Showing posts with label new wine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new wine. Show all posts

Wednesday, 15 February 2023

The War of the Jesi by Stephen Faulkner, new wine

 When Jesus first appeared in New York City no one paid him any attention. When he appeared in Cairo, it came about with the same result. However, when he simultaneously appeared in Chicago, London, Madrid, Beijing, Los Angeles, Buenos Aires, Melbourne and Miami, people began to take notice and ask questions.  The questions weren’t enough, though, especially since only one man had the answers – and he wasn’t raising his voice in the din to admit to anything.  Also, the questions did not come soon enough.

It became evident very quickly that the Jesus delusion was not isolated to one person in this locale and another person in another city. It swiftly became epidemic in proportion, then pandemic in scope.  Once the disease (for that was what it was assumed to be) had run its course and there were no more new cases reported, the total number of cases quantified at nearly seventy five percent of all human males.  With counseling and drugs the cure rate only reached eighty percent of those afflicted.  It may sound oddly disparaging to say that “only” eighty percent were cured of their delusions. Bear in mind, though, that this still left something more than half a billion Jesuses roaming the Earth, preaching peace and love of one’s fellow man. Most of them were satisfied to conduct their ministering to their local neighborhoods. Still others saw it as their destiny to preach to a wider audience. As they travelled, their message of love and peace was one that drew followers of a more nonviolent bent.

The ones who went in for televangelism, however, were the ones who began to foment the real trouble. Each of them demanded fealty to their cause since each one swore that he was the one, true and only Jesus and that all the others were mere charlatans, pretenders and the worst sort of con men preying on the souls of the gullible. None of these Jesuses – later laughingly dubbed the “Jesi” (pronounced Jeese-eye) by the press – would back down from their individual insistence that each, alone, was the real Jesus. A continual campaign of words was conducted across the radio stations, television channels and internet websites on all the continents of Earth.  Soon terrorist tactics were being employed: letter bombs and viral pathogens were sent through the mails to varied radio and television stations and website offices. The Chicago Jesus was forced to travel with an entourage that included a small private police force; the Paris, Madrid, Rio de Janeiro and Beijing Jesi soon followed suit with their own traveling support staff.  Threats were made and kept, assassinations were soon the event of choice among the Jesi. The ranks began to thin. Half a billion soon became a mere fifty million Jesi, all still arguing and fighting what they called “the good fight.”

And then, several Jesi in South America formed a coalition and they were soon successful in recruiting the Jesi from the rest of that continent to their cause. Word got out and the European, North American and Asian Jesi each formed their own coalitions. Arms were consolidated and new weapons were purchased on the black market.

The Australian Jesi, minding their own business on their isolated mini-continent, didn’t stand a chance.

 ***

            In the midst of the worst of the many battles, nuclear and conventional, that have become known as the Jesi Wars, there appeared man in long flowing robes of the sort worn in the historical period known as Biblical. He came riding a cloud out of the heavens and was mistaken, at first, for an incoming ballistic missile and was summarily fired upon. The anti-ballistic missiles thus used simply vanished before they could get within a kilometer of their intended target. Radio, television and internet communications soon carried the news that all battles among the feuding Jesi throughout the world had been brought to a mysteriously sudden halt.

            Once the man in the flowing robes had landed and his cloud had dissipated he surveyed the battlefield and its accoutrement of weaponry, artillery, ordnance and the usual uniform costumery of war.  Then did his countenance take on an enraged mien and, in a voice that would vie with the thunder of the heavens for its sheer basso volume, Jesus shouted:

            “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!!”

About the author 

Stephen Faulkner is a native New Yorker, transplanted with his wife, Joyce, to Atlanta, Georgia. They are now both retired and living in Central Florida. Steve has published Aliana in Paradise in 2018 and Lunar Effects in 2020. Speculations (short stories), was released in 2022. Order them at Amzaon.com.

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Sunday, 15 May 2022

Exchange of Letters between the Pundit and the Painter by Paweł Markiewicz, new wine

 Bijou among pearlets of an epistolary art

The epistle No. 1 as long SMS dispatched

The 5th May 2022. At the most picturesque dawn

 

Dear painter!

I woke up bright and early and think of a fulfilled day, that an angel brings me. I have seen your abstract painting und I am entranced. What a superb thing!  I want to hail you. May your picture infatuate the world in an infinite way. This oeuvre is apt to conjure all sempiternity. I like all sorts of the abstract, what is therein. Your painting is abstract-most lovely, id est full of  paints, outlines, light games, fires, what I appreciate greatly (*very). It portrays a leisurely-blue hourlet, (**little tender heaven-like Blue Hour), as if the heaven would scintillate for the sake of the embers, not from this world. The Blue joins with the Red. The clouds reveal hardly, but the sun was shown really pulchritudinously  (*** archaic: amazingly) because of the magnitude. With such picture-like arts I can daydream about muse-like paradise. The Abstract rules throughout mindful of moony allure. The painting seems to hold a mirror up to epistemology of images.

