprinkle all the
masses with half the sacrifice and they are told they will bring forth the law onto a lawless earth,
they said “we will do it.”

fast forward 24 x 74 = 1776, and because the free Masons understood “Thou shalt not” by living it
for generations, they were given “you have a right to.”
Understand that the American dream is that every one is treated equally, everyone is the seed of
potential, that any man can reach his fruitition in his time and in his place. The ritual on the Diamond The great american game, is about the pendulum swing of mercy and severity. Obviously by putting the game on the south lawn, to ride roughshod over it, or look
down upon it has worked. Maybe this country can not be saved.
It reads like the story of Sodom. Abraham askes god “if there is one righteous man in Sodom, won’t
you save it?? And there were none. Not even Lot, his sodomic brother, who was forced to leave but
only for Abraham’s sake. Because he was just as bad as the rest of them.
No one is here to protect the law. The law stands alone. Men have subverted the law, the
constitution and no longer  pretend to even care. No one in Washington will stand up to the Lawless, and no
one seems to know how to use a bat any longer.
But then that is what happens to rituals when people no longer understand the spirit behind them.
Like the marriage ceremony, or baptism, or confession, or confirmations, a bunch of recited words
that hold little or no meaning.

Baseball became america’s cathederal, by it was born the Cult of personality, because any man
could become great in his time and in his place, as long as the bat, or the law, kept the accusations of the
tyrant at bey, there was no severe judgement.
Not so now, the game has been demonized, and by the very people who lived by that ritual. This is
why Michael Jackson might well be the last of his kind, an original creative genious. No one is
following the law, no one stands by the law……
I’m a fat lady singing, and that’s really bad new.
the sacred geometry of the game helped find and define the potential of the sons of men.
Babe Ruth builded his house on the physical law of bat meets ball. And he hit it out of sight. but he
could not be the greatest home run hitter, simply because he began as a pitcher, and accused
many who stood and took a side before him. This is why it was left up to Aaron, his brother.
Abner means my father is light, and Doubleday explains itself. Three measures of light to the
inventor, he chose that name for a specific reason.
kabbalistically the game was created as a ritual to make men ever vigilent against the accuser,
and to innately know when he was in danger of tyrrany because of the accuser. When you point the
accusing finger, three fingers point back at you.
The bat, the whole image of the law, and the ball the power of death, play out a ritual where men
take a side, and the balance must be met.

Going to the extremes creates the need for the accusing finger. It separates the accused and the accusor, it also designates three fingers pointing back. And if three times then it is so.
The accusor then must be faced with three random Acts. It is why Balaam who goes to accuse the sons of Israel in Sinai, sees the three fingers and opens his hands, and the curse becomes a blessing. Because he knows the balance must come.

The fact that the balance comes through the random act is also known. If the pendulum swings to the side of mercy it must swing to the side of severity.

In the game of Baseball, the game on the diamond portrays a man after he has taken a side. But the bat, Beth aleph tav, the house of the whole image and the law is there to protect him in his ignorance.
The Accusor who stands upon the mound (gilgul) knows the man’s stance, (his past) and uses the baseball (power of death) as a random act, to split the man in half. This leads to the prophecy, “when you split in half, you destroy a third” and three strikes and you are out. But the game also portends potential. Because it is the game that brings every man, and any man to fruition in his time and in his place. The law protects against the tryanny of the accusor. The bat represents the law, that the man in his ignorance needs to protect himself against the accusor who stands upon Gilgul and destroys him with the power of death.

This is why we love the homerun hero. He takes a 95 mile an hr pitch, which is meant to split him in two, and sends it where no one can get it, and he can take any path unjudged fullfilling potential for whoever is on the path with him. And then they are all safe at home, safe against reprisal, tyrrany, and can persue happiness without fear of someone trying to take their life. It’s only fitting that the first game was played on the Elysian Fields, (heaven) in Hoboken, NJ, NJ is the third state, or the state of Levi, home of the high priest and high priestess.

BASEBALL SEASON IS HERE, WORSHIP IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT!!

Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

2012 the return of the Sun to it’s place of origin

December 31st, 2011 by highpriestess

Prophecy and Fulfillment:

2012 heralds the arrival of the Sun to it’s place of birth, or origin, the center of the galaxy, called the Milky way. Here the sun will rest and burn off the dross. The sun’s power lies in the fact that we must follow it wherever it goes in the universe, we meaning the earth and the inhabitants thereof. The sun makes a trip to it’s place of origin when it feels the need to cleanse the whole of the systm. We are catapulting to a place of destiny.

History reveals that the Sun has made this trip before. The nano meltdown of the earth’s crust is historical evidence of the powerful meltdown caused when the sun’s energy is directed at the earth. This happens when there is a breakdown of the universal laws. Infringement on free will is caused by Men who wish to rule by the power of death and not the law.

The laws of the universe were brought to the earth by it’s great avatars. Each Avatar brought forth a set of laws so that men who were seperated from God by the fall of humanity were able by fulfilment of the law, re establish devine contact with God.

In each dispensation the flesh and those who desire the flesh fight against the light of the Sun, and the light of mankind.

The laws were put in place so that men could wander in and out, and find the law working, so that they could reach their fruition, in their time and in their place. This is why hope springs eternal, so that any man who fulfils the law receives the truest gift of life, the eternal breath. All men seek to fulfil desire. As long as the fulfilment does not impinge on any other creature in god’s kingdom, there is no harm, no fowl.

We see that the Lie of Cain, was to take control of the womb, to place his seed within it to bring forth only his image. Mankind fell from the grace of God, when Cain slayed Abel in the field. The womb no longer brought forth in anonimity, there was placed upon specific instruction by a directed will. This was the lateral fall, literally.

Now there are men on this earth who only believe in their own divine bloodline. They protect it, and nurture it and reincarnate through it again and again. Men have learned to take up the image they leave behind, because for them death is a certainty. Cain was told because of his sin, (stealing his brother’s womb) he would wander, and that he would bring up the weeds with the wheat.

The illumined ones consider all of mankind the weeds. They consider themselves the wheat. They do not like the law, because the law makes all men equal before it. The oligarchy that controls the earth have always subverted and destroyed the practice and fulfilment of the law, because they want the power and the glory to determine what comes from the womb and what goes to the tomb.

The black hole absorbs all light and steals free will. The conquering Nations, and the conquering bloodline of this world have used the power of death to rule this kingdom. The elites who liked to be called illumined because they can reincarnate back to where they were before, control the earth, or so they think so. Their control depends on the destruction of the law and the total destruction of free will. They are the progenitors of the black hole.

Via Appia is the main road between Sodom and Egypt. This is the road of conquering. This is the road where the Elite have villified all other images before them. They have learned to accuse by using the law against the sons of any men. They hate any image not of their bloodline. They accuse, then they execute.

Billions of people have died so that the Elite of this world can sustain themselves. They need the shedding of human blood to keep their crooked kingdom alive. The road between Sodom and Egypt is filled with cries of the men and women who were murdered to sustain this Luciferian system.

Men have put the flesh before the spirit. The flesh refuses to obey the law. The flesh seeks to destroy the law, so that it can rule over the lord’s earth, and the lord’s men.

Now we see that there are wars and rumors of wars, and that the negative energy of the unlawful is filling the earth.

THIS IS WHY THE SUN IS RETURNING TO IT’S PLACE OF BIRTH!

The Sun removes all of the unlawfulness of the earth, when it burns off the dross. This will happen and wiser men have recorded the history of the sun and it’s journey to the center of the black hole of the Milky Way.

In revelations we read that all nations will come together to make war, to break the yoke of the law which impedes them from taking over the whole earth, we are given the truth of the revelation of Jesus Christ. All will be gathered together on the field of Har megiddon. To make battle against each other, against the law, and against God.

AntiChrist is anyone who believes they have a right, or have rationalized and justified taking another man’s life. And the men who rule this world, who believe they are the wheat, have created war to cull the masses, the weeds of the earth.

But we were given the law so that we might wander in and out. This was a universal right given to all of us by God. And those who have been villified and murdered to sustain this system have been taken up by the Black hole that denies free will.

“And fire came out of heaven and destroyed them all” Revelations

Now the sun returns to it’s place of origin and there is a sign given to men so that they know when this great prophecy is about to be fulfilled.

It’s called the Sun Dagger, a testament to the power of the sun and the power of God.

Chaco Canyon:

The Sun dagger was sculpted out by the hands of men, who created a kingdom, where they built 5 story buildings, but needed to kill other humans in order to sustain their kingdom. They realized too late that this is the crooked kingdom and the sun returned to it’s place of origin and burned the earth until there was nothing left.

The natives of this land understood a crooked foundation, leads to a crooked kingdom and so they left the Sun Dagger in Chaco Canyon, as a reminder, as a portent, as a grave sign, because when the sun creates the dagger in Chaco Canyon, it is catapulting through space to it’s place of origin, and mankind better prepare for certain destruction.

The Black Hole:

The black hole is so dense with light, and it steals the free will of the light of the universe. It takes in all light, it steals the light. It impinges on free will and denies it to the universal soul. We call this Satan. Satan is the advesery. Only here to point the accusing finger to take away free will.

The world has seen the accusor at work since the beginning of time. The accusor stands before God and accuses mankind so that he can use the power of death against him.

In this world the power of Satan is the taking away of free will. We see today how men who worship Satan, create laws, and war to take away the free will of man. They have subverted the law and used it to control mankind by fear of the limit of death.

When the sun reaches it’s place of origin, it will do so to liberate all of those souls who have died to sustain this system on earth. The black hole holds the light of billions of souls who have been murdered and accused and stripped of their free will. All of those souls who were crucified Via Appia are waiting for the return of the Sun to it’s place of origin to set them free!!!

Ressurrection vs. Reincarnation

All of those souls who have been killed to sustain this Lucierian system will be released from that BLACK HOLE.

The Sun returns, the villified, the accused, the murdered will all be released of their own volition.

WHY you might ask?

Because when the sun returns to it’s place of origin all of those souls will once again have: FREE WILL

No man on this earth can stop this, no man on earth has the power to stop free will.

Free Will makes moves the Universe. Free Will is the whole image of God. Free will can not be stopped by any negative energy or power that think they be.

