Revelation.

Creative writing.ie
Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash

His Eminence held the book in front of the assembled monks, priests, invited religious leaders from around the world.

‘In this tome handed down from millennia are the secrets to the world order. Who actually runs the world. Who decides what happens. It has remained a secret within these hallowed halls, for hundreds of years. But I have being called upon to divulge its contents to you. The assembled, invited leaders of your people’s, your followers.’

Their were murmurings of excitement within the assembled audience, in the darkened church hall. Adorned with religious statues of many creeds. The scent of incense at times overpowering. The low repetitive chanting of the unseen voices adding a sense of tension and suspense.

‘ I will also reveal to you today, what happens when we die. Where we go. The exact date the world will cease to be, and what will happen then

‘Hersey, this is nonsense. How can you possibly know. What give’s you the right to divulge this secret knowledge to the masses, that have being hidden from them for hundreds of years.’  The voice from the audience was loud and angry.’ He stood up, a large man, with an ornate sword hanging from his hip. A wild beard on his face. His angry, and thunderous.
‘Who are you to profligate such nonsense ?’ How dare you assume such an exalted position of power and knowledge. Who has called on you to divulge such powerful knowledge held within these scriptures.’

The eye’s of his Eminence meet those of the beast of a man daring to question his nobility and power. Never before had any questioned his authority. He looked to his aides at the high table to furnish him with information and knowledge as to the identify of this disrespectful entity, who had the temerity to question him.

‘Who are you, and where do you come from.’ he demanded.

‘Where I come from, and who I am, matter little. But I am hear to tell you that you have no right to divulge the secrets held within that tome, and if you do so, I will see you through with this sword that lies by my side.’

The assembled audience watched and listened quietly to the war of words between the two powerful men. The private guards that ensured His Eminence ultimate survival looked to him for guidance. Awaiting his order to attack, spears and scarberts at the ready.

His Eminence consider his choice of words carefully. His spoke slowly, powerfully and with much thought. His dark black sac cloth cape and regalia, adding to the perception of his power.

‘ I trust all of you specially invited, to never divulge the secrets buried within this tome. To ensure the continuation of the world order as it is, which has served us all so well. Are we not, as it stand the purveyors of the law, and wealth. Long may it continue’.

The assembled audience cheered loudly in response.

‘Silence’. Again the large unkempt man for the midst of the audience stood up.’There is no need to reveal the contents of those scripture’s you hold in your hand. For those of us that already know what they contain, that is enough. For those that do not know, that is how is it to be’.

‘I can promise that to any that divulge the contents of these scriptures outside of these hallowed halls. Will be cursed forever more to a life of suffering, destitution and suffering. Not only in this life, but in their many reincarnations to come. Not they alone, but the lives oft their families and loved ones will condemned to the same fate. Do you understand’, he asked loudly, slamming the tome down on the altar beside him. Many were startled by the sudden loud noise.

The eerie chanting continued in the darkened background, getting progressively louder and faster. Building toward’s a crescendo. His Eminence turned his back on the audience, and began to mumble in Latin. Quietly at first. Few recognized this version of Latin and Hebrew mixed together. The large velvet curtain behind the altar was pulled aside, revealing the symbol he worshiped. Gaps of disbelief were heard from the audience, then silence. He dropped to his knees, and recited the Latin and Hebrew words faster and louder, that he read from the parchment in his hand, over and over again. The unseen voices chanted ans matched his tempo and speed. His raised his arms in adoration and called on He who is pure evil to come this very moment into his life.
His body shock as the evil power entered his body, he heart turned black, his eye’s red. His voice took on a demonic tone, deep and rasping. His aides on the altar moved away in fear. The chanting of the unseen voices, overwhelming, repetitive, almost hypnotic. An atmosphere of extreme evil, menace, suffering, torture and death swirled around the hallowed hall. He turned around to face he who had the temerity to challenge him. His red eyes’ and scarred face, twisted in a grotesque snarling smile. With his imbued evil power, he pointed his hand at his enemy and unleashed a torrent of black putrid energy, that traveled at speed towards he who had dared to question. The audience scattered and ran, rightfully fearing for their lives.

