malins
Stumbling Seeker
Oh! the tragedy!
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The Competition
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
LittleSiss
Sorceress
The bond that forgives or has no future.?
A lasting tribute to all forgiving or sacrificial ...
What can be gained?
What is honored?
We weep a scream as the hours pass.
Alone.
This day .................
A lasting tribute to all forgiving or sacrificial ...
What can be gained?
What is honored?
We weep a scream as the hours pass.
Alone.
This day .................
This sounds like a teaser....you don't think she is telling us that a new episode is coming soon, do you?
Only Sister Kathleen knows for sure.
messaline
Crucified Amazon
This sounds like a teaser....you don't think she is telling us that a new episode is coming soon, do you?
Only Sister Kathleen knows for sure.
Siss is often a little ....... "obscure" ?!
mongo
Governor
A LITTLE?????.HomoobscurusphiladelphiaensisSiss is often a little ....... "obscure" ?!
mongo
Governor
Patience is a virtueC0ming very soon; patience everyone!
Possessed only by GOD
Attachments
Hours pass, but hours mean nothing to me. I sense only endings, the slow trickle of blood, the gradual ebb of strength and energy, the shallow breath. I sense the bright cord of life, that which holds all these mortals to this existence, struggling to find meaning and telling themselves the lies of justice, fairness, honour, and yes, love. They seem to have to believe their lies. It makes no difference to me.
They tell themselves stories about love and sacrifice, and how worthy it is. They want a meaningful life, or at least a good one. They want to die with a sense of satisfaction. I do not know about a good or bad death. One is much the same as another. There is a person, sometimes sad, sometimes happy, sometimes sick - there is a cord that is strained, shining out to me, a life, about to be cut.
I pass through the timbers of the gates, through the silent cavern of the cathedral and out into the cloister. Here is the panorama prepared for me today. Here is where I sensed the taut threads of life, not quite broken yet. Nobody sees me. It would be a surprise if they did. I wonder if perhaps sometimes the dying see me. They sometimes seem relieved or even grateful when I cut the thread and release them.
Six women hang stretched on crosses. There is blood. It runs slowly down stretched arms, down over taut stomachs. There is also sweat. Once they would have cried or screamed. I would not have come for that. I come now, when the movement is slowing, when breath is uncertain, when they begin their final delirium, sometimes imagining themselves elsewhere.
The French woman sometimes whispers a prayer. She is lovely. Pale skin marred by blood. Once she was magnificent, vibrant. Now she is pale, barely able to whisper, hardly able to move enough to find breath for that.
The slim dark haired girl with her feet nailed together. She does not want me, although I will have her in the end. I have everyone in the end. I sense she was frightened and aroused by the suffering, carried by the feeling of life that pain and nearness of death can bring. Still, does she actually want death? She has this notion of these five women dying together. I do not think it will make a difference. I wonder if she is afraid of me, or is my enemy. If she fears me, I am her master. If she accepts me into her dream, I am her servant. One way or another, she has no choice.
The brown haired woman hangs on her cross. She resisted. She fought. Then she accepted. She is an enigma. Intelligent and strong. She knows the farce of the competition, the lechery and base motivations of the fat Cardinal, setting up a "competition" wrapped in the trappings of worship. She even tried to win, pushing the final distance into the cloister to fall almost triumphantly on her cross. Now she hangs, her nipples erect and her legs splayed open as if to receive a lover into her sweat soaked womanhood. She looks exhausted, but she may last longer than the others. She has defiance, as well as a growing resignation. She is not ready to give up. I admire that. She fascinates me. I reach up and brush my hand gently along her hip and down her thigh. She gives a startled moan and jumps. I smile, but then, I always seem to smile.
I am puzzled. There were supposed to be four. Now there are six. Two of these women have men standing at the foot of the crosses. One seems to be a professional executioner. I have seen him before. I am puzzled by his expression. I know somehow that he has crucified the woman, but he is standing there now as if to protect her. She knows her fate, wants it. She is my friend. He does not stand to protect her from me, but almost as an escort, someone to introduce us, perhaps. It's a poor metaphor - it isn't like I'm going to have a lasting relationship with her anyway. I never really get to know people.
The other one is similarly hanging and looking down at the man who crucified her. For them it was like a play on love, an intimacy. She gave him her body. Ah, what could have been. He nailed her to the wood so reverently, and she writhed in an ecstasy of pain. He gazes at her now, drinking in her young beauty, a fading flower. There is a sweet heavy tension as they share these last hours and minutes, so poignantly impermanent, almost wistful, that this last pain is all they share, and so soon over.
