Ceremony
This piece I wrote for a competition - 500 words on the picture. The picture is from a wonderful and talented artist (© held by The Cult of Me/Michael Brookes. Artist: LUCIANA NEDELEA - ARTWORKS) and I really enjoyed crafting this story. It is something a little different from my normal writing, so I hope that you enjoy it. And then check out one of my articles to see how different it is!! My favourite part was trying to match the atmosphere in my words to the picture.
My ancestors speak to me. I bow before their visage in my secret shadowed past - embodied in my eternal and ever-changing garden - to greet them courteously.
They do not respond.
I cry out to them for answers! Why must I suffer your sins and the sins of my line?
Why me?
It is the eternal question for which there is only one answer… Why not?
I am strong with the carriage of their burdens, having them firmly on my shoulders since before I was born. I am flexible from the winds of change that have blown through every orifice of my life since I took breath. I am touched by their magic and the divinity of their ancestry. The events that shaped them, shaped us, reach out from the past, like skeletal fingers reaching from the graves before me… “Come to ussssss” the echo of their voices sighs, crawling through my soul.
I bow before them and light the candles. The pool of light attacks the surrounds; pushing it away and flickering the message of hope in the darkness. The same message I am here to receive.
I screech like a banshee to release the demons held inside me, to show my ancestors my torment and my love, entwined together, feeding from each other and offering sustenance in return. Both grow from the watering of my tears.
They do not reply.
I throw the gathered petals of my despair into the night’s moaning. Or is it me? Is it them, those elusive ancestors? In the chaos of my mind, I cannot tell what is real and what is phantasm. Am I insane and this is my mental construct to hide within? Do I exist at all? I cry out for a sign and receive nothing.
I hear nothing.
I grab handfuls of the dirt, the earth that we came from and will return to, rich with the dust of my line buried here. I smear it over my face and demand action immediately!
I hear something.
I rend my robe and beat my bones. I sway to the rhythm of the voices assaulting me with their demands for satisfaction and I give it to them; all of them; all of me, all of my despair, my hopes, my dreams, my blood.
“It is yours”, I howl.
My blood hits the dirt and raises a dust cloud.
It resembles my grandmother’s breath on a cold morning in winter. I lean closer to receive her lesson.
“You are.” Did I hear it or was it dreams, desires long fled?
I still.
I listen.
I hear.
I embrace.
I yearn towards the self that is.
I am.
