Today has been very productive
Sep. 28th, 2003 12:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessFor muses, but not for work. I have not touched by backlog, ah well, I suppose I can leave it all to the last minute instead, right? Yeah, we all knew I was going to do that anyway, didn't we?
I know I said I wasn't going to post any more predator stuff, but I really like the story arc and the muses demand attention (despite being the strong silent type). Besides I still haven't decided what to send to Torquere press, or even whether to send anything at all. partly I don't know which plot or whether to vamp up a new one, partly I'm worried about submitting my stuff in a technically paying fashion (just seems weird to me for some reason) and mainly it's doubt as to whether I can justify spending more time on fiction given how much work I've got to plow through at the minute.
Ah well, choices choices, I think I'll do what I usually do and put it off until I have ot panic about it. Yeah, works for me.
Father Michaels knelt out in the small graveyard. He knelt unmoving but for the gentle stir of his breathing, the soft click of this rosaries and the quiet lyrical stream of his murmured prayers. Before him lay too mounds of freshly turned earth. A simple wooden cross was all that marked the fresh graves. No name for people to remember, no vases where mourners could leave their comforting gifts of flowers. The people who mourned these people needed no markers to remember hardship and death. Their mourners needed no vases to give false comfort. they knew there was little comfort in this world. they knew how deadly such self-deception could be. Father Michael prayed for them, the living and the dead. And for himself, for the strength to do more.
He waited. Hours passed. The night slowly gave way to dawn. Father Michaels waited and prayed.
A figure finally appeared in front of him, kneeling at the other side of fresh grave. His approach was silent as the night now departed, not a blade of grass nor clod of earth shifted under his gentle feet. His beautiful face slid into the priest’s view, beautiful but cold without so much as a twitch to shift the immaculate lines of his features. He didn’t cross himself as he knelt, didn’t speak words of prayer or benediction. Didn’t speak words of grief or anger. He just knelt, looking at the priest across the freshly turned earth. The sun rose higher, bathing them in the soft, redish light of dawn give everything a sanguine tinge. No doubt that would be considered prophetic by some, thought the old priest, his mind pausing on Marlena for a moment.
Finally, Father Michaels spoke. “It is done?” his voice was old, aged by years of toil and a hard life. But like him it was still strong.
“It is done, Father. They are avenged.” For a moment those beautiful green eyes became images of grief so anguished that it made the old priest’s heart clenched. That face that could inspire a thousand artists fell into a pure rendition of gentle tenderness, as one flawless hand gently ran over the turned earth. Just for a moment. Then the mask returned.
With effort, the priest pushed himself to his feet, silently cursing his ailing knee. Kneeling out in the cold had done it no good, but not in all the 56 years he had been a priest had he ever considered his own comfort above his duty.
“Come then Ian. They can rest peacefully. I have a bed for you, and food if you are hungry. You are always welcome in my home and in the House of God.” The old man ushered the younger into the church, moving surprisingly quickly, for all Father Michaels leaned heavily on a thick rowan walking stick. Side by side Father Michaels was made painfully aware of his aging from next to the powerful young Adonis. Despite his years he still managed to stand tall, far taller than most men, but his face was lined by years of care. His blue eyes were still strong and piercing, for all they had to stare at the world through thin wire framed glasses. His hair was yet thick, but was now a pure white to match his short moustache and beard. His hands were large and strong, but the knuckles were knotted and some fingers were gnarled from age, illness, ill use and injuries. While his companion made absolutely no noise as he stalked in the new light of day, Father Michaels was painfully aware of his loud breathing and the clicking and cracking of many stiff joints, legacies of arthritis and more injuries than he cared to remember.
“I would like Marlena to check that they sleep, Father.”
The old priest didn’t pause in his step, merely nodded his head. “Of course. I will call her once the sun is higher.” He had seen too much in his life to be burdened with useless prejudices. He did not agree with Marlena, but there was far worse enemies out there... many enemies, and so few allies.
The priest lead the young man through the small, dilapidated church - Father Michaels was a firm believer that money spent on a new church roof would be far better spent on putting a roof over homeless heads and bread in hungry mouths - to the vestry where a pallet was laid out on the floor.
“There are several changes of clothes in the chest that I thought appropriate. Lakshmi sent several new outfits over. She was quite excessive in her generosity.” The younger man nodded again before sinking into the makeshift pallet. Within seconds, he was asleep, another night of hardship dragging him down.
The old priest shook his head and walked quietly from the room. Not for the first time, he was struck by how heavy the burden placed upon them had become. They were too few. A few soldiers willing to fight in the shadows, shadows that grew deeper and darker every day.
He debated sleep for several minutes before settling on a pew. He had seen many sleepless nights over the long decades, his aged frame no longer needed the rest of men many years his younger. A new day was dawning, he would not be found wanting.
He had barely started the morning benedictions, when a long shadow blanketed the church. Someone had come through the east facing doorway. A tall strong black man with long dreadlocks, hard muscles and an even harder expression strode through the church, it was only as he got closer that the gentleness in his dark eyes was apparent, only to those who were willing to look for it. Father Michaels had always been willing to look beneath the surface of people.
“Kieran, it has been too long. Your expression tells me you don’t come with good news.”
The man sank down next to the old priest, stretching and adjusting his denim shirt, as if it weighed far more than it should. “’Fraid not Father. I’ve been loosing people again. The police say it’s gang violence, but I ain’t heard no shooting and I ain’t seen no bodies, they’s all run off to the morgue before me and mine lays eyes on them. Some of these folks got kids, Father. Had kids. I wanna tell them what happened to their daddies. I wanna make sure whatever took them don’t come back for them.”