Understand the portents and the signs of the times. Understand the sun returning to it’s place of origin. Understand the need to sculpt the sun Dagger in

chaco Canyon. The time is now to scream freedom. The time is now to demand freedom from the guards at the Prison Gate.

Get on your rooftops. The time is now, right now, the revelation is happening NOW.

DEMAND YOUR FREE WILL

The time is coming when those who rule the earth will seek to destroy it. They seek destruction of those things they can not have, because they belong to GOD.

FREE WILL belongs to GOD.

Free will implies no possession of any living, breathing being.

When the fire comes out of Heaven, it will destroy much. It will destroy many. It will destroy those who are destroying the earth. For some this will be a horrendous event, because it will take away their world.

But all of that light will have been released of it’s own volition from the black hole, because free will has once again returned to all of those who have been killed.

LISTEN UP!

This is the ressurection of the dead. This is the return of free will, this is the king of kings, and lord of lords returning to take dominion over this earth.

MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE COMING OF THE GLORY OF THE LORD!

Make no mistake, rise up and demand your freedom, do not fear the light, it is the return of the kingdom of God. God’s will be done. That is FREE WILL!

This is a testament of a witness who is faithful and true.

Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

Al Mahdi, 2nd Born of the Dead

July 10th, 2011 by highpriestess

For all intents and purposes John Hicks, prisoner of Guantanamo was dead. Rumor had it that he had been reanimated by alien technology. But no one knew with an absolute certainty. He appeared one day in the offices of George Noory , the executive producer of Coast 2 Coast, a radio talk program known for its off the wall, in-depth approach to the paranormal.When it was medically verified that the John Hicks was indeed dead after his execution, Art Bell assigned one of his top producers and star reporters to do the story. The producer ran into some obstacles when he tried a human interest approach to the story’s spin. He wanted to establish a history, interview family and friends. But John Hicks wanted nothing to do with it. His reason for coming to the world’s attention was to make people happy, he said. His past, his family, his origins were not important, what was important was the truth…and he wanted to share it with everyone.

When the show aired, the ratings went through the ceiling. The Executed man was an immediate success. People loved him. They wanted to invite him to dinner, even if it was only to have him sitting at the table. Politicians from around the world and religious leaders from every denomination wanted to consult with him. They felt that he had insights into life that were given to him by God. What became immediately apparent was that his mere image on the TV screen instilled a sense of happiness and contentment in the viewing audience that was unheard of in the annals of television broadcasting. No one could account for this phenomenon. Corporations were quick to see the value in all this. They asked John to sell their products and wanted his photos for print ads. They offered top dollar, butvJohn hicks said he did not need money, and no longer felt the urge to chase that beast. Furthermore, he made it plain that he had not come to sell candy, soda, cereal, or anything else to anyone. He came only to be seen and make people aware of the continuity of consciousness in the Bardo State, also know as death.

Although he had not given permission, toy makers were manufacturing action figures and dolls in his likeness. He refused legal representation, thus allowing anyone who cared to market his image to do so with impunity. He began to appear in ads all around the world, on trading cards and billboards. The ressurected man was seen drinking beer and eating foods that he had no use for. He had become an overnight celebrity. Hollywood wanted to sign him to do feature films; TV execs wanted him to star in his own sitcom. He refused all offers. Nonetheless, paparazzi and reporters followed him everywhere he went along with mobs of autograph seekers. Fan clubs sprung up on every continent of the planet. Glossy photos of him were in countless households, even in shacks and shanties in third world countries, all of them signed by John Hicks.

No matter where he was seen, or where he appeared, he always wore the same clothes–a white pair of pants, and a white tunic, and a thin black tie with a star and quarter moon embossed upon it. No one knew where the dead man lived. He would simply appear where he was expected, and in places where he was not expected at all. People from all walks of life invited him to come live with them, wealthy individuals offered to build him air-conditioned mausoleums around the world so that he would have a comfortable place to stay no matter where he went. He would have nothing to do with it.   It was apparent that he was enormously reticent and valued his privacy above human comforts. Scientists took interest in him because he did not decompose. There was a bright aura and halo emitting from him, but this did not increase over any length of time. He was a true enigma who always sidestepped a question with a shy and wry smile.

When he met with Ratzinger at the Vatican, this press release was handed to reporters:

After many a millennia, the time has come to complete the true, long awaited role of the human species. My presence on the planet at this time is to draw attention to the ressurection that befalls everyone alive today. The time is near when the great culmination that the human race had long expected on a subconscious level is but a sun flare away. The technology is in place; the required number of human beings is in place; the political antagonisms and spiritual malaise are ripe and very much in place. The momentous time has arrived, the sun has returned to it’s place of
origin, only doing so when times like these arise. The great culling of the human race is
about to begin. I am the second born of the dead,   pick up your lives and follow me, take
no food, no clothing, no possessions, they will not be needed.

The minions from every nation, every race, every creed, left their homes and domiciles to
search for John Hicks, he was spotted in the Himilayas, or on the Pyramid of the Sun,
or beneath the Denver Airport, he preached to the Liberals and the Republicans, baptizing
them in the Potomic River.

He would appear at bar mitzvahs and family picnics, at Christian baptismal ceremonies, and at pubs and nightclubs where he was seen dancing with delighted females who slipped their phone numbers into his olive green jacket in hopes of a late night rendezvous. Drug addicts toasted him as he passed because they believed he had reached the highest high attainable. Post offices had to open up special divisions for all of the fan mail he received. They had to store all these letters in huge warehouses because Hicks had no known address.

Then suddenly John Hicks made an announcement, he would speak to the whole world on
december 21, 2012. He said he would reveal many truths, and needed the world to listen.

On the night that this broadcast was to occur, everyone was in front of their TV set or radio, eager to hear what he had to say. Soldiers on battlefields stopped for the occasion, crime halted during this announcement, the flow of human semen ceased while sex was put on suspension. All ears and eyes were peeled to hear the second born among the dead.

He told the world, there was now so much more to life, that life extended far beyond our dreams,
that it now extended into the bardo state. The sun had returned to it’s place of origin and erased
the limit we call death. He said “men will seek death and shall not find it.”

No more suffering to die, no more giving up the ghost, all of mankind would now experience
the reality of the universal consciousness. He suggested World Leaders release prisoners
and stop all wars, and destroy all missiles and nuclear warheads. He told the people they
no longer needed food or sustenance, that the ether was all they needed to sustain their
consciousness, because it was the very face of god.

Without hesitation, or thinking of the ultimate consequences, The illuminati gave orders to launch missiles of mass destruction at countries that were at the top of their adversary lists. They also deployed troops on their home front to decimate the civilian population. They would not give up their power without a fight. They controlled the womb, and they controlled the tomb. While the sheeple sat in front of TV sets listening to the gunfire and explosions in their cities, they waited patiently for the nuclear, chemical and biological warheads to hit the earth; and they watched John Hicks, the executed second born of the dead on the screen with smiles on their faces, in complete tranquility, as he opened wide the door to heaven.

Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

Scifi Sunday’s presents “A Snatch Hatch Catch

February 28th, 2011 by highpriestess

One thing Daniel could never accustom his senses to was the foul air found within the confines of most stables. The stench of animals and their excretions sent him for the door in a hurry. Unfortunately the job of guarding his employer’s trade wagon put him in contact with stables on an almost daily basis. He reached the outside air and took in a deep breath hoping to expel the lingering stench that filled his lungs.

Mr Walker emerged from the stables shortly after, a wide smile playing on his face. He was the wagon driver and he was a few years older than Daniel. From their frequent conversations, Daniel had found out the man was married, though it wasn’t an overly happy union. Mr Walker was also a man who loved his drink, claimed it helped him forget, but at the rate he drank, he should have forgotten everything years ago.

“This is the best part of the day.” Walker’s smile never left his face. “The work is done and the inn is open.” Without bothering for a reply, he plunged down the street towards the inn they had spotted during the ride through town.

Daniel took one last glance at the stables. One of the hands was already locking the doors. They had already dropped off the cargo, but he never felt quite safe leaving the wagon in the hands of local stable hands. Of course the alternative was to remain in the stables to watch it, which meant enduring the smell of the place for an entire night. No, he’d take his chances that the wagon would be there come morning.

He took off after Walker and the two soon found themselves at the inn. Before entering, Daniel took a quick look around. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary, but an older woman, with grey streaks in her dark hair, was giving the two of them a strange look. There was something to her slight grin that did not sit well with him.

He put a re-assuring hand on the grip of his weapon and turned to enter the inn. He was not worried about being robbed, the gold they secured from the sale of their goods would be collected in the morning, but a bad feeling began to build inside him. His instincts did not always prove right, but one could never be too cautious when in a strange town.

They found an empty table and soon were enjoying local brewed ale. They ordered food and drank while they waited for it.

“Piss.” Walker said with a frown.

“Excuse me?”

“My wife says all ale tastes like animal piss.” Walker emptied his first glass and motioned the barmaid for another. “I always wondered how she knew what animal piss tasted like.”

Oh great, Walker was going to complain about his wife the entire evening. The nearer they drew to the end of another delivery, the more vocal the man’s distaste for his wife became. And once he became intoxicated…the demon’s swarmed around him.

“Ignorant obese chum feeding great white……” Walker was growing impatient at the time it was taking the waitress to deliver his next drink.

Did he mean his wife or the barmaid? He never met the man’s wife, but the bar maid wasn’t that fat…well, nothing a few drinks couldn’t fix. Daniel sighed, it wasn’t even dark outside yet, it was far too early in the evening to have to begin to listen to Walker’s rants.

The barmaid came over with another ale and Walker’s smile returned. He seemed to settle down some as he dove into his second glass.

The door opened and Daniel glanced over, he had a habit of checking out newcomers to the room he was in. This time he was in for a shock, it was someone familiar to him. Shiela Doolittle the prettiest girl in Dodge. What could she possibly be doing here?

She looked around the room and her eyes locked on him. A smile formed on her face as she made her way over.

“Daniel ! Am I glad to run into someone I know!”

“Hello Miss Doolittle.” He motioned to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

She sat down and after smiling to Mr Walker she turned her attention back to Daniel..

“So what brings you here?”

“My father has business in these parts and he had to take care of a few problems. I felt like traveling with him, sometimes Dodge can be so boring…”

Daniel nodded in agreement. “Where is Mr. Doolittle?” Her father was wealthy, but he was a fair man, Daniel had much respect for him. When a terrible drought had hit the town a few years back, Mr. Doolittle delved into his personal finances to help everyone out and never asked for any of it back.