Your savant

 

The letter No. 2 valid as an e-mail-message

The 6th May 2002. During the Blue Hours.

 

Dear Sir scholar!

I am willing to the dreaming with the red sun before the night. I think about a midnight full immenseness which a muse will bring to me. I have read your academic vision for the sake of a primordial woman and I am avid due to it. What is a balmy thing!. I am ready to greet you. The vision is able to conjure up all the paradise. I like all Abstract, what rests in it. Your academic work regarding an enchantress from the tribe: Homo habilis is far from the actuality and hence abstract. It kindles the fire of philosophers, that is able to turn a wood into a gold. This magician female is wise and eternally moony, to wit: dreamy. One can with her dream of golden pieces. The magic power of the antiquity is more abstract than a witchcraft of the dark age (****better known as: the Middle Ages), because it senses the warmness of the velvet being- knowledge (*****according to Paul the dreamed ontology). One employs an incantation, which a primeval human being scored on rock faces in Thuringia. It’s very gripping. The abstract dominates in the world full of tender sparks.

Your painter

About the author

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as longer poems. Paweł has published his poetry in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

 

 

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

To Be .... To Become

Nick Maynard 

new wine 

A life is a sum of its parts –
and this is the sum of ours…
To be is to become, and in a thousand words I hope to transform you –
a thousand utterances cast upon the wind,
to find a home somewhere deep inside,
where I might find a home…
and be remembered…
and become something other than alone…

I knew from the first moment I met him, that I had known him already…

A lifetime of lifetimes passed/past… I know that I had always loved him… To be with him was to be whole again – it was as if I’d been missing something all of my life – as if I had been holding my breath just waiting to surface, since forever... And now I’d finally found what I’d been missing all this time – in him… I had become whole again… He had saved me from myself, and so now I belonged to him, for him to do as he wanted. I gave him the power to hurt me… And I knew that he would… ‘Whom the gods destroys, they will first make mad…’ And he was the embodiment of god made manifest… The most dangerous and contrary of all the gods... My god… My contrary…  My other half… My better half… My double…

I had thought him into being.

A Thought Form - conceived by a fantasy, brought into being by the force of sheer Will… From that poster I used to have on my bedroom wall – and that picture I tore from the magazine – and the dream I once had so vivid I could have almost touched yhim -

He is desire made flesh –
My desire made flesh…
He consumes me…
I watch him… I watch the way he moves –
the way his muscles move as he walks –
that effortless beauty of him…

The way he wears his hair
his shy downward glance
the soft baby-soft skin of his neck
his perfect shell-like ears... His voice,
His eyes,
His skin,
His smell,
His smirk.
His tenderness,
His touch,
His tension,
His release…

To be and become his sex – his addiction - his attitude - his closeness – his distance – his confidence - his shyness – his sweat – his torture – his dark – his light - his turmoil – his peace – his dreams – his desires…his hands – my hands on his – the way he lie on me – and they way I lie on him – his legs across mine – and his feet in the morning. The small of his back – his thighs – his arms – his chest - his belly and muscle… The cleft between his buttocks and the hair that grows there… And his cock – yes his cock – and the round of his arse – and the quivering – flickering… I see it all… From the perfect diamonds of hair under his arms, to his sulking pout and the way his nostrils flare - and the face he make when he cums… And that knowing smile that follows. His laugh - and my fears - my agonies - my lusts - my loves - my dreams. He is the place where I rest when I am tired of it all… he is my peace of mind. He is my fun – my sleep – my strength and my weakness… He is my past – my present – my history and my future… My living archive - all that is consumed by his truth and his lies, and his beauty, and his ugliness…

He transports me – transform me – makes me want to be and to become altered… he makes me want to become better – to be better –

We never looked for each other. We stumbled into being and fought to be free of the inevitable… Breaking, restoring – forging and growing - into this… Whatever this is… Unhealthy - some may say…
I say…
There are three things I cannot change…
The Past, The Truth and You…
One thousand words –
Six thousand miles –
Two and a half thousand sleepless nights - and long-haul flights.
And counting…

So far away you are now… I can barely hear your heart beating for the sound of mine breaking… So, to try to restore the little I have left, I close my body down… I choose to die another day… My love now dare not speak its name, because to name it would be to give it credence – would give it life… And I want it dead… I have no life… Full-circle again, the whole time turning, to be broken like a butterfly, in this life and the next, until eternity… And I search for him still… An endless unconditional love that hurts so badly, I could dash-out my own brain, to release the pressure it puts me under daily, hours – millisecondly

Do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the pit of me, my breath – the last…
My soul I sell for fleeting sight For the end of all beginnings, and the start of everything.
I love thee to the last and first
Forever, as day to night
I love thee like no other can or could.
I love thee as pure as I can.
I love thee as passionately as you will let me.
In my grief, and in my future
I love thee with a love I can barely understand
With all my lost saints, I shall love thee with all my heart,
With all my laughter, all my tears - of all my life;
and, in the hereafter
I shall love thee even after, until eternity and beyond.