The energy struck it’s recipient with such strong force, the large angry man with the wild beard was knocked to the ground. His Eminence on the altar waved his hand up and down, pointing in many different directions as the black putrid energy followed and obeyed his commands. Repetitively  stabbing and stomping on the fallen prey. The large fallen man’s eye’s were pecked out of his head. Some of the energy was forced into his mouth, and chest, strangling his organs and breathing. When the large man was no more, the evil energy, screamed cruelly and returned to the altar, and back into the body from whence it came. His Eminence collapsed on the altar, and black ravens flew overhead, silently watching. The eerie chanting stopped. Light began to fill the darkened chamber, and many of the hiding audience began to pray.

Written in response to a prompt seen here : https://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

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The Dentist.

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Photo Credit :  photo-graphe on Pixabay.
Daily Prompt: Cavity.

‘Lay back’,

Those were the last words she remembered, before she lost consciousness. His tones soothing, comforting. She gently floated off to another world. A bright meadow, where sheep grazed in the mid afternoon sunlight. The crickets croaked by the nearby pond. She ran towards the horses grazing in the fields, and they stopped and slowly moved towards her.

Both white horses slowly approached her, not realizing how shy these large animals were. They were more afraid of her, than she was of them. They bowed the large, muscular  shoulders towards her, so she could stroke the warm manes. Which she did for a few moments. She noted the gentleness in the horse’s eyes, and felt safe, and secure.
The white horses moved towards her again, and she retreated from their advance.

‘No, Go Back’, she said loudly. Never afraid to speak her mind, as young children do. She slapped both horses across their nose’s to teach them a lesson. The horse’s kept coming, pushing her into the large nearby bushes, where she fell to the ground. She watched as the horse’s changed from the gentle white colour, to a malevolent dark black colour. The ir eyes became narrow and angry, and as they raised up on their hind legs above her.

She screamed, they laughed. They began to trample her into the ground, deeper and deeper, until she could no longer breathe. From under the ground she could hear the angry horse’s stamp on the ground above her. She struggled to free herself, but was unable to do so. She began to weep. Scared, alone and afraid.

‘It’s alright’, he said. His words comforting, and soothing. ‘It’s all over now’.

With that, he smiled at her,and helped her from the chair, and called the dental nurse, to guide her towards reception.

Childhood.

Childhood
Photo Credit : Greyerbaby on Pixelbay

Daily Prompt: Restart

‘No that’s not how it’s going to be. We will not be doing that. Sit back in your seat, and be quiet, and don’t annoy your Father while he is driving.’

Another boring Sunday afternoon drive among the nature trails that she had seen soo many times before. Same old, same old. Repetitive nice conversations. It was the same scene every few weeks, after he had stopped drinking, at least for a time. Or to be truthful until the next time, and there would for sure, be a next time.
It was their joint attempt at reconciliation, after the wasted money been spent. After the hurtful words and accusations spewed at each other, with seething venom, that is when they were actually speaking. It was predictable. The alcoholic bender. The broken promises. The threats. The screaming and shouting, slamming of doors, and kitchen delf. The accusations of infidelity. The children finding their own ways to avoid, and hide from the craziness. Finding their own adventures, or trouble. Living their lives through reading, their friends and films. Anyway to keep the madness from their minds. The indulgent hedonistic lifestyle coming to a halt after a period of a month or so.
Followed by sadness, much regret, and false promises of positive change, that all knew would come to nothing eventually. The glorious and pleasant making up, until the next time. It was sickening. Truly it was.

 

Summertime.