“He retired early; the long trip has worn him out.”

“A long trip can do that…” Traveling could be a chore, but it could also be exciting and visiting new places was never dull. “Shame, I would have liked to have said hello.”

“Perhaps you’ll run into him in the morning.”

“Maybe.”

Mr Walker put his glass down and stretched his arms before standing. “I have had enough for tonight.” He winked at Daniel, knowingly,. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He walked out of the inn, no doubt heading for another. The man could complain, but he had the forthwith of thought to excuse himself so Daniel could deal with his newfound female companion without interruption.

They enjoyed a few drinks and Daniel regaled her with his tales of life on the road. She did not speak much and seemed hesitant to mention any of her recent exploits. This seemed rather strange to him for she was usually a talkative person. He attributed it to her strange surroundings.

As the night wore on it was obvious she was growing tired as she began to yawn frequently. She made no mention of it, so he realized he should broach the subject.

“It is late and I should get some sleep, I do have an early morning.”

She looked disappointed. “Would you mind escorting me to where I am staying? I have a place at an inn a few blocks away.”

“Of course.” He stood up and after throwing some coins on the bar to cover the tip, he helped her to her feet and led her out of the inn.

It did not take them long to reach the place she was staying and she invited him to see her to her room. He obliged with little hesitation.

When they made it to her door, she suddenly jumped into his arms and kissed him on the mouth. He was somewhat taken aback by her aggressive demeanor, back home she shied away from any sort of physical contact. He wasn’t going to complain however, this was a moment he long dreamed about.

“Would you like to come inside?” She said after finally breaking away from the kiss.

“Sure…” He was able to say after the moment sunk in.

She led him into the room and closed the door. With a wide smile on her face she unfastened her blouse and let it drop to the floor. Her exposed breasts were a sight to behold; he could not wait until he was fondling them. She loosened her skirt and it fluttered to the floor. She had sensational legs and as his eyes roamed upwards, his brain locked as he was witness to something quite unnatural. Did this woman really have a…..penis!??

He couldn’t finish the thought as she came in and struck him hard in the jaw. The force sent him backwards and he collapsed in a heap. Despite her diminutive size it felt like he had been kicked by a mule. Everything began to grow blurry as he tried unsuccessfully to stand.

She stood over him, something quite unmentionable dangling between her legs. But it did look like a Vagina, a Vagina with teeth, and it kept smacking it’s lips. This must be that snapping pussy he once heard about. Just moments ago she was exploring his mouth with her tongue…he felt nauseous. Her face had changed; it was no longer that of Sheila. He tried to place it and after a moment it came to him, she was the old woman who had been watching him outside the inn. He could not understand what was going on.

“Your intelligence is limited…but I must have something to sustain myself.” She leaned down and placed her hands on his shoulders pinning him to the floor.

He struggled with all his might, but he was unable to break free. She…he…whatever it was…it possessed incredible strength.

“Such a primitive species…” She smiled. “I am going to have such fun. Oh, if only you saw the look on the men who freed me. They thought they had stumbled onto a long forgotten treasure, instead they found me.”  She laughed.  “I am still weak…and this town provides little sustenance. Your wagon will take me to a greater city, with powerful people…power I will consume…”

“What…is that?” Daniel asked pointing to her body part?

“I call it my snatch hatch.”

Her smile elongated as her vagina twisted into an impossibly large formation. Her legs opened exposing a row of sharp teeth. She lowered her body down and her vagina continued to expand until it was nearly as large as Daniel’s head. The last thing he saw was darkness as she slurped his entire head inside her snatch.. There was a loud snap and then nothing.

–

Mr Walker drummed his fingers on the side of the wagon. He checked the reigns on the horse for the fifth time. He sighed and shook his head when he saw someone come around the side of the stables.

“What took you so long?”

A sly smile was Daniel’s only reply.

Hasting returned his grin. “You better tell me how last night went.”

“Oh believe me; I plan to tell you all about it., every Gorey detail.”

Enhanced by Zemanta

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

Scifi Sunday’s presents “The faded Photograph”

February 28th, 2011 by highpriestess

The telephone call from Darnell Watkins came in late August. I have no telephone at home, so the call came through to my club. Steiner, the doorman, told me that he had been phoning several times a day, for a number of days, so I surmised from this that the message must be of some importance. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea that Darnell was back in the country; the last I had heard, he was venturing off up the Andes with a team of German zoologists. Such is the life of dear Darnell, the quintessential adventurer… National Geographic could not have invented a more interesting and courageous character.

The Darnell Watkins to whom I spoke when I finally did receive the call, however, sounded far from interesting and courageous. In fact, he sounded far more nervous than I have ever perceived him before throughout our long, albeit decidedly sporadic, friendship.

“The thing of it is this, old man,” said Darnell, his voice short of breath and jittery, as though he had been running for a train. “I’m taking off soon for the Himalayas and I’m renting the house out to a Minister and his wife. However, there are a few things I don’t want to leave behind and I was wondering if you could possibly keep an eye on them for me?”

It was an unexpected request. Darnell ventured on many an overseas expedition and he had never before rented out his house for the duration. The very principle seemed at odds with what I knew about his character; it was almost as if he wasn’t planning to come back. Nevertheless, I heartily agreed to look after whatever belongings Darnell wished me to, which seemed to please him enormously. I heard no more for a couple of days, until Darnell himself came knocking on the door of my Liverpool townhouse. He looked ruffled and agitated, and there was a Hackney Cab waiting for him on the street. Beneath his arm, he carried a single large, flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper and neatly tied with string. I invited Darnell in to take tea, but he declined with a frantic shake of the head.

“No time I’m afraid, old man, “he said. “I’ve a Swiss cargo plane leaving for New Delhi in forty minutes and I’m running late already.”

He turned and nervously checked the cab, as if checking to see that it was still there. Then he produced the package from under his arm and offered it towards me.

“If you could just look after this for me?” he asked.

I was taken aback that he only wanted me to look after the one, relatively small, item, but he said that he didn’t have time to explain. He seemed very eager for me to take the package from him, so I did. In a matter of seconds, he was down the steps, in the cab and waving heartily as the vehicle pulled away along the street.

In the house, I examined the package that Darnell Watkins had given me, curious to learn what single item was so precious that he was unwilling to leave it with his Minister. He hadn’t specifically asked me not to open it, so any misgivings that I had concerning the privacy of the matter swiftly evaporated, as I untied the string and began to fold aside the brown paper. Inside was a large, framed picture.

It was not a painting, but a photograph, brown and dark, taken on one of Darnell’s many exotic expeditions. The portrait shot showed Darnell, a couple of years younger and fully bearded, standing one foot on a box and holding a rifle. He was flanked by a pair of Haitian Voodoo Mambos; dressed in full regalia and carrying roosters, One of the priests was turned away from the camera, as if distracted by something behind him in the bush, but the other gentleman was staring straight at the camera, his eyes bugging out, he looked startled, his face contorted and filled with something approaching dread. The flash of the camera probably startled the poor fellow, I thought. Darnell , of course, beamed as though nothing else in the world existed; the very typical Englishman abroad.

I was quite taken with the picture and, unsure of how long it would be until Watkins returned, I hung it in my conservatory, replacing a hunting scene that had become rather faded.

Years passed and I heard nothing from Darnell. This was not unusual, as he frequently attended those parts of the world where communication was nigh on impossible. So I went about my business, with Darnell’s Haitian portrait hanging in my conservatory, attracting a great deal of attention from guests at dinner parties, it was a great conversation piece.

Then, some time in early June, I received a telegram from Darnell, who was in Paris and heading back to Great Britain. Apparently, he had encountered great problems with the funding for his latest expedition, which had made it necessary for him to return to London and talk directly with the Royal Society. Unwilling to evict his tenants for what might be no more than a couple of days, he had asked if he could possibly spend a couple of days in the spare room of my town house. I agreed by return telegram.

The fact of the matter is that I had quite forgotten about Darnell’s picture hanging in my conservatory. It had been there so long as to become a fixture. So I was quite taken by surprise at Darnell’s reaction when he eventually arrived at my house and saw the photograph hanging on the wall; it could almost be described as an expression of horror.

“You’ve got that thing hanging on your wall?” he exclaimed. “I expected you to open it, of course, but I fancied that once you had clapped eyes upon it, you would lock it away in an attic or a cellar, far from the eyes of any respectable company.”

I didn’t understand, I found the photograph quite fascinating, and I told Darnell as much.

He continued with a stern face, “I have had nothing but bad luck since hanging that picture in my house. The Voodoo Priest have a belief that if their image is captured in a photograph, their soul has been stolen. You see the look of terror on that man’s face? He thinks that the flash of the camera has snatched away his very soul. He fell into a voodoo coma the next morning and died five days later self induced, of course, because he believed that he was damned. I developed the picture back here in England and it has brought me nothing but ill fortune. I am of the firm belief that this picture is cursed.”

I almost laughed, and told Darnell that I had no belief in such things. The photograph had been hanging in my conservatory for six months now and I had encountered none of the bad luck that Darnell had talked about. I encouraged him to pull himself together.

He was weary and exhausted from a long journey, and tomorrow he had an important meeting with the Royal Society. We ate at the Club that night, smoked cigars that Darnell had brought back from his travels, drank too much port and I listened as he told me many tales of his adventures. By the time we arrived in a cab back at my house, my friend had quite forgotten about the portrait and its supposed curse.

I turned down the bed in the spare room and stoked up the fire to combat the unseasonable chill. Darnell had lost some of his luggage at the airport, so I loaned him a pair of my pajamas and bid him a good-night.

I had difficulty sleeping that night, but attributed it to the pork that had been served at the Club. I spent the first couple of hours regurgitating my dinner, and was considering rising to take a cup of hot milk, when I was disturbed by a sound. It was a curious mixture of a thud and a slapping sound, like the noise made by bare feet upon the wooden boards of the landing. What aroused my interest though was not the noise itself for I surmised that this was Darnell , as restless as I, possibly in search of the lavatory but the nature of how it presented itself. The footsteps would move swiftly, then pause for a long moment, then shuffle away again, then back, and so forth. After a few moments of listening to this, I resolved to get out of bed and see what the Dickens was going on.

