Tag Archives: mother’s love

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #18

[begin blog post #18]

After washing and eating I’m returned to my cage.  Having won a special fight I am not expected to continue training the rest of that day.  Later when the others return, as was promised, a young trainee is put in my cage.  She sits next to me and nudges against me, looking to please any way she can or knows how.  She runs her arms and hands over my skin to feel me.

I caress her slowly, running my long fingers through her short cropped, straight black hair, noticing her uncharacteristic lanky, skinny body covered in pure white skin, the long slim arms and long skinny legs and her large feet that seem almost ungainly on her.  She has a small patch of pubic hair and her breasts are just beginning to bud.  So young, I think, and so innocent.  At least in looks.

I croon softly over her, letting her know that I approve of her and she need have no fear.  She turns up to me and I’m staring into virtual pools of black luminescence: over-sized black eyes, reminiscent of those nocturnal arboreal creatures of Old Earth and Margaret Keane’s ‘big eyed waifs’ from Old Earth C-20; eyes that seem to penetrate into and beyond my most secret thoughts.

I’ve made an instant conquest, but so has she.  This child is mine to do with as I please.  If I’d ask her to kill herself for me, she’d do it without a moment’s hesitation.  Such is the way.  But then, if giving up my life would save hers, I’d have no hesitation either.  I see myself now plunging into an abyss of feeling I’d thought could never again touch me.  So much, once more, for reliance on training “in absentia.”

I cradle her and bring her lips to my hardened nipples.  She suckles slowly, tenderly and I realize, happily.  As easily as that I become the mother the baby never had.  And just like that, I now have another purpose in a type of relationship I’d believed I could never again engage in.  Blame the empty years here, my tired condition but mostly her uncanny ability to seduce.  There is witchcraft in her, I can easily sense.  The good kind.  The kind I practised once… somewhere…

Out of the most terrible of ordeals; the greatest of trials, comes beauty and love if one knows how to move through the energies.  Ah well, maybe this is where I start making a difference.  If I am careful to give to this child, without taking anything from her but what she freely offers me in return.  If I can bury my dark fear of losing her to the arena or to some mistake she may make and be “punished” for.  If I can allow myself to be broken, not only in body, but in heart, for love of her and all of us here. 

Totally broken.  Yes.  I know this lesson in my mind.  Now I must impress it into my brain and upon my body.

Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies it will not produce fruit.”  Source is an Old Earth sacred book quoting a claimed avatar they called Jesus the Christ. How long ago was that? Thousands of years but the question is not relevant.  I am able to remember: that’s what matters now.  Remembering.  Remembrances.

I remember some of my lessons.  How I loved to say them to myself and make my feeble attempts at giving them living substance in my own life – “lives?”  But in this purgatory of lost souls, can I demonstrate the cosmic truth behind these pithy sayings?  Can I live them and teach them?  How do I reconcile my life’s performance today with that?

I look upon my child-woman without disturbing her.  Who will outlive whom?  I can’t help but torture myself with wondering.  I must stop thinking and just enjoy her.  My child and perhaps in time, lover; perhaps even friend: the most dangerous relationship of all.  Every life, however bleak, can have its moments of true tenderness.  Some time ago I would have rejected that notion.  Now it makes perfect sense.  I feel an urge within that I must baptize this child and give her a suitable name.  This one must enter her own version of Valhalla with her own name and must be given the recognition deserved.  ‘Help me, Tiegli!’ I silently beseech my old friend for it was her who impressed upon me the invaluable lesson of empowerment through the simple act of giving someone a name. 

I prepare myself to plunge into a much-needed deep sleep, despite the fact my heart overflows with love, my loins are filled with desire and my body is racked with a thousand lances of pain from the excessive movements I put my body through today.  A perfect balance for this would-be avatar, would you say?  My little one has fallen asleep with her arms wrapped tightly around my torso and her moist lips, slightly parted, brushing my nipple, leaving a tiny trail of drool to find its way, like a cool mountain stream, down my cleavage.  An image, a feeling, that changes one forever.

In the weeks that follow I find myself involved in few fights.  I think I am being avoided by bookies and gamblers because of a growing reputation for deadliness through apparent recklessness and ruthlessness.  Indeed I have decided that due to my size it is usually safe enough to take chances and go for the kill right from the beginning of the encounter.  I get less cuts, bruises and broken bones that way and return to the compound much less tired.  But the risks are real, not the least of which is being considered persona non grata and receive the Court order to be summarily executed as an undesirable, a bad performer.

I am not the crowd pleaser any longer.  If I am the gladiator being billed, the stands are but half filled.  They certainly object to seeing a woman kill a man outright.  They want play, sport, blood, but mostly they get off on the inflicting of pain.  They like to see long fights where opponents are fairly well matched and do the most damage to one-another before one is killed.  Entertainment.  Sport as a way to assuage their miserable lusts which their system will not permit them to satisfy in other more natural ways.