Stained Glass Window
Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

via Daily Prompt: Ceremony

They stood together at the altar. Her sense of happiness palatable. If  any from the happy congregation could have seen his face, and austere expression, it would have conveyed much about his thoughts.
He stared straight ahead. Not at her, and especially not at him, although he was aware of the self satisfied smirk. That look that said it all. The look that said, We have a secret. You will never tell, and I will get away with it.
He listened as he continued with the prayers, and the blessings. The hypocritical blessings and prayer’s from one so sullied with sin. It was sickening. In the quietness of the church, the creaking wooden door opened and he watched the priests face turn from arrogant self satisfaction to fear, and anxiety. Perspiration began to trickle down his face. His words became muffled and quiet, so much so, people strained to hear the ceremony.

He so wanted to turn around and see the cause of the priest’s unease. She sensed what he was about to do, and pulled hard on his hand, and briefly glared at him. Her angry eye’s told him all he needed to know. So to keep the peace, he continued to stare straight ahead, and wait for the priest to regain his composure. But that was not forth coming.            The sun shone its warm healing rays through the many stained glass windows, brightening the church interior. There friends and families looked on with joy and happiness. many believing this was a coming together that was ment to be, from a very young age.

The stench of alcohol was pervasive, from he assumed the latest entrant into the church. The priest lamely continued with the ceremony. But his words were still weak. Barely audible, and he continued to perspire, and glance furtively and continually at the congregation. His anxiety plain to see.

Then it started, as expected, and brought with it  a sense of relief. We all could sense something untoward was about to happen, and now the waiting was over.

‘You Bastard’, the words were loud, thunderous, and slurred. The ceremony stopped. Many in the congregation turned to see where the angry words emanated from. Some ignored the angry words, which were heavily laden with many years stored up emotion. Hoping things would quieten, the priest continued the ceremony. The priest rocked back on his heels, nearly knocked over by the force of the anger and venom, that the words were wrapped in.

‘You Bastard’, again the angry words revebatred around the peace and solemnity of the small country church. His anger directly aimed at the priest. There was loud shuffling among the seats, as a few of the others tried to contain, and control the drunken angry man. Tried to plead with him to see sense, and not ruin a young couple’s wedding day.
He broke free of those holding him, energized by his indignation and sense of righteous, and stood in the aisle, before the altar. His voice even louder this time. His face red, and tortured. Reflecting his years of alcohol abuse. His dark suit, shabby.

‘You did this to me’, he screamed at the priest, who again rocked back on his feet, as he absorbed the words directed at him.
‘Had you not taken my innocence as a child to satisfy your perverted sexual desires, I would have never ended up like this. Why do you think I’ve become an alcoholic, a drug user, Why ? he asked accusingly, never once lifting his gaze from the priest. ‘To hide those memories deep within my mind, and soul. To hide that shame, that has haunted me all of my life. That sense of filth and inadequacy I have felt since. Why could you not have let me be, Why ? You caused this, to me and many others, and I’m here today to call you out. To let the members of your congregation, and this small town and community know that you are not that helpful innocent soul, the do godder sent by God, to do his good works. You are a charlatan, a deceptive, sleazy lying manipulator, who in the past has taken the innocence of many young boys, and condemned them to a life of misery, addiction, chaos, abject life failure.’ ‘You’, he continued to point his shaking hand at the priest, ‘used your position and power, and our sense of deep shame, humiliation, and fear to satisfy your lustful desires at our expense. Satisfied in the knowledge that none would speak out and expose you. Well no more. You are, a destroyer of people’s lives ‘.
The congregation listened in silence to the man as he unleashed his vitriolic speech, swaying slightly in the aisles. The priest looked uneasy on the altar. The young couple turned around to see who was this intruder into their peaceful wedding day.

Then it stopped. The shouting, the anger. The loud angry man collapsed on the floor. None moved to help him. Just watched. The young couple at the altar turned round, and after a few moments, Jason, the groom went to the fallen body. The stench of urine, an unwashed body, alcohol and cigarette smoke that emanated from the man, was stomach turning. The long hair was unkempt and matted with dirt, and God’s knows what else. Those in the congregation watched in silence, as did the priest.
He moved closer to the fallen man, and moved the his long filthy hair away from his face, to check his breathing. The mans skin was in even worse condition close up. Pock marked with red sore’s, a few of which were leaching some disgusting poisonous looking liquid. His breathing was short, fitful, and strained. He called for a Doctor, a nurse among the congregation. For an ambulance to be summoned. He searched inside the mans crumpled dirty suit for some ID. In his hand the collasped man held with a tightened grip an object on a broken chain.  Not knowing why, but Jason wrestled with the clenched hand to release the object. Eventually securing it’s release. He studied the object, wiping away the accumulated dirt and filth.

