Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Theology and Art: A Short Story

I. His father reigned as king, sending soldiers to hang the harlot. Her children were murdered and the soil soaked red with their blood. Sword twisted and turned; all in sight were laid at his royal feet. "Find the whore!" was screamed from the throne room. "Strip off her dress and expose the breasts where men suck the milk of idols and daemons. There will be no funeral! Take her to the gallows!" The harlot was found; the harlot was hanged and; instead of blood, milk flowed forth that once fed the minds of men. And one watched from the crowd; she watched, weeping and waiting for the moment of revenge while the king laid down with his ancestors.
II. A prince, now king, weeps at the memories of the madness. His tears water the barren ground while he shivers in the cold. Soil drinks saline while seed breaks and roots find nourishment in rotted ground. Stem breaks through hardened dirt while a bud breaks from its bloody prison, blossoming in winter's sun.
III. An angry child, now a woman, wanders the kingdom with fires of madness and revenge burning in her heart. Winter has failed to freeze her mother's milk, fresh on her lips, sucked from the very breasts of a body broken and forgotten. Head bowed, she walks the barren land, death having taken its toll in the guise of Reformation. Eyes and feet find the single evidence of life, and love lances her heart, like a hot wind fiercely smoldering the fires of revenge and hate. Bending down, lying down flat upon the bloody ground, she fingers the single flower and loves the author of its birth.
IV. The soldiers are dead and the gallows have long since rotted and returned to that from whence they came. A young king walks a once barren land, now made nearly beautiful. Colors and life and joy and desire now flow from a source of mysterious power. Walking and wondering, praying and pondering, he falls forward, only able to glance at that which made him stumble.
V. Love leaps from his heavy, saddened heart. Where once no fire flamed to burn the memories of madness, a funeral pyre engulfs all traces of his father. Stammering like a giddy child, lost in a reverie of desire, he attempts gretting while reaching to touch that which he longed for meeting.
VI. She welcomes his warmth while he caresses her burning body. All traces of revenge and hate are consumed in their naked passion. He drinks deeply from the masses swollen with milk, finding not the elixir of idols and daemons but the mysterious power of desire and joy and life and color.
VII. Their sweat and their tears pierce the blood hardened earth as seeds break forth from their prison and stems break through the hardened dirt and buds blossom in the summer sun and life returns to the Love redeemed land.
VIII. When Theology stumbled over Art, life once again burst forth in a chorus of praise to Love. The ashes of madness, hate, and revenge blew away on a warm summer wind. Art's milk once again refreshes the Theological minds of men.

1 comment:

Dan Lowe said...

Disclaimer: When I used "men" in the short story, I meant for it to be all inclusive. I'm not much of a short story kind of person, more so a poet. Okay, just wanted to put that disclaimer out there.