Routes
Page 29
Sarah takes him by the hand to her bedroom, where they sink onto the big soft bed. She squeezes him closely, mashing herself against him with plain enjoyment. As always, just being near the brazen buck is enough to make a savage out of her. She reaches into his white pants and boldly takes the fruit of his manhood, his sacred ear of corn, in her hands. She presses her lips to it and prays in adoration, glorification, thanksgiving and worship. Her prayers are answered. Happy Sarah kicks off her high heels, lets her robe slip off her white shoulders, spreads her legs and her peach blossom pink petals, and adds liquid fuel from the core of her womanhood, dousing the flames with her wetness and causing the corn to grow, to rise higher and higher as if to the sun in a summer sky. She holds fast and brings the humming brave home.
And later, in the ashes, they remain silent in one another’s arms, breathing softly, still not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday or any person, place, or thing besides one another. Sarah slips into a dream with the confidence of one who just realized one of her dreams come true. Whole, healthy and happy as she is ever going to be, she goes with the buck gently into the blue black night …
Light on Light
Back on the lawn at Black Castle Cottage, the moon is setting and the dawn’s early light is breaking into the blackness of the eastern sky, revealing finger-shaped clouds with rose-tinted bellies. Warmed by Art’s light, infused by his boundless energy, I listened, enraptured by his tale, and relayed all night to you. But now he stops and says to me, off the record, so to speak, “Morning dear, do you remember when we were children, you would read me bedtime stories from a big-book—”
“Sure I do, Artie. How could I forget? Those were the days of The Thousand and One Kaa ’babin Knights. You never tired of hearing such tales as the Nine Journeys of Mullah Zaid, the Caliph and the Cook, the Twenty Nine Palms, the Magus and the Magpie, the Magic Hourglass, and the Floating Oasis.”
“And do you remember, because the life of the young woman telling the story depended on the King wanting to hear what happens next, that each tale ended on a cliffhanger, and would not be completed until the following night?”
“Yes, yes, certainly, I remember. Fairy tales can be as gruesome and cruel as the children they’re meant for. The King was a pig who enjoyed a Lord’s rights over his subjects, a serial killer, driven to rape nightly and murder in the morning. So the maiden telling the story saved her virginity as well as her life by making the ending of one story the beginning of the next. The King, always curious to find out how whatever plot she was hatching was going to come out, stayed her defloration and death sentence indefinitely, and finally married her in the end.”
“Well, since I’m already dead I’m not going to be one to leave anyone hanging, Sister. In these adult fairy tales we may begin with trouble but never end with it. Still that does not mean we have come to the end.”
Having seen life and having lived to tell about death, no one can be more of a realist than Art in Heaven. He knows better than we. In time, all things pass, there’ll be trouble in paradise, comings and goings. Has Sarah grown used to the finer things in life? Does Corn Dog ramble? Yes on both counts. But opposites attract. For now we will leave the lovers where their love has taken them, in dreams beyond time, drifting down heavenly warm streams, dripping wet in the wake of sexual climax, and wish that they and, of course, Gloria, and, last but not least, we, her children, live happily ever after, on earth as we will in heaven.
Art seconds my benediction and says, “Now, Morning, this is the tail end of the night and my telling is through. I hope to see you same time, next year, when the autumn lights are low and the saints come marching in.”
And with those words the first ray of dawn strikes Art’s face and he merges with it, light on light, he can’t be seen yet can be. Now he is the glisten in the frosted grass, the morning shimmer across the lily pond, the sound of one goose flapping south. I rise, and walk alone back to the Cottage humming, tapping my pen on my notebook, seeing Art shining wherever the sun strikes.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by John Okas
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2477-8
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