newest from PD Pd Lyons contains descriptions of war violence. a hy-bred prose novel
It Was Tilkon from the Lady Camp
It was Tilkon and the others from the lady camp. They were still alive. Moving milling around me. Our women. Our people. The ground gives way. Their voices drift farther and farther away. Feel them support me. Feel them remove my weapons, my gear. Let myself be carried. they were alive. They were our women. My women. Alive. They bring me to one of the tents. into one of the beds. and there are sheets. sun dried stiff sheets. so white I must close my eyes. So, clean I must turn my face into their scent and weep no more.
Split Seconds
I see the horrible red rose bloom upon her chest. heard the splatter the rifle crack. our eyes meet. she whispers Bella, managing to grab my arm pulls me down. Split second before the next a harmless ricochet. I scramble. Shelter among the rubble. she had taught me well. no point in trying to spot the shooter. only thing now – survive. Hands, knees, flat on my belly, safety among the ruins. Once again, I am alone. Once again, I have lost. She who had taught me well. She who had armed me well. She who one last time from her blood-stained mouth named me. As once she would whisper with each kiss. So, she whispered with her death. That name she gave me, Bella. And once more gave me life.
So, I Became the Lady of the Rose.
From then on, I duplicated that red rose wound. Put between the legs of every man deserved it. When possible, the death wound. If not, then I would make the dead bloom. No one would know the difference; the message would read the same. Eventually people would talk of it, give me the name. Another one I never spoke. Never meant to give myself. Either way not Bella. No, not Bella ever again. Silent as that blood-filled mouth once named me so. Now renamed by strangers. Lady of the blood red rose.
Pig Whore Fucking Pig.
“Pig, whore. Fucking, whores….” Maybe if he cried, begged on his mother’s life, even just shut up, but no he stands there. arms and legs secure to the kitchen post. Pants down around his ankles while the woman he had beaten senseless moans on the floor. I push. How easy it goes in. Amazing the strength left in him to twist like that. Amazing how loud a man’s screams can be. So clear. I notice small things. Stains on his shirt, a rough shape of a bird in flight? A bird born of sweat or blood? His own or his victims? How clear every small thing, His teeth have a colour, his smell… Thrashing hard against the rope I snap to. His contortions set him free! But no. Still bound. But now its whispers. Now its pleas. Now he prays to me… “Pick it up!” Shirley yells “you missed. You fucking missed!” Then seriously quiet says, “Do what I taught you. Remember. Observe, relax, act.” So, I pick up the knife. Observe its weight, the room, the light, clearly again every small thing, his shaking hairless knees, his bleeding stomach. Breathe. Relax. Slowly, steadily, search, until peaceful a soft pop sound dwindles from his never to be heard from again mouth.
Do We Have the Right?
“Do we have the right?” I ask. She sits beside me on the bed takes my hand forces it hard between my legs, She stiffens, holds firm against my resistance. Brings her face close to mine, eye to eye. Calls me softly for the first time, “Bella. Close your eyes. Trust me. Close your eyes. Now observe. Whatever your thoughts. Whatever you feel, no matter what.” I stop. we both relax. All at once something drains. And in that filthy bed, into her arms I weep. Cling like I don’t know what, to her. Finally, when I can look up, she asks again, “So do we?” “Yes,” I hush, “yes, we do.” And I let her bring her mouth to mine. Breathe in her breath as once more she names me. “Bella…” And as she draws away, I pull her back again and again. Until we both fall into a luxury of dreamless sleep.
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Thanks for the latest. Hope we could see the book in our nearest bookstore which continues to be oh-so-lacking in many books! Keep well. e/s
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will do my best. lol
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