|The Eagle Does Not Hunt With Flies (standard:drama, 769 words)|
|Author: KShaw||Added: Jan 02 2006||Views/Reads: 2338/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|As the title says....|
There are those who will try to emulate me...as if writing is simply a matter of writing. It is not. It is a science, a gift. You are merely a woman hurting and wanting to be a victim, dreaming in wintertime. The kisses have ceased to touch you, and the stars that rustle through the sky, or the sunlight that turns to gold, will never again put their finger to your cheek. Your ‘ham' comes in forkfuls: perhaps thinking you're the only one ever crawled away to do dishes, or wipe snot. The eagle does not hunt with flies. How dare you write! How dare you compare your words with mine, words like a flock browsing, like a woman spinning her tale of woe beside a fireplace. You cannot touch me; you cannot walk through the highlands of literature. A cow drops dung. That's all it drops. There is no blade sharper than that of an artist on the page. I am the one who lights fires, the bringer of smoke, and when the last death looms, watch out! You have made a fearful enemy. I came to say goodbye, you weren't home. These eyes have a poisonous stare; pull the shades low, for dragonflies will leave them. You think me afraid? You think this tripe a soft heap in my stomach? You are not equipped to deal with the power thrust at my fingertips. Write if you must, but remember that words can be as dull as bacon, egg and beans. Don't stand so stoical and serene, you're the last judgement, a palm tree in the midst of ruins, and everyone else, it seems, is to blame. You have gilded the omelette. And I have kicked the golden cat! I can comb what modest hair I have left, few tangles anymore, and don't see the other embarrassing defects in my appearance. I accept them. They belong to me. But all I see in your tangles of hair is a trail of spit. You have hurt the bearer of children, hurt to the core, hurt her love. She is just a mother. Now hair is stuck to your face like a scar. Wrinkle your nose in anger, raise your eyes to heaven, you are a mother of children, a lover of men, and a widow of happiness. I came to say goodbye, you weren't home. My words bring fevers, thunder, sending people to bed with strange ideas of beauty. Your muddied boots will not save you on sharp ice, beware! I am a genius of understatement, a Paladin with words, fatherless and angry. I can piss in a sentence, confess childhood crimes, swarm terror through pages, bring back dead wives, abused lovers, and portray affection as a rotting fruit. There is no imagining greater than mine is. You are only now beginning to understand. There are a thousand wolves waiting. There is hurt greater than yours and you have brought it. I will be free of this misfortune, for the sky has an angel's face. Let turning seasons do their worst, a child's malice, and a mother's torment. I am the mask of serenity, the challenger of fate, when all hearts fall in love yours will not. Let the summer dangle me, for I have something you know nothing about. Grace. The teacher is always the teacher, only a fool thinks differently. I laugh with my mother because I laugh in the bright branches of a willow, bending with age, heavy with regret, wanting to be less alone. I came to say goodbye, you weren't home. You have never kissed a summer dawn, or walked with such a vital breath as your last. I am a writer; I walk on white satin, and find myself smelling the old age scent of her immense body. This is not the time. This is the time of quiet conversation, subtle compliments, and happy memories. Do not try me, for as surely as you might you'll unleash a battalion of shadows. Talk kindly, of magic, seashores, photographs, long walks and the waving of arms. Nothing can be changed by blame, it is done. No operatic tragedy can untell what has happened. Whistle for a storm and it will surely come. I am a writer, but I am a warrior, angled and ready to attack with tornadoes of light. Stand your words next to mine and they will surely look as drab as beans and egg and bacon. Open one more door to a mother's suffering and a fiery hell will light these pages. I came to say goodbye, it is best you listen. Tweet
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