Reconciliation

This wretched, terrible truth has experienced two incarnations through Sam. The first, inspired by a song, was a sketch. The second, inspired by the sketch, was a story. Sam makes no apologies for the potentially offensive nature of the story or sketch. You have been warned.

(There seems to be a glitch in Matrix. No matter how the story gets copied down, certain words become underlined and highlighted. This is not part of the work and should be ignored if possible.)

Reconciliation

            Father Lemurty laid the stole over his frail shoulders, taking his place in his fragile chair beside the old confessional screen of the compact booth. It was hot for April; his red vestment clung to his aging frame. Retirement had crossed his mind years ago but his faithful flock needed him. He happily obliged them. With pleasure and satisfaction he watched the children partake in their First Communion—children of men and women he had guided through Catechism decades ago.

            A heavy body entered the chamber opposite him; the door closed softly, further diminishing light around Father Lemurty’s small, bent form. He knew it was a man by the heavy breathing and waited for the penitent to initiate this ancient, exposing transaction. Secretly, it was Father’s favorite sacrament.

            “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty three years and nine days since my last confession,” whispered the voice on the other side of the confessional screen.

            “Kneel, my son,” replied Father, sensing the man was still standing. He was struck not only by the length of time stated but by the precision with which it was relayed. Father licked his dry lips, anticipating the kneeling supplicant.

            The old wooden prie-dieu did not creak under the weight of a body and, after a few awkward seconds, the confessor continued, “I am plagued with the demon of my childhood, Father. He haunts my dreams and eats my soul. I fear I will become him.”

            Father Lemurty gently rubbed his palms on the shiny red cloth of his chasuble, intrigued by this odd prologue and sensing something vaguely familiar in the voice. Something about the way he pronounced words, perhaps. Father probed the supplicant, his curiosity rising, “What have you done, my child?”

            A nervous odor oozed through the veil of confession; Father heard the floor of the closet squeak as the seeker of reconciliation shifted his weight. Father peered at the hanging screen wondering, as he often did, what savory monstrosities it was hiding and would reveal. The screen offered anonymity and the safety of the sacramental seal.

            “He consumes me. Those things he did to me. . . I am dirty. Soiled in a way no water can ever cleanse,” as the confessor spoke, his voice began to resemble a child. Father’s palms began to itch slightly. “I’ve tried so hard over the years. I’ve tried to overcome the monster, but his seed was planted in me. Father,”—oh, the way he whispered that word—“I can’t even make love to my wife anymore. I am physically incapable. And I fear my son is not safe. . .”

            “But what have you done, my son?” asked Father Lemurty, leaning closer, hungry for the unleavened morsel of confession. His palms itched more prominently now for his excitement was coupled with another feeling. A faint expulsion of gas escaped beneath him.

            “Today I will end it, Father,” there it was again, the eerie familiarity with which he whispered certain words. No, not a whisper—he hissed them. “Today I will free myself from the demon. I will feel his blood on my hands.”

            Was it the heat of the day that began to overwhelm Father Lemurty as beads of perspiration formed on his brow? His sweat appeared a coagulating liquid as light reflected off Father’s crimson vestment in the dim aura of the tiny booth. He scratched at his palms uncontrollably as he began to explain, “Dear boy, you cannot confess a sin that has not yet occurred. You must allow yourself to forgive and pray for this man who haunts you. Forgive lest you be one of the unforgiven. Let our Heavenly Father be his judge and do not destroy your self with such terrible deeds. Don’t ruin your life!”

            Silence from beyond the veil. Father perceived the confessional closet empty except himself. The man who refused to kneel had left like a specter. A minute of deafening silence passed when Father inhaled deeply, realizing he had been holding his breath. Father looked to the hanging crucifix on the wall—that epitome of violent absolution—and made the Sign of the Cross as the door yawned open. Standing in the doorway was the monstrous silhouette of a man. Father Lemurty’s nails dug into his palms as the ominous apparition loomed before him. A flash of metal brandished near the angel of death’s waist like the ceremonial blade of an ancient pagan priest, poised for sacrifice. Father finally felt the power of true contrition and clarity as the hiss slithered into Father’s ears with an all too familiar, poisonous caress: “Remember me, Father?”

            Reconciliation.

The following is a sub-par copy of the sketch that was drawn several years ago, which eventually led to the writing of the above story:

None of this terrible truth could have been brought to you without the help of the song that initially inspired it all: "I'm Not Jesus" by Apocalyptica

Click This, Now

Sam suggests reading the story one more time, this time with the song playing softly in the background. Let the loving lyrics lull you...

Goodbye

This week’s selection is another very short fiction and will be a bit softer in nature than some of Sam’s other work. Truth doesn’t always have to be ugly. It just has to be true.

Goodbye

            Charly sat in his favorite chair and looked at the wall across the room. He stared at the empty spot on the wall and tried to smile, but couldn't. He felt relief – he was certain of that – but not joy, not today. Not for either of them. He could hear Lindsay putting the last of her things into a box in the other room. She would be gone soon and he would be free, but that stupid feeling in his stomach just wouldn't go away.

            It had finally happened. It was no shock to anyone, really; they had been performing half-ass CPR on a dead marriage for years. They had taken all the necessary steps to save it – couples' therapy, romantic getaways, the Works – but it was dead. God, was it dead. They were just another statistic in American culture now.