The landing was empty, but quite well lit by the light of the new moon. My first port of call was the spare room, to check on Darnell and see if there was any problem. His door was firmly closed, so I rapped gently upon it. Receiving no response, I turned the knob and peered into the spare room. Lit by the full moon, I could see Darnell , still sleeping fitfully in his bed. He was so exhausted by his journey, and full of port, that he hadn’t even been roused by my knocking. I smiled and closed the door.

Then I heard the noise again, quite distantly, going down the front hall steps. Could it be that in my drink-induced stupor I had neglected to bolt the door and was now beset by intruders in my home? My heart began to race as I made my way down the stairs. I collected a sturdy walking cane from the coat stand as I passed; at least I would have a weapon with which to tackle any ruffian that I might come across.

I examined the door when I reached it, but the bolts were all firmly in place. Cautiously, I checked the kitchen and the dining room, but with no result. I made my way into the conservatory; this too was empty, but as a beam of moonlight illuminated the picture hanging on the wall, I noticed something that I simply cannot explain. The picture had changed. There was Darnell, all smiles and rifle, and there was the priest with his back to the camera, but the other Haitian, the one with the look of terror, was entirely missing.
I stared at the picture for a long moment, convinced that my eyes were playing tricks on me. I threw the light switch on, but no matter how hard I looked, the facts were undeniable the second Mambo had been completely removed from the portrait, replaced by a blank expanse of jungle, as if he had never been there. I continued to stare at the picture until dragged away by the sound of a piercing scream from upstairs.

I recognized immediately that it was Darnell, but I had never heard him cry out with such unbridled terror. It was as though all the demons in hell were after him. Heedless of the danger, I spurred my legs into motion and ran like the wind toward the spare room, still clutching the cane in my hand and ready for combat. I took the stairs three at a time and in moments was facing the door to the guest bedroom. The door now stood ajar.

My heart now raced as I approached the room and I tightened my grip on the cane. What would I encounter in there? Surely it couldn’t be what the facts seemed to point towards – that just wasn’t possible. But then, neither was it possible that a man could disappear from a photograph. With my left hand I pushed the door open the rest of the way, and raised the cane in my right. And peering into the moonlit darkness, sweat running down my brow, I saw a rooster pecking at the carpet fibers and clucking loudly.

The room was empty, save for Darnell dead lying sprawled in a pool of his own blood, half on and half off the bed. I moved closer, cautiously checking that there was nothing waiting for me behind the door, and examined Darnell’s body. He looked as though he had been trying to reach the door when he had been attacked. There were a large number of vicious stab wounds in his chest and sides, from which fresh blood continued to seep. But most horrific of all were his eyes; they remained wide and staring, as if confronted with the most terrible of all his fears, his mouth still open in a silent scream.

Still exercising caution, I checked the house from top to toe for the intruder, but could find nothing. Eventually, I made my way downstairs and resolved to contact the police. I pulled on my coat over my pajamas and ventured into the conservatory to retrieve my spectacles. In all the drama, I had quite forgotten the portrait, but as soon as my eyes alighted upon it, I became transfixed. For the portrait had changed again; now the Voodoo Priest was back in his place, to the right of Darnell in the picture. Had he ever been gone? Had I imagined the whole thing? Looking closer, I realized I had not, for although the tribesman was back in the space he had originally occupied, he no longer held his rooster, his visage was now changed. He no longer looked terrified and cowering; there was an air of confidence and satisfaction about his bearing. And he was smiling and as I stared at him, his smile became a big grin.

Buy my anthology at http://amzn.to/f53jVA

Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

Scifi Sunday’s presents “Rice Crispy Treats”

February 6th, 2011 by highpriestess

A small town in more innocent days was a fine place to grow up. Children were free to wander and explore, without many of the fears we have these days. I took full advantage of such freedoms. Any one’s back yard was everyone’s backyard. I could be away from home for hours and, although I was out of my parents’ sight, the watchful eyes of a caring community would protect me.

However, this was not a life without rules. “Yes sir” and “Yes ma’am” were among the required dialog, but I understood why and truly felt the delivery of respect such words imply. Politeness was a necessity, glue that kept neighbors and friends at peace, but these gestures were never a struggle, never done without feeling. The spirit of sharing lit the town in ways that sunlight never could yet I was never to actually ask for anything from a neighbor. It all had to be offered first, whether it was a glass of water, the use of a phone to call home, cookies from a newfound recipe or, even, Rice crispie treats..

Perhaps, it was a gimmick to get housewives to try something new for sprucing up homemade desserts or just a wild idea by some marketing specialist in a high-rise office many miles away. The world had suffered with plain cereal long enough. No more s’mores of brown and white. The Waldorf salads just weren’t colorful enough. There just had to be a way to make a mug of hot chocolate look prettier and nothing could stop the inevitable. The recipes were on the shelves in Back water, North Carolina, and they were all the rage, why everyone was making them.

I was eight at the time and often went to the mayor’s house to play basketball. We had a yard of our own, but ours had sand and grass for a court, while the mayor’s was paved with concrete. I really don’t remember the mayor at all. I suppose he was always off doing whatever it was that mayors do. There was a son or two, but they were older and friends of my brothers. The lady of the house, Mrs. McNeil, was always home. She was one of the many adopted grandmothers a young child acquires in a small town. Anyone over 60 and friendly became an automatic grandparent. It may or may not have been a law back then, but it probably should be on the books today.

From a young boy’s point of view, it would be difficult to describe Mrs. McNeil. At that age, everyone is either young or old. It isn’t a disrespectful perception, but rather a child’s way of comparative thinking, categorizing people by groups for future reference. Mrs. McNeil fit into the “old” category, in a sweet and affectionate way. She was just a nice old lady.

One particular day, I’d been playing basketball by myself when she asked me if I’d like to come inside for something to drink. The kitchen welcomed me in with a strangely pleasant combination of cinnamon, cooked beef and floral scents that only works in a setting like this. It was a beautiful place with detailed, hand carved cabinets, antique tables and sense of importance. I’d been in this room many times before and every time it seemed new, as if you could only take a fraction of it in with each visit. With all the stains and varnishes, the room had a rich, brown hue, but on that day, something broke the color pattern. On one of the many countertops, was a plated piled pretty with rice crispie treats. My eyes widened at the amazing sight. It was almost magical. Marshmallows weren’t among my favorite treats, but these puffy, crispy treats were something, and I just knew they had to be special. Surely, Mrs. McNeil recognized their beauty and made them on this particular day, they must be very special, after all her husband was the mayor, almost royalty.

“Aren’t those cute?” she asked, looking back as she stirred something on the stove. She walked over and held the plate of Heaven up before my delighted eyes, as if to let a better light reflect off of it. “Who would have thought of such a thing?”

She had seen the look in my eyes. Why was she taunting me? Maybe she wasn’t so nice after all. I finished my water, thanked her, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she called out.

A few minutes later, I walked in the front door of my own home, with a basketball under one arm and a bag of Rice Crispy treats clinched in the other hand. Supper was cooking, and my mother stopped me as I walked through the house evading the tugging and pulling of my brother’s and
sister’s little hands, wanting to know what I had in the bag.

“Their all mine.” I yelled at my little brother, and gave him a shove to reinforce my statement.

“What’s that?” she asked, looking at the bag filled with my heart’s desire.

“Rice Cripsy Treats,” I replied proudly, lifting the bag high into the air. “Mrs. McNeil gave them to me.”

“Did you ask for those?” she interrupted, angrily.

“No, ma’am,” I answered, but it was too late. She surely thought that no one could possibly hand out something as rare and special as these treats, unless someone asked for them.

“You can’t go around asking for things like that!”

“Yes, ma’am”.

“You wanted them,” she said, “so I guess you can have those instead of supper. All of them!”

It seemed like a great idea at the time. What kind of punishment was this? These were rice crispy treats, lots of them, 22 of them, wow what a meal I thought. This was just like giving Charlie the key to the chocolate factory. I sat down at the dinner table and started gobbling down rice crispy treats, before she had a chance to change her mind. I was the luckiest kid in the world.

But something strange happened about halfway through my dinner. The magic began to disappear, the treats didn’t seem so unique anymore and now were harder to chew than shoe leather. . It became painful to finish the 10 or so that were still on the plate. I remember sobbing as I ate the last ones, not from the punishment but rather the disappointment. I was sickened by the sweetness, and now they were hard and no longer enjoyable.

My eyes were bulging by the time I filled my mouth with the last dreadful bite of Rice crispy Treats. I swore to whatever God might be that I would never eat another Rice crispy treat again in my life.. My stomach was distended and if someone lit a match under my butt It would have
become a blow torch.

I was holding my stomach and crying, My dad was taunting me, “You’re going to need your
stomach pumped for sure” He giggled.

But instead Mama grabbed the enema bag, “This is what happens when you beg for food.” “This is what
happens when you don’t share.” She beamed at me.

After shoving those ‘treats’ down my throat, and then getting an enema shoved up my ass, I knew there
was a lesson for me somewhere in all of this. A Treat can be very deceptive.

Tags: ,
Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

Crossroads of the Loa

January 11th, 2011 by highpriestess

The Shop Keeper’s spirit meandered down the dusty road like an abandoned cur, stopping here to look at a dead person alongside the road. His feelings were like something soaring out of nightmarish dreams. Shading his eyes from a tremendous January sun, he peered off to the right where a wounded psyche lay being baked into something calloused and hard and no longer part of the poor soul from whence it had come. To his left, where he didn’t have to shade his eyes because the sun was hot on his back, stood a huge mountain of broken walls and windows. Tears the size of his hand tumbled down its weathered slope to drop into a swirling vortex of death, which reprocessed it back to betrayal, forever recycling the sadness of man’s treachery. The Shop Keeper, closed his eyes and sighed as old Sol began its final plunge behind the broken spine of Port Au Prince, the whole of Haiti had become a Wanga, the result of Petro magic perpetrated by the white devil.

“I can’t do this.”

No answer. The Shop Keeper expected none. But it wasn’t silence which greeted his declaration, not at all. Faint moans of anguish could be heard over the tormented pleas of a small child. Male? Female? He did not know. It mattered not. The pain was real. Yes. He withstood the sound better by keeping his eyes closed. He realized that the faint moans were coming from himself. The catastrophic events were familiar. He had never been here, though. Not in this life. That was the thing, then. Since everything here seemed twisted, the whole world upside down, the Shop Keeper had to ask the question

. “Am I going to die like this?” Far away he heard shattered hope screech. “Will I get out of here alive?”