I just do my “job” as per its description.  But complaints are continually lodged with the handlers and trainers that the “Beast” is not being cooperative; that ‘it’ does not understand the subtleties of encounters with honour.  In other words, ‘it’ is not giving ‘its’ male opponents a chance to demonstrate their honourable ways of torturing a woman to death by killing her outright in public or destroying her body through violent encounter after encounter. 

Yes I am expressing spite and bitterness along with everything else, looking within to see all the things I’ve become a complete failure at achieving.  I may be winning battles in the arena but Malefactus is winning the war against my mind, perhaps against my heart.

Take detachment, for example.  I have become utterly and hopelessly “in love” with my child-lover, though I cannot quite locate my deepest feelings as being those for a child, or those for a lover.  I don’t think I’m capable of separating the two but I have steeled myself not to make love to her.  I have vowed to let her initiate that aspect of our relationship.  She, on the other hand, basks in my presence, cries silently when I prepare to leave for the arena and lights up like a shooting star when I return. 

Never have I experienced such gentle touch nor encountered such dedication and abandoned selflessness in a human being.  She steals pieces of cloth while working the kitchens and serving tables which she stuffs in her vagina to get past the guards then hides in the straw bedding.  She later uses those to bind my cuts.  She takes extracts from certain fruits and vegetables which she uses in my wounds or gives me to swallow.  She’s an accomplished and fearless thief and healer.

She licks and sucks the blood from my cuts, then bandages them in the night, using braided strands of split straw if she has no cloth.  She is fully aware and conscious of the fact that if she is discovered she will be flogged to death – or tortured in even worse ways.  It twists my heart to find her doing such things but however I caution her and ask her to desist, it is of no avail.  She has her own mind, as stubborn as I.  And she is tireless.

[end blog post #18]

 

TREASURES

                                           A short story by     Sha’Tara

                    “Life is full of treasures if one can only recognize them.”

That promise, from a happy-ending story read in class that afternoon, kept going through his mind as he ran along the rough, rocky shore. His straight, unruly hair blowing across his reddened face, his eyes watering in the spray, his sleeve wet from wiping his runny nose, eight-year old Jamie thought about treasures: piles of gold and silver coins in an iron-bound pirate’s chest with a huge padlock to guard against theft. He thought if he looked hard enough, he would suddenly spy the corner of such a chest sticking out of the coarse gravel. Imagination, being free, is one of the real treasures of the poor!

     Forgetting his hungry stomach, he would regularly stop to scan the rising swells for a familiar boat returning to the jetty, but the waters were too rough and the visibility reduced to the line of shoals disappearing in the in-coming tide. He shivered in the gusty, mid-winter winds. He thought of his father and two older brothers out there on the sea. He sighed, “If only I could help…

     His keen eyes saw something dark floating in the water. It was a log! A whole log was being pushed inexorably ashore by the tide and wind. He waited impatiently as it came close enough for him to direct it, then wondered how he would claim and keep it. The tide may wash it away again, or someone else may find it before he could run home and return with his mother. He decided to keep an eye on it and let the tide do its work. His mom would worry and be angry but when she saw the wood, she would understand.

     The log floated higher. Too big for him to do anything with, there was nothing to do but wait… All thoughts of pirate treasure left his mind: his real treasure, representing several days of heat, and perhaps some scraps for carving, was that log. He eyed it jealously, scanning the shoreline for scavengers. He was relieved to see no one. Wandering around while waiting, he searched for other treasures. His imaginary hoard now was a whole pile of logs against the slate-roofed cottage just over the top of the low, weather-beaten cliff separating land from sea.

     He didn’t find any more wood, but he found an old rusty steel cable tangled in blackberry bushes. Struggling to free it, he had an idea. Laying out the cable, he found he could wrap it around the log then around one of the larger rocks protruding from the gravel. He secured his log, then using a broken piece of stone, laboriously scratched his name in it. His hoard thus properly identified and anchored, he ran home. His mother met him at the top of the path, scolding as he came up. He stopped to catch his breath, then told his story of the log. She didn’t believe him at first, but when he ran to the lean-to for the saw and the wheelbarrow, she grabbed her coat and accompanied him down to the noisy, indistinct shoreline, the clattering sound of their footsteps lost in the raspy, turbulent surf.

     Following her son, she looked eagerly for the treasure. Two motionless figures were inspecting something in the gravel and Jamie cried out: “They’ve found my log. Please, mom, hurry or they’ll take it!” Running, nearly out of breath in the biting air, she came upon two men sizing up the log. “Hullo, ma’am” one of them said, looking at her and touching his cap. “Reckon this log’s ours ma’am, we found it first.” She looked at Jamie and he pointed to the top of the log where he had scratched his name: Jamie Willbrooke. They looked at the coarse but fresh inscription, then the same one said, “Smart little fellow you have there, Mrs. Willbrooke, ma’am.” She nodded and waited for the inevitable question. “Maybe, for a chunk, we could help you haul it in, then?”

     She nodded once again and took her son’s hand. Holding it gently, she turned her head, permitting only the sea to witness the love in her tear-filled eyes.  She too had just discovered an immense treasure. 