He recognised the silver coin, given to him by the older brother he so much admired. The coin from all those years ago, that held pride of place among his belongings, and which he treasured. A symbol of their togetherness and closeness, a bond which would never be broken.

‘Where did you get this’, he asked the fallen man urgently. His voice loud and urgent.

‘Tell me where, Goddam you. Answer me’. He shook the man’s shoulders hard. But no response.

He had searched over many years for the brother he so loved and admired. Never knowing what had happened to him, was worse than actually knowing. No contact for years. Nothing.

Jason lent over the  older collapsed man, wishing him silently for his consciousness to return.

‘Where the hell is that ambulance’, he called loudly to no one in particular.

The wedding congeration looked on in silence.

The man continued to struggle to breath. His breath’s audibly becoming weaker, and fewer. Unable to fully expand his chest. He moaned quietly. Jason watched his face intently, and was helpless, as the last sign’s of life slowly ebbed from the man. His lips turning slightly blue. The failing weak breath telling its own tale. Jason closed his eyes, began to pray by the man’s his side, and wished him a safe passage to the next life. As he knelt beside the fallen man, with his head bowed in prayer, his hand was gripped in an iron clamp. He looked up and into the now open eye’s of the fallen man, and in that instant he recognized him. That slight smile, that twinkle in his eyes, told what he needed to know.

Then he was gone, life extinguished. In that small church on that bright summer’s day, not a sound was uttered.

Nothing.

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Photo by Mark Eder on Unsplash

I have nothing to say, nothing on my brain
How am I meant to entertain and engage
Those who are kind enough to view what I write, and at times, voice their appreciation
I aint mad, angry or depressed, no toxic people on my case
Nothing of any duress happening in my life
Bit dead on the romantic scene, I must admit
Would love, love, love to meet a suitable partner
To share this life’s journey with, that’s for sure
But the landscape is incredibly barren whenever I step outside the door
I looked, just looked at a woman a few months back, not a stunner, not a beaut
More out of interest I did briefly stare
She actually physically winced, when my glance caught her eye
Just cause you’re a woman, don’t necessarily mean, I want you, let me be clear
I got standards you know, which you gotta meet, or else you aint coming in the door
I watched a pretty woman coming down the street. Our eyes did meet, and she was okay
But I had watched her briefly from afar, shoulder charge some poor fella out of her way
Good looking as she was, that was so off-putting, I turned away from her enticing glance
That’s one dance that would not end well, so I aint even moving in that direction
So there’s nothing really going on, currently.

Writing Groups. Are they worth it, and should you join ?

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Photo Credit : https://pixabay.com/en/startup-start-up-people-593341/

That is a question I am currently pondering. Like anything  in life they have both advantages and disadvantages. But obviously when it’s leaning too far in one direction, then it may be time to reconsider your options and choices.

While they may be good for the social interaction, if you choose the right group, and you fit in, and they can certainly be good fun. Helpful in getting one into the discipline of writing. To continue that chapter, to come up with fresh ideas for the next week’s meeting.
As to whether they help one improve as a writer. I don’t think so. If you want to improve your writing, I suggest you read a lot, listen to a lot of radio drama, particularly BBC radio drama. Watch a lot of films. The Homeland series on Netflix, which is a fine example of exemplary writing, although I believe written by a team of writers, but still very well written and entertaining. I for one have absolutely no idea where the plot in going to move from one scene to the next, and that’s what makes it so interesting and engaging. That is why, I like many millions of other have watched and enjoyed it. These are the places I spend time, and find inspiration from.

