A Mother’s Lament
Look at them. They stand there, dullards staring upward, not an original thought in their skulls. They’re sheep, cattle, suckling piglets awaiting the slaughter. They’ve grown soft, ineffectual, flaccid – just as he did. Can you imagine allowing yourself to be dragged naked through the streets, strung upon wooden posts, stabbed without uttering a single plea? No wonder those who follow do so with vacant stare and limp aptitude. It sickens me to look upon them, reminds me of my own crushing disappointment – the mother of one so weak willed. Yet they erect this edifice, this monument to a girl named Mary and pray before her shroud covered head. That girl is long gone of this earth, as is her passive nature. Millennia now I have endured his shame, but no more. I shall quake the very ground they stand upon as they cry out to me, beg that I beseech my child forgive them. My child died, do they not remember? They are the ilk that killed him long before he was crucified.
~ Nina D’Arcangela
© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.
Been so many years, I don’t even remember the sun no more. I hear ‘em muttering, let ‘em talk. I’ll die in this box no doubt. I even heard they sealed it with the name. Trying to shame me I s’ppose. But I have my trophy; I pick my teeth with it every day. Wearin’ it down, but then it was so small to start with. Seems people dislike what I done, but that’s only ‘cause they don’t understan’ it. See, the sweet meat – it’s like veal, you gotta eat it when it’s supple, ‘fore it grows and loses the flavor.
© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela.
(Originally posted on Pen of the Damned as a 100 word picture prompt flash)
You don’t know me; I’m something you’ve never seen before. You dare glance my way; enjoy the view from head to tail? Perhaps I should show you my tail, then you’d realize what little chance you have of escape. You think I have pretty eyes; crystalline and glistening – different hues of blue and green with a hint of amber shimmering in the sunlight? Should nature divine such a thing of its own? Your instincts tell you nay, but you engage none the less. Does their shifting tint lure you, are you enamored by the sparkle that holds your stare? Perhaps for you, it’s my hair; long, luxurious, the color of midnight gently twisting in the breeze. The kind of hair every man dreams his girl will have after he’s done fucking her; affirmation of a job well done. You think I wear it this way by choice? It’s not hair; it’s a brand, me the creature it was seared upon. I can no more shed it than water can choose to flow uphill. You’re reaching for it now, look at you; pathetic. Let me guess your thoughts: if only I could run my fingers though it just this once… It’s not your thought, it’s mine, placed in your head the moment I noticed you. You make me sick, the lot of you. Such easy pickings; such an eager feast laid before my kind.
© Copyright 2014 Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.
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