The Letter

“A lie is more comfortable than doubt, more useful than love, more lasting than truth.” —Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

A short story,   by Sha’Tara 

       She ran across the freshly ploughed field, bare feet digging in soft loam, long dress held up with one hand, the other waving a yellow envelope as she jumped uneven furrows.

     “Samuel, Samuel!”

    The team stopped and the man waited, leaning on the arms of the plough, sweat pouring down his dirt-streaked face and opened homespun shirt.

     “A letter from Timmy…! she cried, breathless from her race across the rough ground.

     “Now, easy, woman. How d’you know it’s from the boy?” he answered cautiously in a soft drawl.

     “I jes’ know! Please, Sam, let’s go have it read!” Her eyes danced with excitement.”

     “Now, Susanna? Ya know the preacher’s on his rounds and teacher’s off for the summer… and the notary charges for readings.”

     “Please, I’ve got to know how he’s doin’! Please?”

     He sighed heavily and looked up for a moment: “Alright, woman, we’ll go. Hitch up the gelding. I’ll bring these in and feed ’em. Reckon the ploughin’ can wait one more day.”

     As they rode their battered surrey into town, she tried to imagine the contents of the letter, all the things her son would be doing and seeing. Even though the war was raging, he’d have seen the mansions with their armies of servants, the women in their pretty getups, maybe even been to some fancy do… “I jes’ hope he ain’t fallen for none of them fancy types. Who knows with young un’s away from home so long? Two years, three months and nineteen days…”

     She was jolted from her dreaming when the rig stopped in front of the notary’s office. They went in, Susanna holding herself shyly, a distance behind Sam. They waited patiently until the rotund man sitting at a desk, a shade on his balding head, stopped shuffling the pages of a paper, took a cigar from his mouth, blowing the smoke to the low ceiling, and nodded for them to approach.

     “Can I help you folks?” He had studied them and smirked inwardly. He already knew what they wanted by the envelope the woman was now holding tightly to her breast. He savored the momentary power their ignorance and threadbare poverty allowed him.

     “We need a letter read, sir.” Sam said, matter of factly.

     “Sure, no problem.” He snapped his fingers, “You got the two-bits?”

     “Two-bits? Ain’t that a heap o’ money for a readin’?” The farmer was incredulous.

     “‘Tis the goin’ rate these days, folks, what with the war on an’ all.”

     “Look, please, Mr. Raines” she came forward, daring to interrupt, holding out the letter to him, “it’s a letter from my son in the army, sir, from the war, an’ I jes’ want to know what it says… please?”

     Pushing out his chair, placing his feet on the desk and looking past her at a rider on the street, he answered arrogantly, “This here’s a business, ma’am. Gotta have money to make it run. If I read your letter for nothin’ everyone’d want the same priv’lege an’ I’d be outta business, see?”

     “Please…” she hesitated briefly, then tried again, “would you take some eggs, or milk, or a chicken, maybe?”

     “Didn’t you read my sign? ‘Course not, you cain’t read! Look at these here big letters” -he struggled his bulk out of the swivel chair, stood up and poked viciously at the sign on his desk, then slammed his fist down -“How many times do I have to tell you people the same thing? NO PAYMENT IN KIND ACCEPTED. That means, cash, understand? Good day!”

     He went back to his chair, relit his cigar and exhaled with extra satisfaction. He flicked open his paper with a noncha­lant gesture, ignoring Sam and Susanna who turned and left the office, the droop of their shoulders accented by another of life’s endless defeats.

     “I tried to tell you, woman” Sam said to her, not unsympathetically, as he helped her into the rig. “Edjicashun cos’s money and Ben’s edjicated and we’re jes’ dumb farmers. Like preacher says, we gotta accept this from the Lord an’ not go put on airs. Jus’ wait ’til Timmy returns and he’ll read us the letter. By the look o’ that envelope, I reckon it’s a mighty fine letter.”

     Moved by her silent, bitter tears, he reached for her with his large, calloused hand and brought her close to himself, flicking the reins with his free hand. She turned her face to him for a moment, then leaned against him, holding the letter between them.

     She rode the rest of the way silently, crushed by her ignor­ance and shamed at having taken Sam from his work.  Approach­ing their homestead in the early fall twilight, she did not experience the usual sense of happiness and security which the sight always gave her. She could not articulate the deep sadness which held her as she disembarked and entered the shack.

     She placed the letter on the small wall shelf above the table, next to the Bible and the faded blue ribbon Timmy had won at school in a spelling bee.

     Sometimes, on sleepless nights, Susanna would take the letter and hold it tenderly, visualizing her son standing by her side. She saw his green eyes sparkle as her hand went through his unruly reddish hair, his freckled face open in that special smile he had always kept for her alone. She would cry a little, then put it back. She never again dared to have it opened and read, although the preacher passed through several times, and the schoolmarm returned for another year.

     Rumors that the war had ended began to circulate through the county, but it was only when some of the boys returned and Timmy did not, nor send any more letters, that Samuel realized he had not written the letter and that Susanna had always known.