Raucous laughter issued from wickedness. The shopkeeper had heard it before. Wickedness never showed its face. Coward. Instead it played out it’s evil game through the sonic booms hitting the ocean floor. The reason you can never see it is because it is the darkest side of you. This rather unusual event was familiar in an obscure, unfamiliar way. Since early this morning, or was it yesterday morning, oh, no matter. Since he’d found himself suffocating in this place, he recognized certain . . . things.

Nothing he could put his finger on and say, “Look, I remember this from . . .” No. Nothing like that. There was a surreal quality about certain things which defied definition. Although some of the things he knew he had never seen before but still, he knew what they were. Like the stench of thousands of bodies, swelled in death, baking in the streets. Was he next? Then he wailed as loud as he could and stopped with a wimper as the dust filled his parched lungs. He knew not why he was naked nor where his clothes were. He shivered. It was approaching nighttime and he recalled it had gotten cold last night. The shopkeeper swooned in and out of consciousness. Soon he came upon a wooden bridge built over foaming, raging rapids. He stopped, fearful of crossing the bridge. He took a tentative step. The bridge creaked, gave somewhat to his weight. Another step. Groans from the timber. He froze. After a deep breath he took five very fast steps and was about in the middle of the bridge when he heard them. He stood, naked, afraid, and alone. Debating whether he should go back or go forward. Instead of doing either he placed his hand on the bridge’s railing to keep his knees from giving way and causing him to collapse from the terrifying dread. He leaned forward trying to steady himself and the noise became ferocious. He knew he should not, but still, he looked into the rapids. But actually, the foaming water was not rapids. What was probably a languid little stream normally, was foaming and churning because of the drowning libidos and accompanying egos, a cacophany of raging souls caught up in the electromagnetic field created by the vortex of souls, ‘gro-bon-ange,’ being forced from their clay bodies, by the ‘bitter loa.’

“Please, what do you want from me?” He stared into the horrible scene as hundreds, no thousands of perishing libidos screamed out for one more chance at life’s breath before being taken into the void. Defiant and lustful to the absolute end is mankind’s absorption with ego against skin. The Shopkeeper lingered his eyes on the tempestuous torrent below because to not do so he would have had to look into himself. Taking a few quick, very intense mouthfuls of air, he leaned further over the railing and stared into the turbulence below as if he were seeing the very last thing on earth. Rank odor emitted from the air, an odor which could mean only death and decay. All of a sudden he saw something scurrying from the stream. Then another. And more. Egos were making a mad dash for . . . where? Where could an ego go if it had no body to prod and to push? Still. They were leaving the earth by the thousands and they looked so comical that the traveler laughed in spite of his own dire situation. What had been fetid odors wafting from below gave way to a different fragrance, the lingering smell of all the lovers he had known. The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying. Taking the Shopkeeper back to better times and the sensuousness of women’s caresses. Faces flooded his thoughts. . “See?” The Baka spoke. “I am your lover, can you not see that? I am the only thing you have ever loved, I am you.”

The Shopkeeper screamed. Then he ran and ran and ran, the road abruptly becoming as straight as it was crooked before. He could not escape from himself, though. He understood that. The woman thing was gone but it still lived as surely as he took the next gasping breath, and it did so because it was him with all the warts. A forlorn, solitary howl interrupted the Shopkeeper’s perverse musings. Such a sad and lonesome wail could only come from a horse. The shopkeeper took it as a warning. A cautionary howl for strangers who walk among the remnants and distasteful ingredients which make up mankind. He needed to shelter himself from this pale beast.

“Why?” He startled himself with his question. Shelter because he was, or would be, cold. Shelter to hide his nakedness. He was ashamed of his slightly rounded stomach, his slightly sagging breasts, his slightly receding penis. Shelter to hide his imperfections. Oh, my. The pale horse was there with him, pressing his cold, wet nose against his bare leg. Oh, my. The horse walked ahead of him. He was, of course, not a horse A beast though. He was that. A beast that spoke. “I am here to take you there.” Actually the shopkeeper did not see the beast’s mouth move when it talked, but he knew that it must have.

“Where?”

“Follow me.” The baka loped off but the shopkeeper did not run after it. Soon the horse was out of sight. He did continue walking though. What else was he to do? There was no where else to go. As he walked, he was met with ghostly images from his past. Only they were not spirits. Unless spirits could touch and feel and bleed and sob and scream into his face all manner of fearful words and screeches and claw his backside and frontside and attack his genitals, especially his genitals. He could not defend himself because somewhere without him being aware, his arms had become paralyzed. So, he was at the mercy of these agonized, brutalized entities and they went about the job of making him pay for his indiscretions. Still, through it all, he walked, and as he did so he found that he desired to forgive his persecutors even though it seemed they had held onto their grudges. Now he understood. He knew now. They were all gone and in their wake, left the parts of themselves they blamed the shopkeeper for destroying. Hearts, broken hearts were the most prominent but there were also minds unstable and potential destroyed. Potential destroyed was the most awful of them all. He had heard of potential his whole life and had never known exactly what it was. Now that he was looking at potential destroyed it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Potential destroyed was a dreadful thing to behold. Potential destroyed was a small golden sphere approximately the size of a small green pea when it fell from those now gone. When they touched the ground there was an audible gasp and then no more sounds. The golden sphere morphed into such a lovely child, a child of no particular sex but a child of innocence and a child desirous of guidance, someone to attach to and grow into love personified. It was not to be, however, because the lovely child’s skin began to peel from its body and as it did its eyes stared straight into the shopkeeper’s and the eyes said, “I never had a chance to grow into my potential,.” Then it turned into a caricature of an old hag, the kind you see in fairy tales as witches and melted back down to the pea size it used to be, then melted back into the ink dark ether of void. When that happened, the shopkeeper had to turn away, the horrible stench and penetrating stare was just too much for him, as his senses were assaulted by the Marasa, the contradictory forces of the universe. He stumbled down the road, half running, half walking; stumbling. A huge, intense, bright light blinded him and caused him to lurch sideways and finally collapse onto the sandy road, and just before he passed out he heard the moans and shrieks and screams of all the broken bodies suffocating under the broken structure that was once his home.

His eyes opened to the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had been wiping his forehead with a cool, moist rag. She smiled, the world smiled too, and was happy. The shopkeeper was in bed. Not his bed. She poured a sparkling glass of water and touched it to his feverish lips and before he sipped from it he knew that it would be the best water he had ever drank. It was. She sat the glass on the small table and stood to leave.

“Oh, please,” the Shopkeeper said, “don’t go. Where am I? What is your name?”

The Zanj smiled. The world smiled again. “You are here. My name is Over.” With that she turned and left him alone. But no. Someone else was here. The Shopkeeper sensed another presence.

“How do you feel?” The voice, like the girl’s, just saturated him with breathtaking sensations. A rich baritone voice full of wonderful . . . ambiance.

“Tell me what I am doing here, please.” “My name is Cross,” the voice answered. You are being prepared.”

“Why, am I–”

“Yes. You are dying, . You are in the hospital room in the city where you reside. We have been preparing you for the transition.”

“Oh.”

“Fear not, we will treat you kindly.”

“But the crossroads, and oh, the people and all the–” “That is part of the transition, an unkind part to be sure, but necessary.” “Why? To show me my past sins?” “No. Everybody thinks that. It is a cleansing. Not everyone gets caught up in the vortex, you did not, because you were a good person….” “But the earthquake, all those people trapped, then being caught up in that torment…I witnessed it….” “you are dead now. My companion and I will assist you the rest of the way.” The young woman appeared beside the bed. “Take her hand, now mine.” The shopkeeper saw the voice standing beside the ‘Hounsi’ they both wore long, flowing white robes many thousands of departed children were hanging on to them, and when he took their hands he understood the significance of their names. Cross over.

Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

A hero’s welcome on Scifi Sundays

January 11th, 2011 by highpriestess

Early. A sound in the distance, different to the ever present cannon-fire and musket, but familiar. She wondered if it could be morning birdsong, but upon the war-ravaged wasteland of this battlefield, she wondered if there were any birds left here.

Knocking. Staccato, almost frenzied in its intensity. What could be so important to be delivered to her personally, instead of her generals? She had been up late discussing matters of state with her advisors, possible trade alliances with neutral countries and would-be allies. She was ill-equipped to deal with some unexpected dignitary, at some ungodly hour before she had a chance to bathe and prepare for their visit.

But if such urgency was any guide, perhaps it would not matter her somewhat less than regal appearance. There was a war going on, of course.

Her servant appeared by her bedside like a puppet in a shadow-play, suddenly sliding into her vision. “Your Highness, someone stands without, seeking to speak with you directly. Shall I send him away?”

“No. It may be important. I should probably speak with him, but he should not mind my unprepared state.”

Candice, her servant released a slow smirk.”

“It is a common soldier, my Queen. Of no rank to speak of, yet he seeks to speak to you directly. Let me dispose of him with haste.”

She wondered what it all meant. Why would a common soldier wish to speak with her? Didn’t he know that his chances of seeing her were remote at his rank?

“Why does he wish to talk to me? Perhaps I can spare him a moment if the issue is relevant?”

“He refuses to speak of it, your Highness. He just keeps repeating that he wants to talk to you. Nothing more, nothing less. He is not some gentleman playing at being a soldier either, he is low born, that is plain enough. His manners are brusque and blunt.”

She was at a loss. Things like this just didn’t happen. People knew their place. In the social order of things, this soldier just didn’t exist in her world of courtly intrigue and global state-craft. It was — inconceivable.

Everything within her told her that she should leave things as they lay, to ignore this visitor and get back to her duties, as laborious as they could be. But her curiosity was not sated, it burned within her to learn why this man had done this unusual thing.

“I will meet him at the door, guarded of course. I will ask him his purpose in coming here, and I will see what is going on.” She half said this to herself, and half to Candice, but her servant reacted and quickly dressed her and applied a modicum of powder and rouge appropriately, yet hurriedly.

Soon she was striding stately towards the front door of headquarters. The door was flung open at her approach, she looking somehow still regal without her accoutrements and fanfare.

