my eyes tangled in gnarly trees,
resting atop the dead.
Their voices lay quiet beneath their head-
stones. Their bodies lay still, shriveled,
silent each passing day.
I watched as my fingers kissed headstones, flakes
of aged lives raining o’er the earth
and dusting hairy hands.
stood St. Paul’s--dark, morose, decayed--
looming over us all,
patiently standing, like a watchful eye,
towering beneath modish steel
structures--beautiful, sole,
despite bones lining its perimeter.
My shadow married that
of Paul’s, casted o’er me
like the tender caress of a lover,
and a bitterness set into
the fabric of my skin.
With feet firmly planted atop blades of
grass, fed by decay, I ached and
yearned for silent retreat.
Though the city streets surrounding me were
deafening, I heard an echo
of nothingness below
and craved the solitude. Unbeknownst to
me, the earth gave way, swallowing
my sole and soul at once.
Enveloped in darkness, I felt the cold
grip of stranger’s palm, pulling
me toward the stifled hush
of some labored breath. With darkened eyesight,
I sampled aged dust on my tongue,
as a voice drew closer,
whispering, “All’s not as it seems above.
The stillness is not forever
quiet, the darkness all
inviting, and the shadow of St. Paul
does not last all day. There is no
rest, no solitude, no
instrumental exaltation in the
confines of cedar and iron.”
“Release me! Please,” I cried.
“Release your fantasies, and grab hold the
offering of the present. Live!”
With a violent push,
the hand released me, and Paul’s shadow fell
to my side, bathing my skin in
the warmest pure sunlight.
At the foot of beige skyscrapers, I stood,
my eyes tangled in gnarly trees,
no longer jealous of
bodies beneath me, jealous of the dead,
unwilling to acknowledge the
beauty that is living.
I turned to face the grave behind me, reached
my hand to grace the stone, and flinched,
gazing at delicate
fingers, polished and sharp--unfamiliar.
“Like St. Paul, you are not alone,”
she whispered inside my
head, “for now I am with you. I longed to
be a part of the living, to
stand atop the grave here.
I will make my home inside your heart. I
will make your eyes my window, your
soul my pillow on which
to rest and watch the passing days without
the still nothingness to bind me.
I’m no longer jealous
of the living.” With that, she led the way,
weaving between headstones and trees,
in full control of me.
Behind us, St. Paul cast his shadow to
the east, and, with him, she left my
spirit--restless, jealous.
The prompt for the Mutant 750 Challenge #63 at Grammar Ghoul Press is the word "jealous" (an adjective, meaning "feeling or showing envy of someone or their achievements and advantages"), and the image below by Amy Light:
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-Tony
Author
Tony is an aspiring writer and elementary educator from Birmingham, Alabama. He is currently working on several creative projects including the writing of a new web series set to shoot in May with Background People Productions, and a collection of short stories which will be published in 2017.