The morning after
the day after
the day after
the night before Xmas
The killer awoke
put his boots on
and he walked on down the Hall
and he came 2a door
looked inside
and spake thus:
doc
ima gunna STONE YOU
--- I dream of making pesto with acorns by, uh... NUN E. MUSS
The Alchemist, Geoff, was in a purple haze.
"Thus spake the Prophet," Maryam to the gathered children, dryad youth assembled under bearing branches of Her Sacred Oak in the Grove of Plenty. Rapt faces receive the light of wisdom, Herstory of Herwakening, arising on the wings of Phoenix from the ashes, Petroleum Aged.
Awakening to the Return of the Mother.
God is Love.
Mother love.
Goddess is the Mother.
Amen.
Woman, you are Noise
in my life.
When She created the world,
the Earth so perfectly formed,
did she rejoice? No.
It was not good.
Some thing was missing.
St. Thomas tells the tale:
Long She considered
what the element could be
which rendered this perfect picture of creation
sterile.
Void
and without form.
Then Her other half,
the Trickster,
with Coyote cunning spoke.
Spake he thus: "Add noise."
And it was good. It was. Glorious!
I returned to the smell
of incense in the air
Her favorite from monks
in Italy
Did you throw incense in my fire,
I asked,
perturbed and wondering its effect
on the Seed to be roasted.
No, She said and I saw
by the bed
the small censer
with their offering
So I returned
to the fields
gathered murta and louro
and two times seven Seed
sprouted and not
And took in my hands
the iron submitted to Her Will
Opened and placed the offering
of myrtle
laurel
and acorns within,
covered,
and placed on the ashes
of Her desire.
And in the fullness of Time,
O Patience! of Time,
they opened, the Fruits offered,
spreading wide their riven shells
to expose
the naked essence,
perfumed in Glory.
He left his car in Ardrossan and took the ferry, crossed over.
Climbing slowly, stopping to enjoy the pleasant day, take
photos with his Master’s eye. He listened to the bird song, smiling as he imagined
their innocence, their free flight in the groves, their beauty, and the crunch of
their little bones between his teeth.
The trail was quiet as he climbed, the day reserved for him,
the Quiet One, to observe and measure, as was the Talent granted by his Master.
That One waited as he climbed, pleased with the work in progress, with himself,
looking forward to the festival afterward. So pleased indeed that he did not
note at first, nor care when he did, the fog that rose with his ascent. It came
slowly, inexorably, surrounding and caressing him, the faithful one, with the
tenderness of a gourmand.
The Quiet One stopped, puzzled, a sound? A chuckle?
The mist cleared beneath him on the trail, and he turned,
saw, the master, his Master, standing, a smile on his red, bloody lips.
Master, he said with some alarm, You startled me.
Were you behind me?
I am with you always, the apparition replied. Well
done, my good and faithful servant, he spoke with a warmth that penetrated
the chill of the morning fog.
The Quiet One felt it then. The ground beneath his feet.
Opened. And he fell.
Contract fulfilled, the Assistant smiled.
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
Madness! the Assistant shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. The Editor looked up, blinking. I warned you, he continued, the man cannot write a cookbook to save his life! He is utterly insane! And slapped a printout down before Him. Cancel his Contract!
A pause.
Not yet, the Editor replied softly.
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