The light was dazzling from without the headquarters, shining into her eyes, making her visitor a mere silhouette. Surrounded by that shining dawn, like some angelic messenger from the higher realms.

But no, he was just a soldier. Ragged yet repaired fatigues, he’d obviously shown her some respect by keeping himself clean and tidy to meet with her, as she had extended a similar courtesy, yet in her case, it was more in keeping up appearances.

For a moment his rough features stayed frozen, as if he was shocked to actually get his audience with his Queen. But then he got to his reason for being here, direct and to the point, he said, “I am not fighting for you any more.”

Such a damning statement. To refuse to fight in your country’s army was treason. They had enough soldiers running away in panic and hiding away somewhere behind enemy lines, a dangerous and often short existence. The enemy hunted them for their former allegiances, and her forces hunted them because they had deserted her cause. In both cases, the result of capture was death.

He’d just admitted his treason, to his own Queen no less. Such openness unnerved her, and it seemed as if he had a death wish, to tell her of this treason in her house. But why? Why did he feel the need to admit his desire to desert? Knowing that a traitor’s death awaited him?

Did she know him? Irrespective of Candice’s comments, she studied his features and demeanour, searching that perhaps he was some sort of unlanded gentry, a noble son from the ashes of a once-proud family. He looked familiar, somehow, something nagged her about his face, and especially his eyes, looking directly at her. Impolite to say the least, but there was no fear of what would happen to him in those eyes, nor any fear of her.

She quailed inside to be so confronted. But it could not be seen, she was the Queen, not just some girl, barely out of maturity. Born to rule, born to command. She felt new strength enter her, as she recited her bloodline back within her mind.

This is just a man, just a soldier. Just like every other soldier under my command.

“Come in, and we will discuss your decision.” To her guards she nodded slightly, and approached the soldier, patting him down for weapons or anything suspicious. For a man with an obvious death wish, he could have some suicidal agenda of killing his Queen before being killed in turn.

The door shut behind him, he was as he seemed, unarmed. They slowly went down the long narrow hall, her guards falling in step behind him as Candice went ahead opening the doors for her.

“I’ve wondered who’s the woman for whom we all commit such wonton murder.”

His carelessly thrown comment stopped her, stopped the whole assemblage in its tracks. She tried not to show how hard the comment had struck her. He did not understand the war, the reasons behind it. The big picture. She wasn’t responsible for anyone dying, war was war. Soldiers died on both sides, it was acceptable.

People died.

She deigned not to respond to this blunt statement, carrying onto her sitting rooms to receive her strange visitor.

They sat down within the sitting room, with the fierce and bright red tapestries draping the walls against the grey, utilitarian walls.

She was composed, but within her sanctum, he somehow lost some of his power, his strength that he showed in the hall. His eyes searched right and left, not staying upon her for more than a heartbeat as his vision searched for something he could not find within the fiery-hued tapestries, confusing him as the flame confuses a beast.

This was her territory now, and he was starting to realize the folly of his visit perhaps? With a word, nay, not even that, a gesture, he would die.

He found his voice again. “I cannot do this any more. I am sick of killing, and for what purpose, I do not know. I am told to kill these people whom I have never met, never held a grudge, and I do not wish to be here. I feel I lose something of myself with every life I take, with every life I see passing.”

He looked directly at her now, and she could see the pain in his eyes, he was a strong man, a brave man, but he was filled with such sorrow … no more did she see the arrogance and impertinence within him that he showed at the doorstep.

His resolve firmed in his eyes again, again masking his emotions. Hard and cold, he looked at her again, and spoke again, just as hard and cold: “I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will. No more will I be a killer. If you want to have people killed, you can do it yourself. Not make others to bloody their hands on your behalf!”

“Why have you even come here? What you speak of is desertion, and you know the penalty. You come to me, admit that you will refuse your duty to your country, and that you will leave tomorrow. Surely you know that I cannot allow this to happen?”

“It doesn’t matter any more.” His eyes changed again, and there was a brooding loss reflected now within. “I don’t care anymore, I just want it to stop. I look down and I see that blood on my hands. Only first I am asking you why. That is why I came. I wanted to know why before I left. Why do we kill? What purpose is there in it? Thousands are dead, and I am no general, but I see no point in it. I just see people dying. Too many people.”

“I see you now, and you are so very young. You do not look like that when we had parades, before the fighting was so fierce. You seemed so much older back then, all far away. I expected some bitter crone with no love of life, feeling the touch of death upon her to be so cruel with human lives. Not a young woman as yourself.”

“I know I am not some ancient veteran in this war, but I’ve seen too much. Right there, up close, and I’ve lived through it. But I’ve seen more battles lost than I have battles won. I’ve been a survivor, and it’s been painful. To know that you were the only one of your friends to survive, your fellows, people just like you, and to know that they are dead and you are alive. It makes me feel guilty sometimes, since what right do I have to cheat Death while it claims them?”

He gulped, and his body shook slightly. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to loot the friend you had for food and gunpowder, knowing just a few minutes ago he was alive. One minute you are talking with him, the next minute he?s just some thing that you steal from to keep yourself alive. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to do that … and that shames me. That now I cannot even remember the dead, people I knew and talked with that are now feeding the crows.”

She was still the Queen. There was more at stake here than this soldier knew. War was Hell, but she knew that it was needed, even if he could not. But some small part of her cried to hear of the casualties in her war, not just the dead, but the horrors that had been inflicted upon this soldier. Were they all like this?

But she never once took the crown from her head. She had to be strong. Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. There was more at stake here than human life.

His demeanour shifted, looking at her, her eyes as implacable as cold diamond. “Do you even know what it’s like to witness someone dying in front of you? Have you ever even SEEN any of your dead soldiers, doomed by some military planning mistake? Do you realize how many have died for you, for this stupid war you’ve started? I’ve got this intuition, says it’s all for your fun. If we were defending our country from some invaders, I would be proud to die for my country. We are here, strangers in a strange land, waging war, invading another country, and for what point? They defend themselves as we would defend ourselves.”

He shook his head, as if he was clearing some bewildering thought from his mind. “Will you tell me why?” he asked her, impassioned and angry.

She fixed him with an arrogant eye, her Queen faade unbreakable, strong. “You won’t understand, and you may as well not try. This is beyond your comprehension. You are just a soldier, and you do not see the big picture. If you did, you would understand why these men need to die.”

Briefly her mind flashed with visions of dead soldiers, scavenged by humans and carrion eaters alike, abandoned in overrun trenches, unburied and forgotten, and not knowing why they fought. Why they had to die.

Not as unbreakable a faade as she thought. Her lips began to quiver, her eyes kept their imperiousness, but she started to shake, imagining the dead spirits of the soldiers just asking her “Why?” as this soldier did now. A question which she could give no answer.

He looked at her, and within his eyes, some of his anger and hate had receded. There was a sympathy, a pity for her and the weight of her crown. He saw that she was a young woman, of whatever birth, forced into a terrible position.

He saw her nakedness, he saw before him a sinful creature, a weak kneed slip of a woman, not courageous to stop war and suffering and death, he saw a coward

God in Heaven. That was the point. The point of this long, bloody war. After the King and Queen had died to the foul disease that had torn a swathe through the country, she was abruptly left with an entire country to run, just barely out of girlhood. She had to deal with responsibility of the crown and the grief of losing her parents all at once.

Her advisors said that the country was in a dangerous position. That foreign eyes would see her as weak and vulnerable, and the country in turn as ripe for occupation. So, she had struck first against the country that had the greatest threat, bringing the war to them before they could strike. Her savage assault had been bloody and victorious in the beginning, but now it had become a siege, waiting out and small skirmishes lowering both sides’ numbers with gradual attrition.

He would not understand this. He only saw the small problems, the lower levels. Not the two countries facing off like dogs in a street, seeking to cow the other into submission. War was Hell, and soldiers died in it. She knew what she was doing, even if he could not understand.

She raised her defences again, closed. She could not be seen as weak, to this simple soldier or her enemies. If she was vulnerable, not only would she die, but so would her country. She had to remain strong.

He wasn’t fooled. Damn him . She’d shown him the cracks, and something between them had changed. She felt that she had lost the upper hand for good. But, curiously he did not lord his victory, or gloat how he had seen his enemy humbled.

“My Queen …” he said it with respect, almost with reverence. She thought he could not see her with the same eyes as the angry young man that had entered just a short time ago. In showing her weakness he no longer felt the need to be strong either.

“My Queen, . I am just a simple soldier. But I see the pain your position brings you, the seriousness which you take things. I can see that you suffer.”

He gulped once, his eyes bright. “I came in expecting someone very different. I came in expecting someone that would not care. I came in,” he smiled wryly, yet somehow bittersweet, “expecting a fight. And it started as such, I guess. But now, I cannot feel that you are my enemy. I thought you were inhuman, callous. But I won’t march again on your battlefield. I may respect your humanity, but I do not understand why you do what you do. I cannot be party to it. I am leaving and taking my division with me.”

As he had plainly spoken his feelings of her, she felt her own thoughts come up and betray her. She could not help but respect this man, his belief and his empathy. She shuddered inside to feel what this empathic man would have felt and thought each time someone had died from his own hand. To feel the blood splash upon his clothes, to see a man die, watch his death throes slow and painful and to feel that connection. He was no soldier, even if he wore the uniform, even if he had been conscripted into service, her service. He did not wish to leave because he was a coward, he had shown courage coming and speaking of his treasonous desires to her, in full earshot of her staff. He didn’t even see the men he had to kill as his enemies, that’s how he could walk away with no regrets. No bad blood.

“If you were not a soldier, what would you be? What do you want out of your life?” she asked, meek and curious, her walls breaking down, unable to keep up the act as she spoke to him, as he could not keep up his own, almost in tears.

“I want to live as an honest man. I want to follow some trade perhaps back home. I don’t mind working for someone else, I was a good worker back home, hard worker, I didn’t complain, I just did it as long as I was treated right. I didn’t want much. ‘To get all I deserve and to give all I can.’ was our family’s unofficial motto, you could say. We put all of ourselves in our work and people respected it. I guess, my soldier days are not quite that. I haven’t been able to put my heart into this work. I just keep on imagining that the other fellow is just like me. They look different a bit, but we are all of the same sort of age.” He held his head in his hands. “I don’t want much out of life. If you promised me the world to kill another man, I don’t think it would be a fair trade. I don’t want much.” He repeated.

