Fairytales 4

Well in the process of waiting for some song lyrics I've written a new edition to my fairytales. I actually was inspired by something I read that James wrote on Chris' blog about the woman at the well and so infused that story with sort of a Hosea feel and here's the final product.

Water and wine, blood and sorrow
that which wets my lips
never quenches the thirst or the hunger.

IV

A tattered, porcelain remnant scrapes the dust, a hand of ancient wisdom in the ways of man, from her birth a beauty of the night and a seer of carnal desire. Her fingers quicken the search in the muddied waste-trough, skillfully attending to the gnawed bones and spit soaked napkins that have dabbed more than the corner of a mouth. She allows a frenzied laugh, empty as a toymaker’s speaking doll, when she wraps her grip and wish around the ringing coins. If she could sing, if she remembered how, to set free her words into the black, smothered night with praises of victory, she might. But a pallid fist of her day’s pay, a familiar memory of what it is like to be comfortably desolate in a broken bed while the wind screams cigarette smoke through cracked glass, are the companions she asks for. Not the stars and promises of higher things. Wealth and lust invited her in, now the yellow mustached face repays with a kind toss of her wage, an endearing name to surpass all other names, to remind her who she is, a weathered rag to soak in the broken life that flows through every gutter and street. She pukes to cleanse herself of the filth she has carried, a reflex, not penitence and stares from her watery eyes. A dirt road runs between house and business, quietly escaping town like an old dog waiting to die. She does not want wine or course company, just silence while it can be had, even if it is not found within. Her cheeks are sea-pale and wild, touched by the darkness that plays in the ally-ways. She moves through the laughter laid streets that streams from every swinging door and balcony. It is far from being kind, but an ominous delight that nips her mind and bare feet. At the edge of town, where the road bends and dissolves into the hills, stands a well of simple means. She rests her head on its stony mouth before sending for water to pour over her worthless skin. A shadow, a tall but humble form, stops her hand without touch or imposing approach. The man bends beside her, his eyes searching the well’s black depths and takes the bucket to lower down. As the rope slides across his palm, he says, the water I have satisfies your deepest thirst. She chews on his words and spits them out, another line in the history of lies. He goes on, what is it you want? Riches or peace? for both are mine to give. She laughs, her cold voice aimed at his kindness, and what do I have to do? His eyes meet hers, a timeless age, a childlike life, encircles within like a calming rain. Share my name. Marry me. Her heart stutters a steady beat of fear. Sir, do you know who I am? He nods. Do you know who I am? If you did, you would ask me to cover your shame.