Category: My Blog

When bored I write. One bit of writing was inspired by Doug, Gilda’s husband who passed three years ago, in that I created a character around his personality. It all fits together somehow…

Anyhoo, read if you like.

She was thrown off a cliff. 

Yes, that’s how she died. Was she expecting it? Of course she was. Since she was a little girl she suspected someone would kill her. When she confessed these thoughts to her mother at the age of five, her Mother didn’t do what most Mothers are inclined to do – write it off as some childhood nightmare and send her to bed prayers in hand. You see, this was no ordinary girl. No ordinary family. Of course they were going to kill her. It was just a matter of who, where and how much pain she could endure. 

She sent her daughter away to an old woman who lived forests away. A woman who could unlock the mysteries mired  in her daughter’s blood. Little good that did in the end. The crone taught the girl a few tricks to keep her safe, to keep her gift from spilling out into the  field where the sunflowers bloomed like open sores. Yet they found her in the end. Blood will always out, said the Crone. You cannot hide what wants to be seen. And some children are born with night in their bones.  

**

They said he drank too little.

Only a sensible man knows one should never drink when the moon bleeds, he thought as he cleaned the blood from his hands. 

He hated alcohol. The smell of it, the taste of it, how it transformed normal men into buffoons or gave women permission to act as though they never saw the inside of a church.

Most of General Black’s life was regimented, planned and plotted. He had a schedule for everything. When to wake up, at what exact time to brush his teeth, have a cup of respectable tea, when he should marry and the precise amount of children. Every aspect of his life was…sensible, reasonable, measured. 

His life was a good one. He ascended the military ranks in just the amount of years he calculated and was well liked by all. He married a woman from a good family and fathered three children. Two boys and a girl, Anna, who was the apple of his eye. All was going as he planned until he met Her.

Her arrival in the village caused a stir and the local lads simply could not stop jabbering on and on about Alexis. She seemed to fade into the forest, into the shade cast by the moon, into the wings of a….dammit! This is how she bewitched him, he thought. A sensible man does not speak of such things, but try as he might he could not stop himself from seeking her out. His wife had already noticed….and now there’s a dead body splattered on the jagged rocks. Never drink when the moon bleeds, he told himself. It always leads to trouble. 

*”  

Dearest Faraway Girl

If you spend your life waiting for signs and answers made bold, you will waste away. It took our Mothers ages to discover this small truth. And so time became our enemy. I, myself, never owned a watch or a contraption that dictated what must be done (husbands included). What good will it do to know that skin loses  vigor or our bones crushed under the weight of a life lived poorly or too well?

Do you know how our Mothers measured things faraway girl?  Mother Nature never disagreed with us, that’s how! The discovery of a white Raven’s feather meant good news would arrive sooner than  anticipated but could cause more harm than needed.  A shell with specific blue and green pattern somehow seemed to find  its way from the ocean to the door when a  new seed was planted in the womb of a Mother or daughter in our line.  

And this is how we spent our lives. Oblivious to Time and its incessant demands. Our law was a natural one.  When a Mother was ready to leave her skin she gathered to her everyone she loved and even hated (if she had a streak for the dramatic of course). As her breath slowed down and  if you bent in close enough you could hear it. She was singing.  When she closes her eyes for the last time, we who are of her Blood, sing her back home. 

Death, great granddaughter, has become fearful and the endings one faces a poorly staged pantomime. Always begging, they are! Another hour to see the sun. Another moment to return to place of joy, more time to plead for forgiveness. This is the real tragedy faraway child. Not death itself, but the mess it has become along the way….

Do not wear a watch child and decide not only how you will live but when you will die and who to call to your side. When you are close to your end you will hear a melody. 

It won’t leave you as it yours alone, and only those who know your skin and the feel of your smile in their hands sing with you until you are home. For that is Our Way. 

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