Saturday, September 12, 2009

The Clergyman. Pt 2.

The family lived in an indecent part of earth known as the darklands. Too dreary for even the most ardent traveler. The surrounds were more often than not swamped by year round rainfall. An eternal floodland. Not just the earth but also their minds. No soul could expect a peaceful existence here, for darkness is forever. The mud as thick as fathers torment with trees as bare as the truth. A mist lay densely amongst the stench, clear thought always seduced by odour. It was a place of too many narrow escapes and never a smile at the end. When had the family moved here? No one knew. How did they come? Not quite sure, but it seems evident from the ridges in their expressions that they had somehow lived here since time began. Neither mother, daughter nor son had any recollections of a past existence, of any other time or memory of any other land. The depravity of the darklands seemed more and more obscure to them every hour, as that’s exactly how they seemed to live. A beating here, a bloodied memory there and never an escape. Their feet as monolithic as their sadness. Too heavy even to contemplate, their lives a waste beyond all comparisons.

Father was an idyllic man. Or that’s how he saw himself. Odd how one is distorted through their own eyes, if indeed they see at all. He had no real occupation. He had nothing to do. There was no one else around except for the family. He did not provide food; there was no nourishment. They did not eat. He had no temper, no rage. He did not yell. He seemed pleasant. He seemed enriched by the family’s love. He was as calm as the ocean after the storm. Or that’s how he saw himself. But of course none of them even knew that existed. They only knew the storm. There was no evidence of anything as beautiful as the ocean calm, no breeze, no sunset serene. There was no water of any kind, only mud and that horrific storm.

© Anthony Moore 2000.

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