Snippets II

by Eman

Yesterday I posted some bits and pieces of writing that I’ve collected over the past month. Grit your teeth, say a prayer and brace yourself for part II:

My knees were raw and bloody from scrubbing all day. I was tired and hungry when she called me downstairs, searing a fresh flash of pain across my head. It’s always me she calls, with that high pitched succubus voice of hers, and when I hear that voice screeching across the old house I know it can only be followed by a new string of humiliations.

She was seated alone at one end of a long wooden trestle table. Grim and prim she sat, gray strands nestled among the black hair she bound tightly, thin eyebrows arched in anticipation, narrow red lips twisted in a grotesque smirk; a ghastly figure dressed in a lace collared blouse and a hard tweed skirt. Before her was enough food to feed a village. She would order us to cook it for her every evening, while we lived off of hard bread and pungent cheeses.

This was a dream I had, I didn’t finish because I had school work. Boo.

The ducks are coming, the chicken are coming, the sisters are coming. Lock up the doors, seal the windows, cut the phone lines, and pray to whatever deity you believe in, just pray that they don’t mark you tonight.

My sister and I were planning to write a children’s book based off of this. I was studying, looked up and exclaimed it suddenly. I like it. I will make something of it.

I remember them sitting cross legged in the sand, singing songs to themselves every night. I remember my mother holding me in her lap, whispering the songs in my ear. I never understood them, but I would sit still for hours repeating them in my head, gripped by the power that reverberated, shuddered between the words. Even then I knew they they came not from another human, but from some greater being that I could scarcely imagine. Sometimes I would walk off on my own and try to picture what He looked like. In my young mind He always took the form of my father. Tall, broad-chested, hairy and cruel. I tried to block that image out of my head, to disassociate the two, but I never could and somewhere along the line the two became one. My father became Him and He became my father and my fear of both grew boundlessly.

Most tribal children feared their father, for fathers needed to be feared. The steppes were merciless and harsh, and fathers needed to be the same to survive. My father was the harshest and most merciless, as he was the leader of our tribe and so, from an early age, I bore the emblems of his cruelty on my skin. My mother bore them as well, she wore hers because

This is obviously inspired by The Prince of Nothing. I still have hope in this, I am not discarding it. Yet.