The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

flower with stone. The palm is broken. Endless has this cycle. The words borne past die in dawn. Always. It is as futile as your races you men drag from our wombs but at least only these mad claws are the God of poems not yours, boy."

  "But why stone if there is no permanence?"

  "Fool, boy, fool. Blood. Blood flows here. From sun raged eyes to the rodent under the fall of the mountain, blood pours as a testament of forgiveness. To live, to beg forgiveness at the congeal of death. For death is a stiff blood. So granite is blood hardened to the mind's run. The wet earth drenched to a wretched mud on the nights a Moon weeps.”She stops, turns fierce upon him.

  "See? See?" Holding her left arm high turned gold streaming out of the soiled sleeve; it falls away leaving the elbow to fingertip naked onto sun. The right hand holds the blade she has torn from her robe. The point penetrates near the wrist and a thin red line weaves downward as she snakes the blade in oscillate to her elbow. The cut of design begins a multitude of thin lines bursting from the main weave, those lines crisscrossing, alternating till a delicate lace of red is created from elbow to wrist.

  The white fist upheld, the red lace on tan, the soiled robe sleeve now sopped of red such a symbol to tumble the Beggar a step back.

  "See? Blood of life, blood of death, blood of reach, blood of first. Till congealing. Till stone. Then no return, boy." Her eyes almost scarlet, she continues "But we must not let hardened air gather between us, boy. No. No.”

  Her fist unclenched, the fingers dance as the wrist slackened and she turned it, revolving limply in the air. The right hand scrapes the blade slowly upward the arm, spooning a pool of slightly stiffened flow. She holds the point tilted to her mouth, drops falling into swallow, a tongue poised on the blade's underside. She stopped, levelled the knife and spoke to his still face

  "We must share blood, man and woman. Before stone separates. Besides there is so little else of plenty in deserts."

  With that she brought the knife to his mouth, he opened and she tilted it again upward. Her left hand came to his throat. Stronger and stronger grew the grip, while the knife blade inched a path deeper and deeper in his mouth. He tasted salt, blood; though with the fierce grip squeezing his breath his senses were blurred to whether his blood or hers decorated its long edge.

  "Now" came a whisper cross his ear, "I gave you the blood of my death, shall I take the blood of your life?"

  Seconds passed. The Beggar contemplated defence but any movement begged of instant thrust; he could not speak his mouth, throat gagged by pressing steel. His eyes saw only the tears strained by her grip. So he shrugged; a bare movement but a gesture befitting man or rat now beyond scurry, limp at the teeth of predation.

  Her laughter blew red foam on his cheek, the knife withdrawn, she staggered away, clutching her sides mad with sobbish glee.

  He simply stared at her, massaging his throat with his hand, swallowing at the dryness, a boyish grin creeping across his face.

  She returned, tears and blood smeared in her hair, her face more obscure than ever but for the pink dance of eyes and the teeth singed with red, still wide with laughter.

  Though the right arm still dangled with blade, the left rose to cup his shoulder. He did not flinch or harbour less of a grin.

  "Forgive me" an almost girlish song giggled "but so like a boy to answer into manhood. Is there anything more to be said to a woman for his bathe of blood? Her blood spilling his ankle to tongue? For man is the bread, woman is the grape. One is formed, hardened; the other crushed, drained. So death can feast! For that a shrug is as good an answer as any man lip can wind and pass the crumbs of his own breaking.

  Again her fit, full of laughter.

  "Oh, enough, enough" she exclaimed, her body coyish in his direction. "We must celebrate grandly your decided oration into blushes and brushes of manhood. I know. Would you have me dance for you, boy? Or should I say, Maaaan, now?!” spoken with her hips already half a sway.

  She stood first rigid, in long body her arms rose wavering, flaunting her hair cascade back over each shoulder, her face, chin tilted away, the long neck of a gazelle rigid in arc to a sun touch. The arms rose above the beaded dew on her crown till full extend, fists curled together, the blood knife at apex. For a moment brief, the Beggar could glance enough face to again note the crow's feet, the tortured skin of long travel, then the sun shifted and mirrored glare, exploding from a single knife point.

  She bursts into a whirl, first a foot sweeping dust, then lifting to expose graceful thigh all awhile pivots effortless upon a foot tenured in vertical arch.