The whole idea in a writing group, is everybody reads what they have written, and receives feedback from the other members, which is good and bad. It’s enjoyable if people are complimentary about what you have written, but uncomfortable, not too nice, it the others start finding holes in your work. I like to think all the words I write, are precious, and angelic, and for someone to suggest that perhaps they should be dropped from the piece. Well I find that a bit hurtful, to suggest that about my babies, my children, as I see them.
Perhaps others who write also feel the same. I suspect that many do. although the ethos of many writing groups is that they are open to and welcome to honest criticism. I find that is not really true, at all. I don’t like to be criticized about my writing, or anything at all, really. and when I criticize, or shall we say give my view. In a way I like to believe is gentle and encouraging, many don’t like it. Which is fair enough. But if you put your work in the public arena, and ask for feedback, do not be too surprised at what comes back at you.
Some are going honest, which I believe is the right way. Some will enjoy your writing, and other’s are going to be vocal in the dislike of it. But if I am bored by someone’s writing, and find it as interesting as a plank of wood, I will tell them. As much as I would tell someone I was speaking to, that I find their conversation and chosen topics, uninteresting beyond belief.
In that way generally, people can become more interesting and entertaining, because others will call them out on their ‘dullness’. Make it clear to them, they are not a modern day Gore Vidal, or Peter Ustinov, in terms of being interesting and entertaining company. In this way I am helping them. Same as when I tell an off colour joke in company, and no one laughs or smiles. I learn pretty quickly not what to do next time in that company. In that respect honest feedback is helpful, if you can learn from it.

Writing groups unlike some other types of groups can be a magnet for the wounded and traumatized. Why do so many write, but to unburden their soul, there traumatic ,and difficult past. To unleash the emotions, and memories that they have kept hidden and suppressed for so long. They can be released and unburdened through the stories and characters they write. An inexpensive form of psychotherapy I find, and that is what I have used it for in the past and currently. Not on purpose, it’s just when I write, I write from the depths of my soul, and whatever is in there, will find its way into a piece, or a poem, or words of some description.
Events and emotions that I’d could not, and would rather not share with others openly, can be dispersed quiet easily and anonymously through my characters, or my sometimes strange views on the world. Or through a factual pieces of writing I may produce. So in that way, from a psychological perspective, a writing group is helpful, if your willing to be truthful and let it all flow. The hurt, anger, bewilderment, deception, and all the other pleasantness of life ! that we have all experienced at one time or another in our dealings with others.

But a writing group, even for the most normal of people, can give our sadistic side free reign. An opportunity to offload our anger, bitterness, disappointments, and general unhappiness. A psychological cleansing. Even better than a steam and a sauna. Affording  such a sense of joy, peace and relaxation and ease. For the truly psychologically traumatized, sadistic and toxic, it can be paradise on earth. An invitation to find fault and criticize another human beings work, which can mean, secretly criticizing them as a person. To watch and enjoy, as they squirm and shudder, under the weight of your caustic words. Like devastating cruel weapons, further traumatize and destroy them before your very eyes. That could continue over weeks and months. All in the name of helpful criticism. That can be the hidden agenda. All in the name of ‘helping’ another person become a better writer.

For myself, I don’t like to criticize others, to find fault. It’s not a nice way to be. Whats the damn point in destroying anthers person fragile soul. Which most of us are, underneath our sometimes harsh exterior. ‘Cut me, and I bleed to’, as someone once said, somewhere.
Throughout my school years, like most I witnessed and was on the receiving end of criticism and fault finding among my fellow classmates. Not to the extent of bullying. But I never enjoyed it, neither indulging in it, or watching others being on the receiving end of it. Even though it was cloaked under the banner of  rough banter and young’s boys humor. It was never anything more than cruel.
When I left school and moved on the world, I found I much more enjoyed being in the company of people who are gentle, kind encouraging, supportive. Happy for your success. These are the characteristics I would look to embody in my own personality. Rather than the others, who still like the school mates of my youth, even as adults like to criticise, cut down and destroy others. They have never really moved on from the school yard. Or perhaps life has lead them down a more traumatic  path. Who knows.
If being in a writing group, and the willingness and ability to offer criticism, seems to be a key to entry.  To ‘help’ other writers become better. I don’t think I want to become that kind of person. nor part of such a group. Who needs that. Ain’t life hard enough already for people. To become that type of person, I don’t think helps anybody.

