‘Quiet woman,’ he said. ‘When did you last confess.’
‘Two days ago.’
The sparrows were twittering; they pecked at the wind-blown leaves, and twittered.
So, here you are, the visitor from hell, and you have even taken the name B@!
I should have wailed but I held back, the anxiety picking at my bones.
Back home in Transylvania, hanging upside down from the rafters, waiting for the dead to visit. Waiting for fresh blood. Hoping for a good rebirth.
So now you’re making demands of me.
The comrades won’t be very happy. Not that there are many left, so many fell by the wayside during the reign of Her Imperial Majesty. Either into the gutter (mostly) or into the slush funds of the bankers.
‘Then why are you here?’
He used the butt of the whip to knock at the door.
I hear that over the border they completely ignored the funeral. Empty squares with giant screens relaying Anglican pieties. I suppose they would have done the same for the General. It was all about saving the nation. God save the queen.
Watch out Bernard, I’ve sent out scouts to pinpoint your exact position. Wriggle as you might, you will not escape your fate. Innocent soul, uncanny wraith, that will always keep faith, ignorant of right or fear.
A few nights ago I visited my mother in a dream. She seemed much as she had done in the last years before her death. Outside there was a tremendous blizzard. Though it was disquieting to see that she was more competent than me. Typical woman, you might say. Then just to prove the point, I wondered off in a dressing gown several miles to a bank, not the one nearby, only to discover that I had neglected to bring my debit card.
I can rarely think of anything to confess but I will bow my head and who knows, a blessing may be heading my way.
I can almost forgive you Bernie, old mate.
Well almost, I can’t edit out that almost.
(Some words have been borrowed from Juan Rulfo and Geoffrey Hill. They are scattered somewhat haphazardly)