The Scottish woman on the X cross almost looks triumphant. She has longed for this I know. I do not understand, but she has come to meet me. I go to stand at the foot of her cross. She is exposed, spread out and open, but she is magnificent in her vulnerability. For her, there is only this submission. This is the peak experience for her, the crucible of her life, and she burns so brightly. I see the thread of her life gleaming like gold. She is slowing as well, but there is a fire of joy inside her, aroused even as she slides into unconsciousness. I stand in front of her. When her turn comes, will she smile at me, or will she be angry that the game is over? I do not know, nor does it make any difference. I see the glistening moisture between her athletic thighs, the spread labia. I reach out to touch her, caress her. She is like a partner. Like the other girl she moans and shudders at my touch, starting awake.
They are all young. All beautiful. But there is no fairness here for them. There is just me.
I would frown if I could. I am not cruel. I didn't crucify these girls. I am here because that's the way it is. The fat Cardinal is cruel. He will do something with the pokers. My "interference" with the dark haired girl and the Scottish girl have made them aware. They find new reserves of strength, their laboured breathing giving away their alarm. I cannot interfere, but this poker thing might prolong the proceedings. I'll just sit down for a bit and contemplate the proceedings. It's not like anyone is going to get away.
(I finally caught up.)
Hours pass, but hours mean nothing to me. I sense only endings, the slow trickle of blood, the gradual ebb of strength and energy, the shallow breath. I sense the bright cord of life, that which holds all these mortals to this existence, struggling to find meaning and telling themselves the lies of justice, fairness, honour, and yes, love. They seem to have to believe their lies. It makes no difference to me.
They tell themselves stories about love and sacrifice, and how worthy it is. They want a meaningful life, or at least a good one. They want to die with a sense of satisfaction. I do not know about a good or bad death. One is much the same as another. There is a person, sometimes sad, sometimes happy, sometimes sick - there is a cord that is strained, shining out to me, a life, about to be cut.
I pass through the timbers of the gates, through the silent cavern of the cathedral and out into the cloister. Here is the panorama prepared for me today. Here is where I sensed the taut threads of life, not quite broken yet. Nobody sees me. It would be a surprise if they did. I wonder if perhaps sometimes the dying see me. They sometimes seem relieved or even grateful when I cut the thread and release them.
Six women hang stretched on crosses. There is blood. It runs slowly down stretched arms, down over taut stomachs. There is also sweat. Once they would have cried or screamed. I would not have come for that. I come now, when the movement is slowing, when breath is uncertain, when they begin their final delirium, sometimes imagining themselves elsewhere.
The French woman sometimes whispers a prayer. She is lovely. Pale skin marred by blood. Once she was magnificent, vibrant. Now she is pale, barely able to whisper, hardly able to move enough to find breath for that.
The slim dark haired girl with her feet nailed together. She does not want me, although I will have her in the end. I have everyone in the end. I sense she was frightened and aroused by the suffering, carried by the feeling of life that pain and nearness of death can bring. Still, does she actually want death? She has this notion of these five women dying together. I do not think it will make a difference. I wonder if she is afraid of me, or is my enemy. If she fears me, I am her master. If she accepts me into her dream, I am her servant. One way or another, she has no choice.
The brown haired woman hangs on her cross. She resisted. She fought. Then she accepted. She is an enigma. Intelligent and strong. She knows the farce of the competition, the lechery and base motivations of the fat Cardinal, setting up a "competition" wrapped in the trappings of worship. She even tried to win, pushing the final distance into the cloister to fall almost triumphantly on her cross. Now she hangs, her nipples erect and her legs splayed open as if to receive a lover into her sweat soaked womanhood. She looks exhausted, but she may last longer than the others. She has defiance, as well as a growing resignation. She is not ready to give up. I admire that. She fascinates me. I reach up and brush my hand gently along her hip and down her thigh. She gives a startled moan and jumps. I smile, but then, I always seem to smile.
I am puzzled. There were supposed to be four. Now there are six. Two of these women have men standing at the foot of the crosses. One seems to be a professional executioner. I have seen him before. I am puzzled by his expression. I know somehow that he has crucified the woman, but he is standing there now as if to protect her. She knows her fate, wants it. She is my friend. He does not stand to protect her from me, but almost as an escort, someone to introduce us, perhaps. It's a poor metaphor - it isn't like I'm going to have a lasting relationship with her anyway. I never really get to know people.