He slipped into some sort of reverie, somehow forgetting he was in the presence of his Queen. “I always miss that I never got to get to fall in love. A lot of the other men have women waiting for them back home.” He smiled self-consciously. “I’ve never really had the knack I suppose. I’m sometimes a little shy, and I do not know what a woman wants from a man. I try, but maybe I’m not doing it right.” The faint trace of a blush suffused his cheeks, she could see now that they were not far apart in age, his eyes had seen too much, but he was still a young man, just out of boyhood.

She sighed deep within her soul, he wanted such simple things, his world was simple. Little goals, and little trouble achieving them. While she wore the weight of nations upon her shoulders, and yet, she could still not achieve what he sought either. And she’d only managed to stop him from achieving it in turn. Not deliberately, of course. But she had, he’d never known any woman back home. No one to return to, triumphant and glorious, no hero’s welcome to reward him as he set foot on those far off shores.

She envied his simple dreams, and she wished that she could have her world miraculously change so that she could have them, some easy life with honest toil, with a wonderful man that would make her heart rise and fly with joy. But it was not to be. She was alone, and destined to marry some ally country to cement their partnership. Her advisors gave her advice, but she could not talk to them about anything beyond rulership and the war. It would not be seemly. Candice gave her the responses which she had coached to say by her teachers from her finishing school, not from her heart.

He sighed. “Why can’t my life be simple like that, like I wanted it to be? Why can’t your life be the same? Wouldn’t it be easier to stop all this and just be happy? That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I’m sure that this war has made no one happy. Not even you.” Pointed observation.

“Your Highness, your ways are very strange.”

Not my ways, she thought, just what I am forced to do. She had as much control over her life as he did. Maybe even less, since he was determined to leave this situation he did not believe in. There was no one to take her place, an only child, and her country would suffer if she abdicated now in the middle of a war.

At that moment, she wanted to toss her crown, throw it away far from her, to hear it shatter and smash upon some unseen stone. It was too much to bear, she wondered how many other young men had thought this way, wanting a simple life, and she had stolen their destinies to die in a far off land, unmourned and unnoticed. The casualties of war. She couldn’t think of them just as numbers on a report, they were living, breathing and real. She’d met one now, and seen his depth, his essence, as simple as it was.

But what could she do? Stop this war, even though her enemy would continue it in retaliation? It was too late. Too many had died. The only thing she could do was to win, to show to herself that it hadn’t been a waste of those men. That the killing had a purpose. That the death had a purpose. That the war was not in vain. Even if it claimed thousands more.

She breathed heavily. The crown was so heavy on her brow. But she had to keep it upon her, to make everything worthwhile. There was no choosing, it was her fate. No choice at all for her to make. Inexorable. There could be no changes.

“What do you think so sadly about, my Queen?” His voice broke her musings.

“I was just … thinking, how complicated things are. That simple life you describe seems so wonderful, I wish it was mine also …”

“Why cannot it be? Why can you not just set aside the war and marry someone that you love, and rule your kingdom with a fair and just hand?”

“There are no choices I fear. But I will do something to help me understand your words. I will talk to the other soldiers when you have gone.” The lie caught in her throat, but it came out smoothly nonetheless, just an ever so slight pause. “If you can escort me to your fellows now, with my guard and servants? You have opened my eyes to the common soldier. Before you go ?”

“Of course, my Queen. Nothing more would give me pleasure. Maybe something can be done, that we can all go home.” His eyes sought out her face, but she could not meet his gaze. “Even yourself, and perhaps you can have that simple life that I seek also.”

Her heart leapt uncontrollably, but she forced it down. She was still Queen, she never took the crown off, it was with her even as she slept. “I will be back soon, I will only be a moment inside.”

She left him out there, on the doorstep of the headquarters. She looked to her guard, the regal composure once again, and made a short, sharp gesture. The shot rang out, and the door shook with a thump. She didn’t want the door to be opened, to see his heart’s blood staining the door and stoop, to see his shocked expression on his frozen-dead face.

He would not be looted, not have the crows eat his flesh. He would be buried with honours. It was the least she owed him. Forgive me.

She retired alone to the crimson tapestried room again, sitting down slowly, as if she would break like glass. He was just a soldier. Just one man. Thousands have already died, what is one more? The war must be won, no matter the cost. There is more at stake here than human life. She rocked slowly backwards and forwards as she sat, telling herself that over and over until his words stopped echoing within her mind.

The young soldier’s battalion watched the guards gun down their Commander, they in turn one by one committed suicide with his name upon their lips at their last breath.

The Royal Guard informed the young princess that hundreds of her loyal soldiers had just committed suicide.

“It’s time for tea”

Tags: , , , , , , ,
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

Basic Training

January 9th, 2011 by highpriestess

It was wash day. Earlier on the hapless recruit had been caught cat napping,, while all the rest had been washing their clothes he had been found sitting against the court yard wall sleeping.

Dirty clothes or articles of clothing that were in need of washing were placed in a canvass satchel at the head of the bed. On Sundays we’d take them downstairs to the deep stone troughs and scrub them clean. This was great during the summer, but during the winter it was murder. The water froze in the pipes, and our fingers would be raw and bleeding.

The grunt’s satchel at the bed end had been empty. This however was not due to it all being clean, as there was a distinct shortage of clothing inside his locker. He couldn’t be wearing four pairs of pants and socks? Not in mid June, that was for sure.

Because he hadn’t been seen washing anything, it had caused a bit of a stir with the rest of the recruits. When they spotted him sleeping, they all wanted to get their heads down too.

After a brief but swift search of his bed space, they had found his soiled clothes under his mattress. Shit stains and skid marks abounded. His under pants had these bright yellow stains where he had farted and then must have followed through.

It was near impossible task to keep your underpants clean. They were after all cotton y-fronts and white at that. The diet didn’t help, lots of beans and vegetables (cheap filling up foods). As you tended to fart a lot because of the change of diet, when not in the toilets having the world fall out of your asshole that is.

The problem was that they were not just wind related they could be a bit moist shall we say. or at the other end of the scale wet, and very wet ones at that. That’s why you scrubbed them, once a week, regular like (for some of us in the beginning it was a case of once a night, every night).

The grunt was now standing on top of the six foot gray metal locker, his hands cupping his buttocks, not quite managing to hide the stain that was slowly spreading across the front of his pants. He was pissing himself with fear, literally.

The Corporals stood around the base of the locker shouting at him and punching his legs. They kept asking if he should be wearing a diaper. Every time he didn’t answer they punched him again. Punch, question, no reply punch again, they should have been in the band, they had rhythm.

He was trying to speak, but due to the sobbing it was just incoherent nonsense. The pair of y-front underpants that he had on his head didn’t help either. The soiled, shit stained portion of the pants had been stuffed in his mouth. yummy. They asked him if he wanted his mommy, then told him to suck on his underwear.

The idea being that he was to suck the shit stains out of the pants and clean them this way. Having failed to take the opportunity that had been given to wash them in a normal traditional way.

Hey, he voluntarily joined this gig. It was not an idea that he would have considered a year or so ago, (Back on the streets, you just beat the fuckers up. Plain and simple) but he was learning new methods every living moment. We were waiting to go for the evening meal. Spike and I had decided to sit next to the poor bastard at chow time.

Eventually the call for the evening meal stopped the torment for the moment. The hapless volunteer was pushed off the locker by one of the corporals. Where upon his meeting with the wooden floor produced once more a bit of a swift kicking by the section corporals.

Hopefully the ordeal he had just been put through (prior to being kicked half to death). Would not scar him for the rest of his life, but perhaps just long enough for him too not to feel hungry during the approaching meal.

We weren’t going to associate with him and express any sympathy towards him. That would be unwise. But Spike and I would sit on either side of him at the evening meal. It was more of a selfish reason we had. Nothing to do with the idiot who had just been beat up.

Where Spike and I would offer our support, would be that we would ensure his ration didn’t go to waste. After all apart from his taste buds being a bit out of action, the loss of a couple of his teeth probably meant he couldn’t chew. We were learning to survive the hard way. Life at the moment was pretty shitty. We always did our patriotic duty and cleaned the plate, no matter what was on it. Fortunately we weren’t eating shit at the moment.

It was only done once. But the rest of us got the message. You washed your clothes, or stopped wearing them. (underpants). Then you didn’t have to wash them.

The grunt was a real gamer though, his mother sent him brownies to make him feel better, and he shared them with all the corporals. Actually they confiscated them. But that was okay because they were filled with ex-lax, boy talk about basic training being shitty.

.

Tags: ,
Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

A white boy’s memory of Atlanta Georgia

June 13th, 2010 by highpriestess

It was the Autumn of ’79 that I had first truly considered my mortality. I thought of Death as nothing more than a malingering shadowy haunted figure that perpetuated itself through the dream-memorae of the old and the sick. Earlier that year, we had laid my grandparents to rest, dying only a month apart from one another. I had spent the weekend with my aunt Faye as my parents went to the funeral and grieved.

By the time I had first heard of the Atlanta Child Killer, I had already well formed the concept of the dead as something forever lost. It was only a little over a year later that one of my classmates JoJo, had been found after his father had killed himself.

The race riots were still an ever prevalent specter to which I could still recall my mother taking us into the basement with her twenty gauge and us hiding there as some roaming pack of blacks had been seen in our neighborhood. I never really knew if they ever actually did anything to anyone. I only remember my mother’s fear. The news was that some crazed white man of the KKK was going around killing young black boys. I was white, but part of the poor whites of Atlanta, Georgia, yes we were poor white trash.

It ended much of the simplicity of life for me. From those that once seemed as resilient and enduring as my small world had always seemed, to those that existed beyond those confines of my little known world. I think the most immediately devastating memory from that time was that I had begun to consider that I never really knew God at all…

I was seven.

“What’s wrong Chip?” I had only been inside the door for a few moments before my mother found me in my room.

