A Bit of A Rerun
This week/month/year has been hectic, to say the least. It seems that there’s been one change after another—many good, some not so much. This week in particular, I’ve bounced from one thing to another and I never seemed to find the time to write a proper entry. So, I’ve decided to share a super short story I wrote two years ago after a long meditation. I do intend to have a regularly scheduled post in the following weeks, but I have a couple medical procedures coming up that may prevent me from writing. If that does happen, I’ll be sure to update you. With that, I hope you enjoy the story. Please feel free to share your opinions and reactions!
With boundless love and blessings,
Lady Morgana Brighid, HP MCCA
There is a Sickness, and it is poisoning a country. It is killing a People in massive numbers. It is taking children from their mothers’ hands, taking fathers and breaking them, turning them into beasts of labor. It is slaughtering human beings, and there is little consequence because it doesn’t believe they are human beings.
They scream and fight. “We bleed, we cry. We breathe!”
And It thinks, “So? Cows bleed and cry and breathe. We still make our boots with their asses.”
The people don’t give up, yelling, “We’re human! We laugh, we love, we have souls.”
The Sickness laughs and says, “How can that be? You don’t look like me. I built this world standing on your back. You have soles? You must be shoes.”
The People wail, “You’re wrong! We’re your mothers, your grandfathers. We have always been and you were born of our breasts. We are the ancestors of your ancestors.”
The Sickness grins. Its face morphs.
Its voice draws blood to the ears of the People as it responds, “No. You are the ancestors of those I have infected. I am something separate, born of greed and jealousy and lost souls. Your sick children are blind. They will never remember you. As long as I live within them, you’ll be their enemy. They’ll beat you, imprison you, enslave you. They’ll kill you and soon you will become infected. They’ll rape you, dear mothers. They’ll ridicule and crush you, grandfathers. They’ll build a world around destroying and using you. And the best part of all is that they think they’re doing ‘the right thing!’ But they don’t know that each wound they inflict upon you becomes their own. They can’t feel it, I have numbed them. Each wound they give you, weakens you, so that I can begin to infect you, too. And now, they have created a system that all but guarantees your destruction. Go ahead and fight back. Your anger and pain will open you more to me. Give in, for there is no cure.”
The People wept.
Mothers stand in the blood of their sons. Infected children murder other children. The People fall to their knees and weep. They weep for the dead and for the infected killers, for the broken and for the lost. The people weep and their weeping becomes a hum, the hum a melody, and the melody a song. The song rises louder, filled with the pain of a million souls. The noise thunders. The infected hit harder, cut deeper, trying to quiet it. But the People will not be silenced, and finally the Other hears their suffering.
One-by-one, the Other calls to the People, quietly at first, whispering its way through the Sickness. The People begin to open their eyes to gaze upon this newcomer. Their eyes burn as the Other shines dimly above them, and the souls of the People are set alight.
Only those willing to burn can hear the Other speak. “I have heard your song, I have seen what the Sickness is doing.”
The People lamented, “There is no cure. We are doomed. We are doomed!”
The Other reaches forward and touches the People. It bandages their wounds, feeds their moaning stomachs, and gathers their tears.
It asks, “Have you forgotten me, like your infected children have forgotten you?”
The People shake their heads, “The Sickness is strong. We’ve almost forgotten ourselves.”
The Other laughs, a warm, musical sound. Again and again It reaches forward, touching the People, many already infected. Each person touched begins to see a bit more clearly, begins to feel like they are waking up. Their souls burn hotter, and the more they awake, the brighter the Other glows.
Again, it speaks, kissing the brow of the People. “Look up and remember me, for in my memory you’ll find yourselves. Remember, before the Sickness, I was with you. Remember, before the changes, you and the infected were one People. You have forgotten, Children of Africa, that you are more than mothers and fathers, more than slaves and victims. You are Kings and Queens. You are the First People and you will be the last. You possess ancient knowledge and infinite power. Know, then, that you are noble. Know that you are eternal. Rise, Pharaohs, daughters of Nefertiti, sons of Isis. Rise and remember! Open your hearts to me and you will find your cure.”
Upon this proclamation, the People begin to leat in joy. Their weeping becomes laughter as the Other floods their senses. Elated, the People dance and stomp! Their dancing shakes the earth and, in so doing, disturbs the Sickness. The People are no longer at the mercy of the Infected, but instead, are spreading their new-found vision. Over and over, Infected fall to their knees as the Other’s light spreads throughout their being. They rise, once again as part of the People, cured.
The Sickness howls, furious and afraid. It sets fire to homes and sends its darkest agents to corrupt the newly cured, but its efforts are in vain.
The strength of the People is undeniable.
The Sickness shutters at the uproarious din, weakened by its power. The light of the Other spreads to every corner, illuminating every soul. The Sickness begins to fade, no longer able to feed on the People. More and more Infected are cured, and the People stand tall.
They remember themselves, “We are mighty! We are free!”
A few Infected can never be cured, but they have no control. The world is a star, burning with the light of the People, and it is exquisite!
The Sickness that had ruled for centuries, dwelling in the hearts of men, is finally obliterated. Eradicated from the collective conscious, the world becomes a Utopia. The People are once again One People, the children grow to be elderly, and mothers rejoice. No longer is the Other an ancient memory, it is within the People. And there it will remain, forever.
The end. ©
Originally posted here: https://voixdewilder.wordpress.com/2015/07/