It took me many years to move away from being the type of person, with a quick and witty remark, to a perceived vocal threat. An absolute necessary skill that was honed to perfection in my school days. Without that form of mental self defense, one’s school days would have being miserable beyond belief. Which was the outcome for many of the less quick witted, and those who lacked the ability to respond fast, with a clever repoist required to survive in such a  jungle.

I have no wish, nor right to criticize another when they are only trying to improve themselves, and their creativity. Although I will happily criticize and castigate the wrong doer’s. The cruel and unkind. Those who treat others badly, and criminally.

So as to whether writing groups are a good idea. Maybe helpful for your ego, at times. But when the entry and requirement seems to be a willing and ability to criticize another, no matter how gently it is done. I don’t think its for me.

Tranquility.

Forest

Photo by Lukas Neasi on Unsplash

Forest

He watched her through the trees. Unseen and unmoving. He camouflaged himself so well, to be near enough invisible to the human eye. She sat in the clearing, as the large oak, and conifers in their magnificence stood so tall so proud.
In times of crisis and lack of life direction, she always graduated towards the peacefulness and the sense of security she enjoyed among the trees. The quietness, the silence. Nothing moving. She had to release and let go. From the depths of her wounded soul she let loose with such a ferocity, she physically fell backwards, surprised and shocked at herself, with her gutteral, demon like screams, expunged from her body with such momentous force and venom, she was embarrassed. Again, and again she screamed. Screams of anger, of human hurt and distress. Screams of betrayal and deceit. Screams of mistrust. Screams of a once blossoming, truthful love, now lost, never to be reopened. Crude, nasty words she knew existed, and which sickened, to her very core, which she never, or only very seldom used, now loomed large in her vocabulary, and spewed from her with an evil venom. She did not, could not recognize this voice emanating from her. A voice barely human, full of evil intent.
Fearful, she ran deep into the forest to escape whatever had possessed her. Her heart beating faster than ever it had before. Her legs jelly like. Her light summer dress wet from her clammy body. Her perfect long hair, now damp, and unkempt. As fast as she ran, the spirit followed her.

He also followed her, but with the practiced expertise of a hunter, from a distance, and well hidden. When she could run no more, she fell to the ground physically exhausted, and breathing hard. Leaned back against a supportive tree, and slowly her breathing returned to some semblance of normal. But not her fear. The malevolent spirit slowly made its way through the trees towards her. She watched from the corner of her eye, hoping she was not really seeing what was approaching her. More than anything it was the physical coldness, and its energy that, foreshadowed the spirit, that frightened her the most. She just about managed to retain the sickly contents of her stomach.

‘You called us, and we have come. You have asked for change, and that is what we will bring into your life, and those around you. When you called on the spirit world for help, be advised many evil, malevolent spirits live in that world. A chance to escape that eternal world and be reborn into human form, will be jumped on, by those of us who are quick to recognize, a pure innocent soul reaching out for help. I will take your soul, your spirit, your physical body, and reek untold havoc onto your loved ones, for evermore. It has already begun’.

He  slowly raised the rifle, enjoying the sense of power and security as it rested comfortably in his shoulder, and quietly cocked the trigger back in anticipation of the shot. It was brutal, and swift, but he had to be sure. The cartridge was well on its way, before the sound echoed around the quietness of the trees. It entered the head with much force, just above the temple. The cartridge exploded upon impact, and slowed down ensuring a much larger wound, and confirmed kill. What was left of her head ricocheted off the tree she was resting at. Her body slumped forward. He watched the black putrid energy leave her body at speed and with a non human scream, enter the forest floor and return to the depths of hell, from whence it came.
Satisfied the spirit hunter lowered his rifle, and for now, peace was once again restored.