The other one is similarly hanging and looking down at the man who crucified her. For them it was like a play on love, an intimacy. She gave him her body. Ah, what could have been. He nailed her to the wood so reverently, and she writhed in an ecstasy of pain. He gazes at her now, drinking in her young beauty, a fading flower. There is a sweet heavy tension as they share these last hours and minutes, so poignantly impermanent, almost wistful, that this last pain is all they share, and so soon over.
The Scottish woman on the X cross almost looks triumphant. She has longed for this I know. I do not understand, but she has come to meet me. I go to stand at the foot of her cross. She is exposed, spread out and open, but she is magnificent in her vulnerability. For her, there is only this submission. This is the peak experience for her, the crucible of her life, and she burns so brightly. I see the thread of her life gleaming like gold. She is slowing as well, but there is a fire of joy inside her, aroused even as she slides into unconsciousness. I stand in front of her. When her turn comes, will she smile at me, or will she be angry that the game is over? I do not know, nor does it make any difference. I see the glistening moisture between her athletic thighs, the spread labia. I reach out to touch her, caress her. She is like a partner. Like the other girl she moans and shudders at my touch, starting awake.
They are all young. All beautiful. But there is no fairness here for them. There is just me.
I would frown if I could. I am not cruel. I didn't crucify these girls. I am here because that's the way it is. The fat Cardinal is cruel. He will do something with the pokers. My "interference" with the dark haired girl and the Scottish girl have made them aware. They find new reserves of strength, their laboured breathing giving away their alarm. I cannot interfere, but this poker thing might prolong the proceedings. I'll just sit down for a bit and contemplate the proceedings. It's not like anyone is going to get away.
(I finally caught up.)
and caught up you did !!!! wonderfully written Jolly.. well done!
I'm only sorry that "I" couldn't write it in black.
This is wonderfully written, Barb (I read half of it this afternoon), and the contributions by everyone else are extremely well done. Speaking as one who has read the majority of it over the past 3 days, it makes a very good story, from the point of view of several authors. I'm glad I got in before the end.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
You are right. I do not stand before the woman as her guard. I stand with her. Yes, I would guard her from those who would wish to abuse her but never from you. Not from the one she looks for. Not from the one she will welcome when the time comes.
I thought you had come for her earlier. She hung limp, spent. But the pain deep inside brought her back as though her suffering was not done.
When the time comes I will escort you to her and her to you. But, for now, please allow me introduce Madeleine.
Madeleine? This is ......
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Wonderfully written Jollyrei as fate come to visit the maidens as you have illustrated so often in that thread you began.I'm only sorry that "I" couldn't write it in black.
This is wonderfully written, Barb (I read half of it this afternoon), and the contributions by everyone else are extremely well done. Speaking as one who has read the majority of it over the past 3 days, it makes a very good story, from the point of view of several authors. I'm glad I got in before the end.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Who passes?
I see things of which I don't know whether they belong to me or other souls.
A floor tiled in black and white, the seams between slowly filling up with blood.
A trudging column of bandaged lepers.
A child bundled in her father's arm, as he rides swiftly.
Who passes?
I startle and open my eyes.
Pilus still stands there, as my companion.
That other presence... winks out the moment I return to the waking world.
I realize my mistake.
I'm looking on the wrong side.
He was coming from the other side.
I shouldn't have opened my eyes, I should have trusted him and taken the hand he offered.
He would have taken me out of the labyrinth.
Guide me out of the ruins, the collapsing wreckage of my body.
I looked to the wrong side.
I turned back, like Lot's wife, I looked back at the ruins. I opened my eyes again on Sodom.
As the pain goes into me again, all my muscles tense in a paralyzing cramp.
messaline
Crucified Amazon
But so much alone !
This is wonderfully written, Barb (I read half of it this afternoon), and the contributions by everyone else are extremely well done. Speaking as one who has read the majority of it over the past 3 days, it makes a very good story, from the point of view of several authors. I'm glad I got in before the end.
Yes, we can thanks Barb to write so well these great story ad to wonderfuly depict these different scenes ...
More, we can thanks her to permit our own feelings and sensations' description !
For me, I dont consider me like an author, only trying to tell a part of my deep fantasy ...into an acceptable English, I hope ...
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Perhaps soon the chorals of angels will welcome us
(This is of course Orthodox but I guess at some point that turns irrelevant. Religious rites at this Abbey seem rather unconventional anyway
Lovely addition, Jolly!!!I'm only sorry that "I" couldn't write it in black.
This is wonderfully written, Barb (I read half of it this afternoon), and the contributions by everyone else are extremely well done. Speaking as one who has read the majority of it over the past 3 days, it makes a very good story, from the point of view of several authors. I'm glad I got in before the end.
of course...............whole day long sir