Well Aimed Chaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2013-08-13 01:57 am
whitemage) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-13 01:57 am
Entry tags:
Blood of the Grape
Name: Ardy
Piece/Story: Blood of the Grape
Colors: Surgical Steel 14 (fusing)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti (Midsummer Night’s Dream prompt --amnesty post for open prompt)
Word Count: 301
Ratings/Warnings: PG; Self-sacrifice
One year, the heavy hanging bunches came up white in the vineyard. They said it was a miracle when the vines began to bleed, staining them to the crimson of our sacraments, but I was the only one who heard the crying.
Then another year there came a flood, but our fields lay untouched. They praised the heavens, but I could hear the strangled sobs of someone drowning.
They have called me back this year because of the drought, as if there was aught I could do of my own power. Pray, they tell me, for your thoughts are holy, for your heart is close to those Above. But I don’t hear words from the Sky today, just arid sighing from the vineyards, and a scream as a twig snaps off in my hand.
I lay and sob, parched and undone, until a whisper softly calls. Onward, onward, I careen through thicket like rows, tugged along by the grasping arms bearing withered, painful fruit. And there I see--bark brown crone--my mind’s eye taking in the lush green loveliness she could be. The waters in my body ebb and flow with ache as she begs with parched lips and cracked toes wriggling in dust.
So long she’s gone unnoticed and unhelped, as we give alms to the sun, then to the Father, but always somewhere far beyond the Earth. She has been here through it all. And so it is no sacrifice to me--just justice--as I sink in her embrace, as she leaches life from my form, draws me rushing like a wave along her lengths that twist and curve, that pulse out to those pleasant round fruits swelling fertile with their juice once more.
The bitter wine is my years without her, the sweet wine from when my love was sworn.
Piece/Story: Blood of the Grape
Colors: Surgical Steel 14 (fusing)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti (Midsummer Night’s Dream prompt --amnesty post for open prompt)
Word Count: 301
Ratings/Warnings: PG; Self-sacrifice
One year, the heavy hanging bunches came up white in the vineyard. They said it was a miracle when the vines began to bleed, staining them to the crimson of our sacraments, but I was the only one who heard the crying.
Then another year there came a flood, but our fields lay untouched. They praised the heavens, but I could hear the strangled sobs of someone drowning.
They have called me back this year because of the drought, as if there was aught I could do of my own power. Pray, they tell me, for your thoughts are holy, for your heart is close to those Above. But I don’t hear words from the Sky today, just arid sighing from the vineyards, and a scream as a twig snaps off in my hand.
I lay and sob, parched and undone, until a whisper softly calls. Onward, onward, I careen through thicket like rows, tugged along by the grasping arms bearing withered, painful fruit. And there I see--bark brown crone--my mind’s eye taking in the lush green loveliness she could be. The waters in my body ebb and flow with ache as she begs with parched lips and cracked toes wriggling in dust.
So long she’s gone unnoticed and unhelped, as we give alms to the sun, then to the Father, but always somewhere far beyond the Earth. She has been here through it all. And so it is no sacrifice to me--just justice--as I sink in her embrace, as she leaches life from my form, draws me rushing like a wave along her lengths that twist and curve, that pulse out to those pleasant round fruits swelling fertile with their juice once more.
The bitter wine is my years without her, the sweet wine from when my love was sworn.
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