            Charly glanced down at the floor where Lindsay's coffee table had been only two days ago. He reminded himself of what a pain in the ass she had become over the last years; reminded himself of those resentful looks of scorn she would pierce him with. This was for the best. They had hurt each other so deeply and so often, it was a miracle they had not killed each other by now. It was finally being buried, this rotting corpse of a marriage. They were immeasurably better off without each other. Charly looked back up at that empty spot on the wall. Maybe he should see a doctor about his stomach problem.

            Fresh air, that's what he needed. The chair creaked as he got to his feet and slowly walked towards the porch door. No need to carefully avoid Lindsay's precious, mahogany coffee and end tables anymore. He reached the door and slipped outside into the cool, spring breeze; the cement sidewalk felt redeeming on his bare feet. He had built this home with his own two hands. The country air smelled of freshly cut grass and honey locust. He would die here someday – a long time from now, since the ball-and-chain was mercifully leaving him in peace. He had lived here for over twenty years, tending the land and––

            Raising a family. Good Lord, what was wrong with his stomach? The rich, green yard took on a strange emptiness. Empty like that spot on the wall. He walked on as if distancing himself from the empty spot. There was no escaping it though. Everything was emptier. Lindsay had been his other half for a quarter of a century, the only memories he had of this home were with her. Focus on the kids, he thought, they would clear his mind and make the emptiness go away. He had four children, although “children” was now something of a misnomer. His youngest, Johnny, would be graduating from high school next year and going on to college. Oh, but when they were children this yard was alive! Soccer and baseballs littered the yard in the summer while snow forts and angels covered it in winter. This yard held great memories of his kids.

            Their kids. Stupid stomach.

            Charly was in the grass now and he heard the front door open as Lindsay struggled to walk outside with the last, big cardboard box in her arms. He turned, hesitated, then went to help her carry her burden. As he approached his now ex-wife he suddenly realized this was not the first time he had felt this unsettling chaos in his stomach. Instead of walking barefoot through the grass, he saw himself walking down the aisle of a church, towards a minister by an altar; Lindsay, his beautiful young bride, would follow shortly after him. The feeling's meaning stabbed him with painful clarity: to feel so incredibly unsure about such an inevitable, life-changing decision, to believe that it's so right and to worry that it's so wrong. In that moment – walking down the aisle and marching through the grass – Charly felt the weight of death and birth come crashing down on his heart. This was the beginning and the end.

            “Let me help you carry that,” he said and she handed him the large cardboard box. They walked side by side towards her car; slowly, silently, and almost in step. Side by side they walked; a rite; a procession. It felt like the procession after a wedding – or a funeral. That familiar scent wafted into his nose; the scent of the woman he'd built a life with and made children with; the scent of the woman he couldn't stand to live with yet was having an unexpectedly hard time imagining living without. For the first time in years he wondered about her thoughts and, with clairvoyance, knew she shared his. There was a bittersweet comfort in that.

            They were at the car now. The end of that long walk had finally come. There was no need for long goodbyes, silently putting the box in her backseat. He shut the door and turned around only to find himself staring into the big brown eyes of a woman torn between emotions he knew too well. How long had it been since they'd shared a connection like this? They stared at each other for close to a minute, both wanting one last thing but neither wanting to feel the rejection that had been mutually given for years.

            It ended, and it ended the way it had all began: with a kiss. They didn't plan it and it said everything that needed to be said. The kiss goodbye.

            As she drove away, Charly walked back into the house – his house. He walked into the empty room where his favorite chair sat. He looked up at the empty spot on the wall and stared at the lonely nail that once held the picture. It had been a good picture. It had been their picture.

            “Goodbye,” he whispered.

Sonnets

This week’s selection is two pieces of poetry. These are Sam’s first two attempts at writing sonnets, ever. Sonnets are classically about love, and Sam keeps this spirit alive with the focus of these two poems. However, romantic love seems over-publicized. Sam’s love poems attempt to search deeper than the realm of romance. These sonnets were recently published in a very small, humble, local art & literary magazine called Articulate.

Sonnet 1 (or Miscarriage)

It swirls and clots flush down as she spins out

Now shakes, the violent loss of flesh from flesh

A ghost in cave—where once inside: hideout—

Rejected was that egg from haven’s nest.

A push then pull, teeth tighten to my neck

As somber sobbing breaks to bitter wails

She under burden quakes, this spirit wrecked.

Now push ship out and watch the burning sails.

In darkness, hollow heart and hollow womb

As it drifts off, life gone before life known,

Our hope with candled vigil we inhume.

I drown in passion hers, soaked to the bone

            But is it from my wrath her woe is wrung?

            Am I the father-bear who kills his young?

Sonnet 2 (or Custodial Lament)

Would have you die than live that doomèd fate

Would gouge my eyes than watch your tragedy

Of growing up too young, for it’s too late

To stop the wicked play: calamity.

I’ll rip the very heart out of my chest

When mother-dearest’s breast denies your breath.

Oh little hearts that fell down from my nest

You’re singing all the songs that call up death.

Yet now you go to dance with her a while

I’ll wait for seven sleepless nights to turn

The steps you learn will keep you in her, vile

You’ll let her lead until she lets you burn.

            And then I’ll beat my beatless breast and scream

            To rage at gods for children’s torching dreams.