Wednesday, August 24

Ok, so I had an idea for a book, of sorts. Not a single storyline, but lots of storylines together. Anyone who knows my love of short stories will not be surprised by this. :)

Here's the first in the series. I have another one, but I'm waiting for some critiques on it before I post it anywhere public.

Eve: Story I

They say that there are some mothers who do not--even cannot-- love their children. Perhaps they are right, but I cannot fathom it. I am a mother, The Mother, and I love all my children. I watch them, every single one, as they enter here. Some see me, and wonder about the Grey One, who watches from the shadows, and wonder for whom she is searching, for whom she weeps.

But ah, I weep for all my sons, all my daughters. Not because I have lost them: oh no, if they had escaped me, I should be glad. But one by one, all join me here. And it is not grief enough that they join me in the shadows, but I must know that I brought them here. Brought them into life, and sealed their fate, to end here.

Oh, but I cannot help loving them, even the worst, the most rebellious. See that one? He killed his brother, then ran from home. This one was a prostitute, and brought her city to ruin. He, the lovely one over there, he did not love his own wife, slept with the wife of another man, then had that man killed. Yet, in spite of that, his heart was pure. My boy, my beautiful boy.

Yet, for all that I love them, all of them have broken my heart. I am sometimes amazed that it is still so prone to pain. After all, it must be in so many pieces by now that there is nothing left to break! But perhaps it is only justice: after all, it is I who broke their hearts, their souls, their bodies. Mea culpa, domine, mea culpa!

But one day--though all time is one here--there came son, my beautiful son, though all my sons are beautiful to me. And though he was only one of many who noted my tears, he did not pass by in puzzlement, but stopped. He was shrouded, as they all are, in grey cloth and ashes. But as he neared, his eyes caught my own...I remember my first glimpse of the young sun, leaping up the sky for joy. My eyes were innocent then, and could behold his glory. but even the gold of the king of the heavens could not match the golden heat in the eyes of my son. I could not look away and could not but be consumed by his gaze.

I felt the rough cloth of his shroud wiping the constant tears from ym eyes, and a whisper: " Peace, Mother, I have come for you. Now is not my time, I must conquer first. Peace, Mother, and wait." I did not see him leave--my eyes were full of light and I saw nothing, not even shadows. So I waited.

Two days after--though all times are one--I heard a roar like none I had ever heard. One dead and clothed in the shroud of death had entered into the deepest shhadow, and there revealed himself to be a living man. Heavy with life, he was, and the light of him cast all else into shadow.

He split the depths, and came out a conqueror, his shroud turned into a banner of vistory. And he came, leading my husband by the hand, and our children--my babies!-- following behind. He saw me there, waiting for him, and smiled. "Woman," he said, "Now is my time. Come forth, for the Son calls you into the light."

I took the hand of my son, my beautiful boy who had escaped the Mother's curse, and stepped forth with him, blinking back tears at the light in my eyes.

1 comment:

beanfarmer said...

I wish I could write like that. Heck, I would be satisfied if I could spell. People have cried at things I write too, but because it's so painfull to read. Can't coment on it because any advice I would give would make it not as good.

Kind of reminds me of calvin miller's triology, only better. Certainly better than some published stuf i've read.