The old priest sighed, his bones weighed down. “So soon... not an hours rest before the killing starts again.” He struggled wearily to his feet. No time to rest yet, the battle was not yet won.
I know I said I wasn't going to post any more predator stuff, but I really like the story arc and the muses demand attention (despite being the strong silent type). Besides I still haven't decided what to send to Torquere press, or even whether to send anything at all. partly I don't know which plot or whether to vamp up a new one, partly I'm worried about submitting my stuff in a technically paying fashion (just seems weird to me for some reason) and mainly it's doubt as to whether I can justify spending more time on fiction given how much work I've got to plow through at the minute.
Ah well, choices choices, I think I'll do what I usually do and put it off until I have ot panic about it. Yeah, works for me.
Father Michaels knelt out in the small graveyard. He knelt unmoving but for the gentle stir of his breathing, the soft click of this rosaries and the quiet lyrical stream of his murmured prayers. Before him lay too mounds of freshly turned earth. A simple wooden cross was all that marked the fresh graves. No name for people to remember, no vases where mourners could leave their comforting gifts of flowers. The people who mourned these people needed no markers to remember hardship and death. Their mourners needed no vases to give false comfort. they knew there was little comfort in this world. they knew how deadly such self-deception could be. Father Michael prayed for them, the living and the dead. And for himself, for the strength to do more.
He waited. Hours passed. The night slowly gave way to dawn. Father Michaels waited and prayed.
A figure finally appeared in front of him, kneeling at the other side of fresh grave. His approach was silent as the night now departed, not a blade of grass nor clod of earth shifted under his gentle feet. His beautiful face slid into the priest’s view, beautiful but cold without so much as a twitch to shift the immaculate lines of his features. He didn’t cross himself as he knelt, didn’t speak words of prayer or benediction. Didn’t speak words of grief or anger. He just knelt, looking at the priest across the freshly turned earth. The sun rose higher, bathing them in the soft, redish light of dawn give everything a sanguine tinge. No doubt that would be considered prophetic by some, thought the old priest, his mind pausing on Marlena for a moment.
Finally, Father Michaels spoke. “It is done?” his voice was old, aged by years of toil and a hard life. But like him it was still strong.
“It is done, Father. They are avenged.” For a moment those beautiful green eyes became images of grief so anguished that it made the old priest’s heart clenched. That face that could inspire a thousand artists fell into a pure rendition of gentle tenderness, as one flawless hand gently ran over the turned earth. Just for a moment. Then the mask returned.
With effort, the priest pushed himself to his feet, silently cursing his ailing knee. Kneeling out in the cold had done it no good, but not in all the 56 years he had been a priest had he ever considered his own comfort above his duty.
“Come then Ian. They can rest peacefully. I have a bed for you, and food if you are hungry. You are always welcome in my home and in the House of God.” The old man ushered the younger into the church, moving surprisingly quickly, for all Father Michaels leaned heavily on a thick rowan walking stick. Side by side Father Michaels was made painfully aware of his aging from next to the powerful young Adonis. Despite his years he still managed to stand tall, far taller than most men, but his face was lined by years of care. His blue eyes were still strong and piercing, for all they had to stare at the world through thin wire framed glasses. His hair was yet thick, but was now a pure white to match his short moustache and beard. His hands were large and strong, but the knuckles were knotted and some fingers were gnarled from age, illness, ill use and injuries. While his companion made absolutely no noise as he stalked in the new light of day, Father Michaels was painfully aware of his loud breathing and the clicking and cracking of many stiff joints, legacies of arthritis and more injuries than he cared to remember.
“I would like Marlena to check that they sleep, Father.”
The old priest didn’t pause in his step, merely nodded his head. “Of course. I will call her once the sun is higher.” He had seen too much in his life to be burdened with useless prejudices. He did not agree with Marlena, but there was far worse enemies out there... many enemies, and so few allies.
The priest lead the young man through the small, dilapidated church - Father Michaels was a firm believer that money spent on a new church roof would be far better spent on putting a roof over homeless heads and bread in hungry mouths - to the vestry where a pallet was laid out on the floor.
“There are several changes of clothes in the chest that I thought appropriate. Lakshmi sent several new outfits over. She was quite excessive in her generosity.” The younger man nodded again before sinking into the makeshift pallet. Within seconds, he was asleep, another night of hardship dragging him down.
The old priest shook his head and walked quietly from the room. Not for the first time, he was struck by how heavy the burden placed upon them had become. They were too few. A few soldiers willing to fight in the shadows, shadows that grew deeper and darker every day.
He debated sleep for several minutes before settling on a pew. He had seen many sleepless nights over the long decades, his aged frame no longer needed the rest of men many years his younger. A new day was dawning, he would not be found wanting.
He had barely started the morning benedictions, when a long shadow blanketed the church. Someone had come through the east facing doorway. A tall strong black man with long dreadlocks, hard muscles and an even harder expression strode through the church, it was only as he got closer that the gentleness in his dark eyes was apparent, only to those who were willing to look for it. Father Michaels had always been willing to look beneath the surface of people.
“Kieran, it has been too long. Your expression tells me you don’t come with good news.”
The man sank down next to the old priest, stretching and adjusting his denim shirt, as if it weighed far more than it should. “’Fraid not Father. I’ve been loosing people again. The police say it’s gang violence, but I ain’t heard no shooting and I ain’t seen no bodies, they’s all run off to the morgue before me and mine lays eyes on them. Some of these folks got kids, Father. Had kids. I wanna tell them what happened to their daddies. I wanna make sure whatever took them don’t come back for them.”
The old priest sighed, his bones weighed down. “So soon... not an hours rest before the killing starts again.” He struggled wearily to his feet. No time to rest yet, the battle was not yet won.
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Date: 2003-09-28 10:43 am (UTC)