April bleated, not unlike the desperate cries of a sick and
dying goat that had given birth to stillborn twins. The weather was as undecided as a woman
betrothed by station and awaiting the first glimpse of her prince fair…or not.
I sharpened my blade and packed my mount in earnest, kissing the forehead of my
loved ones and bedding my mistress to infuse hard memory in her breast, so
softer hands did not find their way to my rightful salvation prior to my
return.
Springtime was
the time of blood letting and scraping of bone. A time to refill coffers and
take provisions that would allow summer work to take purchase and provide again
for the bleak winter months when the cold handcuffed working men and women from
plowing , planting and sowing. The Gods would provide, but not for a man who
was not willing to put chivalry and empathy in a sack and store it until he
took as many heads as necessary to collect that which he needed to provide for
his family and his village. Death was as necessary as any of the harbingers of
spring. Blood was but preserve to be spread evenly and thickly, to be eaten
with morning toast and a generous portion of salt pork. If his hands slipped,
or his mind hesitated but once at the thought of sparing even one of Gods
gifts he could forget the mantle of being a free and prosperous people. The first soul taken would be blessed and not
unlike a kiss from the Goddess herself.
Springtime was
the time of blood letting and scraping of bone.
Yikes - vivid and intense imagery and cadences here. K.
ReplyDeleteI had to reread this a few times because of the intrigue. You know I am sucker for your prose, and you know that by posting something such as this, you are subjected to my useless bleating about how you should be writing more prose. So allow me to thank you for this tiny snack of brain goodness. I will revert to my critique now.
ReplyDeleteThe intrigue with this piece was the portrait of death/sacrifice in the springtime, that concept is so strong, and you tailored the writing to fit it perfectly. Not sure if this is what you intentioned, but I saw the main character as being death himself (the Mr. Reaper who has come about the sowing...to quote Python), but I think it could also be an executioner or priest making a sacrifice. Must say this whole thing blows my doors down, but this line was my favorite: "Blood was but preserve to be spread evenly and thickly, to be eaten with morning toast and a generous portion of salt pork. " That's one for the firefly jar.
thanks for participating and Viva la
Well, if this isn't the salt pork underbelly of the first quarter.
ReplyDeleteCan't quite imagine you reading the likes of this in your Frank Sinatra voice [although I'd like to]. So hope Death will clobber any harbingers that have escaped being locked up in poems.There seems to be a touch of relief that at least providing and laying the foundation stone for most of us as hunter-gatherers in Autumn, is no longer an absolute necessity. Rough, tough and dangerous to know.
Fabulous! One of my best friends was raised on the Navajo Nation reservation. Your tale echoes the stories she tells me of spring and slaughter and abundance of the season.
ReplyDeleteThat signature sentence is chillingly resonant. I love the dystopian feel of this prose sketch - your maverick character seems to have achieved the balance between sinner and saint - his provision for a beloved family by dividing another man (or woman) from his loved ones. Of course, a working man's life does begin again every Spring, and a killer is no exception.
ReplyDeleteLOVED this, Corey! But then I am partial to a man with a strong swordarm and a warrior mind. Your last repeated sentence condenses so much in a phrase as sharp as a claymore--and the viewpoint of sacrifice, of unending struggle to survive, comes through strongly throughout. Thanks for the supreme Tolkein compliment at my place, also. This is more along the Game of Thrones line, yet it has a connection to something less cynical and chaotic, the understanding of order and purpose the gods demand of us if we wish to survive.
ReplyDeleteGorgeous writing, Corey!
ReplyDeleteCorey, I am a meat-eater who admits she likes her flesh under plastic and in the cooler. This is an honest, gritty portrayal of a man who provides for this family and community, and I admire you so for writing it. We city folk (I grew up next to a dairy farm, so there was no killing there) tend to forget that animals ARE sacrificed. If only they all met with a man such as this one. The final line was like an elegy for spring... Really strong stuff, and I loved it. Amy (PS Thanks for your kind words after my interview on Real Toads!)
ReplyDeleteOuch, Corey. A powerful if somewhat gory write. But I remember when some dads fished and some dads hunted and some did both. I grew up in a small country town that has since become a good-size city, and probably none of the kids growing up there have dads who fished and hunted for food.
ReplyDeleteK
Oh my word!! Corey...you had me with line one and all its chilling grimness!! Excellent write!
ReplyDelete"...the time of bloodletting and the scraping of bone." A gritty and powerful piece. Loved it.
ReplyDeleteSpringtime was the time of blood letting and scraping of bone.
ReplyDeleteThat one sentence almost contains a whole novel within its heart. I love it!
An excellent write :D
ReplyDeleteA fascinating character and tale.
ReplyDelete". Blood was but preserve to be spread evenly and thickly, to be eaten with morning toast and a generous portion of salt pork."
ReplyDeleteThat is up there with the finest of writing! I was mesmerized by the whole thing. Wonderful
we are all thunderstruck by that line quoted above, and the whole. damn fine pen. ~
ReplyDelete