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The Eagle Does Not Hunt With Flies (standard:drama, 769 words)
Author: KShawAdded: Jan 02 2006Views/Reads: 2338/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
As the title says....

There are those who will try to emulate 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. 


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