  The hands clapping, knife sweeping up, down a pulse of sun reflect, the robe half unravelled shuddering behind like a white eagle in prey of fire flies. The pink eyes widening, narrowing; pulsating to red. The whirling containing all till he saw only blurs of white, skin gold, red; a flash building, cresending, inverting.

  Mesmerized, an image began appear to the Beggar, a woman well formed, crested breast, naked next for silver grasses at skirt, deep auburn hair wild in a weave of mirror lace, her pale face carved exquisite where set blue eyes dark into sea, pools of mock at his own abandonment.

  The Beggar heard drums yet only the sun beat. Sweat decorated his skin, his fists gripped their own hollow, his manhood began bulge, rise to the weave of her Song.

  The image, She, the mirage reformed. A young man, fainter brown skin, naked for dark tight curls at his head, his sex, a sword afire he twirled as he spun, its light and shade flickering his long lithe limbs, his graceful torso in and out of desperation of escape into full illumination. His eyes now cream yellow, the pluck of valleyed spring; then high green the shield of rolling hills. His mouth wording silent, yet so drawing of form. The Beggar heard without ears: 'Come. Release me.'

  The flame turned on its wind even higher yet only the desert sun brought scorch. Rivers sprang into dust from the Beggar's limbs. His nails gave his own palms a bloody kiss, so passioned to reach. His loins barely knew of any mind's leash, so strained and at wild for the taste of flesh.

  The dancing slowed, the robe fell, a young girl's features emerged yet strange familiar in golden wings around her crown and eyes a shade less red tinted ivory. The breasts now given higher crested, firmed as fruits barely ripe, yet sweet, so sweet to the rasp of a begging lip. Her hands held only a rose, stiff to circular breeze of her rapture. Hips, thighs, legs formed the perfect pedestal revolve of her soft down brushed upon her maiden hood. All around her, as succulence spiralled slowly towards the Beggar, white heat pulsed from her skin, giving an aura of moon taking away the night's darker reason.

  The steel willed its rise from coal, a purity unstained in melt yet only the sun bore ash cascading from its reflection.

  Only a core of the Beggar could hold cool, unablaze, the rest at the gates of oblivion merciless at their hold, their rage pulsed red at his eyes, his temple, his groin and dripped their tears from his palms.

  Then She was upon him. Embraced before to his half side, her heat rippling on his thigh, her hand left upon the small of his neck circling, a leg kneed up and down his inner leg, her hair burning his shoulder, his chest. A breast nippled his at perfect height while her right hand rubbed with the rose ever so slowly upon his throb at release.

  A warm moist breezed across his ear: "Do you want to play, Man-Boy?"

  His "No" was softer than the folding of wings but nonetheless echoed hideously across the chasm of his needs. He ignored their replies.

  Her head turned, the motions stopped, though heat flowed in "No?"

  "No."

  He heard the knife fall between his feet as She turned away. He watched as her nakedness aged only slightly, the buttocks still well firmed as She stooped at the robe. He ignored the whimperings still unsatisfied inside himself.

  Dressed, She turned, yet again, the hair had found a tousled place for obscurity.

  Crossing her arms at breast breathing a little deeper she spoke: "Did you find the three evil then?"

  "No.
Only false."

  "Love is false then?"

  "No. Though love has a certain blindness, it knows truth in what it does see. It never sees falsely in what it can see."

  "Had they come as the night silk, your blindness would have burned into Love. Warm is the drench of Blood as four entwine into one. One solid balanced upon black knife, rocking to a winds hair."

  "I do not understand" He replied.

  "What, Man, is to be understood?"

  "I do not understand what you said."

  "But, Man, when does one cease the plea for understanding?”

  "When one begins to understand."

  "Ahh. I see...And...as the man-boy begins to understand, when will all be understood?"

  "At the fullness of understanding."

  "Call such the completion of understanding?"

  "yes"

  "Then from beginning to completion is ending. What do you say at the end of understanding, man?"

  "I do not understand."

  A cackle. "Ah, but now you do understand. Now come, dry your palms upon my sleeve, my wear of it will drag no heavier than the blood of other boys carved into a rock's shadow.” With that she strode to him and offered her arm. Wiping the blood upon his chest he asked "Have you killed other men who wandering in anguish tread upon this cracked wind?"

  "No. Those who stagger blindly are taken to the hills, the mountains. But those men who are lured and leap upon temptation receive more lasting thrust than flesh can