“Nothing,” I lied. Truth be told, I had my first, of several altercations, with the older boy, Jojo a black boy who lived next door. a little while later, we became best friends. There was always something a little cruel in the way that JoJo played through his life. Not particularly noted as the best and the brightest at Stiles Elementry School, even then there was something likable about him to me. JoJo never really dealt with people well, and un-beknownst to most was that his older brothers were beating the wholly living shit out of him on near a daily occurrence. Even when they were only playing, they were riding him down the road on the handle-bars of their bikes and steering for the biggest pot-holes they could find, or knocking him out of trees with rocks. There would inevitably come a point where the middle brother would intervene, and the oldest of the Hollis boys near made JoJo appear to be a genius.

JOJO had said something about my lunch pail the day before, which at the time had scenes depicted from the television series with H R Puff n stuff. I had normally had hot lunch at school, but I seen the lunch pail, and like a typical seven year old– I wanted it. The next day, after insulting it the day before, he wanted it and tried to take it from me. He got it, though not likely the way he wanted it. There was only a small dent in my lunch pail, but a rather large tear in my new school jacket that I had only had for a month or so.

Mama was beside herself, she just wasn’t going tolet this one fly, seeing as she was holding my “new coat” in her hand.

“You’re going to need to do a little better than that, especially once your father gets home and sees this,” she probably knew I had seen it in her hand already, but she held it out in front of my face likely for emphasis. “We paid quite a bit of money for that coat and…”

She stopped when she noticed I had been crying.

Mrs. williams my teacher had a point everyday, usually after lunch, where she would read to us. Mrs. Williams aside from the fact that she kind of resembled Lena Horne (which, among other shows, we watched faithfully until it was canceled); had it pretty much convinced herself that we were pretty petered out on all the running with Spot, the dog, that Jane did– an opted for a more mature sort of reading material. I am not sure how it worked for the rest of the class; but for me, it was virtual genius. I could rightfully not give two shits and a damn about Jane and her ever faithful side kick Spot, which led to one of life’s little ironies. Due to the dullness of Jane’s days full of four letter words that a kid could and should use, or at least learn– I was going to be placed in a remedial reading class. Mrs. Williams hadn’t a clue that my cousin and I had been reading comic books and Mad magazine for a couple years at that point, mostly him reading them to me in the beginning. She also had no clue that I knew who Lord Alfred Tennyson (compliments of my other grandmother who was still alive) was, and was beginning to learn the fundamentals of poetry.

Mrs. williams had opted to read “I Will Fight No More Forever” that day, from Dee Brown‘s book “Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee“. Up until that point, the only idea I had about the “Indians” came from the old cowboy pictures my grandfather used to watch. I really hadn’t considered that the story that she read that day would be about a man that I would admire for the rest of my life.

“What happened?” She set aside the coat and came to sit beside me on the edge of my bed.

“I got in a fight with JoJo,” the tears came again. “He tore it.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” tears were one thing, but what followed that was one long gush. “I think I hurt him,” I bellowed out. I proceeded to tell her all of the gory details, about the lunch box and how I had swung around and knocked him down. He’d cried, but not from the fall so much as I believed that he thought I was going to keep hurting him.

My Ma tried not to laugh, she really did. “You want me to call his mother and find out if he is alright?”

“Alright,” I did and I didn’t. JoJo and I had already had more than a few words with one another, and there seemed to be some kind of concession in this. He was only a year older than me, something that had become moot when he flunked out in second grade, but he wasn’t in Mrs. Williams’s class. He was in the other section of second graders at Stiles.

I felt as if I had failed. Not in the fight itself (if you can really call it that), something that I hadn’t wanted but JoJo just kept pushing me. I had come to the conclusion that if it came down to a fight, you had already lost your best chance to resolve anything… something that Chief Joseph had taught me.

“His Ma said he is fine, and he will be over in a few minutes.”

“Why?” This was not the sort of resolve I was looking for in this particular situation. Just because I felt bad for hurting him did NOT mean I wanted to apologize for it.

“To apologize for tearing your coat,” she said, her brow arching as she considered my reaction to that.

“Alright,” I was in no way, shape or form going anywhere near that door when he did show up.

She left when she heard the knock at our front door, and I pulled out a book that I had borrowed from the library. I remember the librarian’s look she gave me when I checked it out.

“Are you sure you want this book?” The librarian asked, and I gave a half shrugged nod of assent. “This is in the fifth grader’s section, and you were supposed to stay in the books on the long low shelf in the back.” I wasn’t sure if she was scolding me, or just assuring herself that this was the book I wanted to check out. “There aren’t many pictures in it.”

“I know,” was my only response.

“Alright then, but you have to bring it back next week.” There was another look in her eyes as she executed the borrower’s transaction, a book of poetry in a second grader’s hands was one thing. That the poet, in this minority school, was e e cummings, Mrs. Williams used to say her son was alot like this great harvard graduate, . I won’t lie, I understood very little of it until I got to one short stanza…

“why must itself up every of a park
anus stick some quote statue unquote to
prove that a hero equals any jerk
who was afraid to dare to answer “no”?
“He wants to talk to you,” my mother came back a few minutes later, and I just sort of stared up towards her, my expression blanked and dumbfounded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, he just said he wanted to talk to you,” she said and glanced down towards the book in my hands. “Is that something you have to read for school?”

“Yes,” I lied, not even truly appreciating why I thought I should.

“I thought they were going to put you in a remedial reading class,” she looked between my eyes and book. I think she knew I was lying.

“I guess so.” I got up and moved past her before anymore questions could surface, as suddenly the meeting with JoJo seemed to be the lesser of two evils. Lying was one of my mother’s pet-peeves, along with the use of the word fuck. Technically at that time, I wasn’t allowed to use any of the four letter words that were not in that droll assed reader they were trying to goad me into reading in school; but something alike Dante’s versions of Hell, there were different punishments for the shits, damns, and hells over the word that should never be uttered in our household. Not even my father and his friends used it around her, though it seen a lot of use in conversation outside her earshot.

“Hey,” JoJo said as I opened the door and seen him standing there, watching a fox squirrel run along the road towards the neighbor’s oak tree.

“Hi,” I wasn’t really sure what to expect.

“Your Ma said you were worried that you hurt me,” he glanced back towards the squirrel as I closed the door in behind me.

“You tore my coat,” I wasn’t conceding to that to him.

“I know, I’m sorry about that.” He sounded pretty much like he meant it, which left only an awkward silence to follow. “You didn’t hurt me neither, I just thought I was going to get into trouble. I thought you would tattle on me or something queer like that.”

“I kinda did,” my face flushed.

“Naw, ya didn’t really.” He said after considering it. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Alright,” I said as I seen him wave and watched him move across the small field that separated our yards.

I went back in to try to figure out something that had puzzled me from much earlier, something that had led to my mother and I having to hide down in our basement with a loaded shotgun. I had never known about slavery (beyond the Hebrews in Egypt), which was in part what made e e cumming’s book of poetry particularly difficult to grasp. I wouldn’t really until the weekend when I showed my grandmother the book I had borrowed, and wanted to know what he was talking about.

With some due consideration to my age, she explained what cummings meant, and read some of the poems aloud to me that I didn’t get. After she was done, I told her about Ma and I having to go into the basement; and she just gave a knowing smile and nod as perhaps she had figured out my original curiosity. I also told her about the fight I had with JoJo Hollis, and the story about Chief Joseph that Mrs. Williams had read.

It was funny in that I never realized while I would go to my mother for more practical matters, to my father with any help I may need with homework; that anytime I wanted to know anything about the world, I always went to my Grandmother. She understood things differently, and what’s more she had time to listen. She never called me by the nickname I abhorred, and she was the first one to realize that I had sense of humor. God only knows she had sit through more than enough of my dumb jokes, but it was not a month later that I wrote my first poem. (Contrary to her “opinion”, it sucked.) I had asked for a typewriter for Christmas, something that had led to Ma and I sitting around and expanding my vocabulary by asking her how to spell countless words and then plunking them out on the cheap old manual typewriter. I used to type my spelling words for a while, until I pretty much knew the words that came on the list before we were expected to know how to spell them.

I went back to school on Monday, a friend and I were playing on the swings when one of the third graders decided that he wanted to take the swing from us. Ahmed Washington looked over towards me as I shook my head, and then started to go back to sit on the swing when the older kid plopped his butt down into it first.

“What are you doin’ Ahmed?” I hear from off to the aside as I am still considering what my next move was, and I see JoJo standing there with his arms folded as he leaned against the metal upright that held the swings up.

“I am going to swing on this swing,” he said, and JoJo just sighed and shook his head, NO.

“There’s one just down the way that you can use,” JoJo moved in front of him so that swinging was impossible.

“Let them take that one then,”Ahmed said and JoJo just shook his head tightly.

“Get off,” he said, and I was a little surprised that Ahmed actually did. But he was standing up just in case that JoJo tried to hit him or something. That stand didn’t last very long as I moved in beside him, and my friend just sort of lingered in behind JoJo’s other shoulder. Ahmed gave up the swing, and JoJo turned back towards me before nodding towards the swing. “You ever had a really high underdog?”

I shook my head as he held it for me to get on and then proceeded to push, and then pull me back; only for a few minutes before he put his hands on my knees and ran forward, ducking under me as I began to come back down.

I saw Ahmed and JoJo talking as I pumped my legs, trying to go higher. Jo Jo kept ducking under as my swing got higher, everytime my swing got lower JoJo gave me another ‘underdog”

JoJo and I became best friends. I wrote lyrics and He would sing them. He loved to sing and sang at his church’s choir, every Sunday, he’d be all dressed to go to church, I asked once if I could go with him, and his ma spoke plain and simple,

“there’s no white people allowed in our church, but you can wait for JoJo outside if you must.”

I waited for Jo Jo and then we’d peal off our sunday best after church and go swimming down the creek.

It was there an older boy who was swinging from the rope and jumping into the creek, told JoJo about this radio producer looking for young singers.
Jo Jo was all excited, he said he was going to be famous, have his face all over the place. The older kid gave jo jo a flyer, we read it on the way back to our house.

Jo Jo was going to audition cause he was a fine singer. I read the name, and got excited. Hey the radio guy’s name is Wayne Williams, I wonder if he’s related to Mrs. Williams my teacher. She sure is the finest teacher in the school.

The next morning was the first day of summer. JoJo was gone when I knocked on the door to the Hollis house. I never seen JoJo again. But his face was posted everywhere, all over the streets the tv and the newspapers, just like he wanted.

Tags: , , , , , , ,
Posted in Uncategorized | 93 Comments »