And it means nothing…
Less than nothing…      
You are not here to hear it…
Or to see what I have written about you and me…

                        To be and to become whole,
                        To be and to become alone again is to look into that hole,
and wish you could slumber there until he returns again,
and you can be and become once more…

And eighteen words remain to say one last thing…

I’ve used up nine… So I can whisper, nothing.


Saturday, 26 May 2018

Sound and Light

by Jesus C. Deytiquez

new wine 

I was in an airport. I was holding with my shaking right hand, a ticket to another country. I waited for so long for that moment. I worked very hard to earn enough money to follow her in that country. Everything was like a dream, and like a sleepwalker, I walked and managed to get inside the airplane. I sat and waited. And soon we were off the ground, among and then above the clouds. 

The day was just dawning when we landed. As soon as I got out of the airport, I sent her a message, telling her that I already arrived. She replied that she will wait for me by the fountain of a particular park. I hailed a taxi and told the driver to take me to that place. 

It was not that hard for me to meet her right after that flight. The trip was short, and my luggage was light, for even if I want to spend more time with her, I saw that my money will not be enough. The joy of meeting her once again is greater than any burden. A moment with her, no matter how short, will be always enough. 

I was carried by the taxi through the city. Everything was new to me. I imagined her walking through those streets alone for countless of time. At length, the taxi reached the park. I started to walk towards its center. My heart was pounding. For four years I never met the girl waiting for me by the fountain in the middle of that park.

There she was, like an angel of beauty dressed in white. I cannot help but smile when I saw her again. She still has the eyes as starry as the night sky, the hair as black as the darkest evening, the skin as white as snow, and lips as red as a delicate mountain rose.  

She was the only one I saw. Everything and everyone seemed to disappear from my sight during that moment. She smiled at me. She stood up and then slowly walked towards me. She then hugged me like a long-lost friend, and I thought my heart would break with happiness. I held back the tears of unspeakable joy welling up in my eyes. 

We sat on one of the numerous benches of that park. We talked about many things. And after some time, I asked her to go with me to a mall, and maybe grab some coffee there. She said yes and showed me the way. 

We continued our conversation in a coffee shop inside that mall she led me to. She was still as funny, innocent, mild, and smart as before. At length, I took a book out of my bag. It contained the stories and poems that I wrote. They are about the moments we shared in a mountain city of the land of my birth, while we were still students in a university there. Some of those stories and poems won or was published, and the prizes or money that I got from them was added to the fund that I saved in order to meet her. I gave the book to her, but told her not to open it until she returned home. She did not know that I love her. She did not know what I went through for us to meet again. She thanked me and took the book. And after we finished our coffee, I then asked her to walk with me through that mall.
I saw a shop selling musical instruments. It was what I was looking for during that time. I asked her to accompany me inside it, and in it I saw and took a ukulele. I found that it was tuned well. And I started to produce a song from it along with my voice; it was the song “Kiss me Slowly” by Parachute, a song that I longed to serenade her with when we meet once more. 

All the time, I was looking at her twinkling eyes. 

“Can you still remember my beloved?” I thought back then. “How we used to sing a different song about longing and cold summer nights before? Now, after a thousand of those cold summer nights, let me speak to your heart with these borrowed words and melodies, with my borrowed time.” 

She was smiling at me the whole time. 

After that, we returned and walked again through the park. But this time, we were both silent. It was as if words were not needed anymore. Speech was silver, and silence was gold. And soon came the moment that we needed to say farewell already for the sun was already dying. 

“Can you promise me, that you will read that book?” I asked her.

“I will,” she replied with the sweetest of smiles. 

“Thank you.”
A dead, yellow leaf from a tree that overshadows us fluttered and descended between us. A light rain poured and drowned the tragic silence. 

“Until we meet again.” 

“Yeah, until we meet again.”

And I started to walk away. I looked back and saw her standing still, looking at me with a twinkle and a tear in her eye. 

I felt a warm, wet fluid flow from my eye to my cheek. 

It woke me. 

I found out that everything was a dream. But that could not make me sad. Instead, I smiled as I saw the dawn breaking. A sunset may be the morning of another place. A fall may raise the other. A dream may lead to wakefulness. I know that I shall meet her again, someday, somewhere, somehow. I have that mysterious hope inside my heart. And I know also, as true as a promise made by someone who cannot and will never lie nor betray, that everything, will be alright in the end.

About the author

Jesus or Jessie is a youth from a rustic province in the Philippines. He enjoys the beauty of nature and literature there but still he longs for something or someone beyond. He now writes stories in order to meet his beloved.
Blog/Website:

Saturday, 3 March 2018

Salome


By Joy Mawby

new wine 

‘It was not your fault,’ my friends tell me. ‘It was your mother’s. She should not have insisted.’
            But I’m the one who asked the King for it to be done. I’m the one who, smiling, carried the head before me on a platter. And now I see his head each time I hear the musicians play in the great hall.
            I shall not dance again.