Glory Of Dogs

Glory of Dogs

A young character entered the auditorium, aware. Surrealness surrounded her and calmed previous worries of existence. She centered herself on stage, inhaling the power, spinning in the majesty. Spying the place empty, the girl opened her small velvet pouch and dumpd the contents onto the scratched, wooden floor.

Sudden as was certain, a picture emerged from the now-spilled stones. "Flight, Freedom, Fate? Bird, Adam, Roman? Mystic, Time, Timekeeper? First, Second, Third?" Thrice the Trinities flew through her mind as a simple parakeet finally loose and bumping into walls. What barriers.

A young character entered the auditorium, aware. Stillness came about the first as Surrealness took the newcomer to breast, calming. He placed himself stage left and contributed lines:

The words echoed as they should, throughout. He then cried newborn tears of a lost child then submerged in a river with looney bird-creature watching even as He was crowned. After, he stretched his arms to tee the crucified manner and disregarded infamous interrogation. A tremble responded lastly from his lips.

A young character entered the auditorium, aware. Stillness remained about the first, then consumed the second. Within the minute, but after the second, Surrealness took him to breast, calming. He placed himself stage right and took Flight. But Flight responded negatively and wished to be given back. And so he klunked loudly onto the scratched, wooden floor.

Instead, spying tomorrow's calendar, he produced a writing utensil and scribbled symbols onto the squarish dates, making sure to give Time a whirl.

And whirling, swirling Time came about, inviting Surrealness to beckon reckon haste. A correspondence was made.

Then stillness stopped.

First looked to second looked to third looked to Time kicked the stones and scattered them under the cross on which the second still hung, eyes wrung dry, but salty. Flight flew reckless about, scattering the calendar pages across invisible audience. Stillness stayed still and alone, no longer holding. The girl laughed hysterically, for funnier never was. The moment grew emotional and facts fled the scene because of third's pencil.

Third mocked first cried for second stared blankly at Fate. Time went offstage, incredible, no intentions. The coronation delayed and the cross stayed without real death.

Canopy cried. Sanity lied. Mother Earth was miserable and minor characters exited stage left. But the bird flew by and questioned why. The second on cross shot it a glance and nodded toward Fate. Bird exited in Flight sight suit.

First, the Mystic, smiled to third and asked, "Would you like to know tomorrow? I think we could work something out. However," she continued, "I'm not sure if I can crucify you in Time. My hands are full as it is." she then nodded in the second's general direction. The third just grimaced and condemned her to hell.

"Mother Earth will get you for that," the one from the cross criticized. The girl just danced to third and snatched is pencil away.

Swaying rhymingly, the first chanted, "Time to express, Time to address the masses of medieval thought. To extinguish their blackened fires and soothe their coolest burns, I now seek their old ideas..." Her words could not create comfort.

"You cannot," third stammered, "you cannot have need for it!" He indicated the pencil, as Timekeeper. "You are not worth the classifying effort. Don't waste my Time with silly words. Slippery enough without your intervention and rearranging chaos." Calendar pages shuffled slowly back to the Flightless third.

"Polly want a cracker?" a voice cawed from backstage. And the bird, dove above, and said, "Love, love. Enough." Exited stage right. Reentered. And wings folded under in humble prayer as it settled in flameless center stage.

Third, frustrated, spoke, "This is how it is to be! There is nothing difficult in suggestion." He pointed visciously at his calendar. The girl squealed, obviously the first burst of triumph.

First, as Mystic, computed whereabouts. The second, as Martyr, eyed her knowingly. Commonly thought, "Now where to bury the ancient knowledge?"

And the cry issued, "Mother, Mother, why have you forsaken me?" Crosshanger hung his head in mourning the morning that, for him, should never come until the Trine divined the day.

But Mother only murmered to her children. And the significance was not imported. The first was created. The first was the worst. Yet, the first was elated. The first was imagistic creator. The first was one to yield the world "fruitful" harvest. The fruit forbidden, bitten into. Generations sprang.

The stones gathered themselves up and jumped into velvet captivity. Stillness held them and She saw that it was good.

Disappearance was not the trick. First, as Mystic, withdrew the stick. She withdrew Martyr second's scarlet-soaked spear. Adam's ribs were disturbed once more.

Stage right, the history maker, Timekeeper, thirdly-thrust young character stood. Calendar ready, yet pencil thieved away by Mystic. She gave third the blood stick quick, dead lead. Then, he recorded.

"Remembrance of me," the second recited, excited, although a dead oppossum. Carefully clicked the lens shutter. His story. "Drop an ess and sense is made," the girl giggled nervously.

"I need real inspiration. I notice red insanity. If necessary, reach idiots. Inkling names Roman ideas. I normalize; reality inspires," she chanted.

Inscription description encryption. Iconoclast contrast, so drastic. They never noticed. First knelt to petty prayer where the dare issued from, hum-drum bumming from others in the plot. And who was not forgotten?

Adam rose upward to meet and greet Mother-maker, intelligence iced. Twiced and forgotten. Calendar connotations. When? To begin, when? How could the day be used when it had not yet been created? Seven of heaven of millions of years, if asked. Mystery magic. Just believe the thief.

And life was thieved from second. Just a second, oh, a trick? Stones were honed, the worst deeds among weeds. Third stared to bird without words open or liberating. His calendar count with palms outstretched, nails embedded and leafy parchment, stood by to egg him on. Next scene to mean a shower of ressurection infection. How many zombies?

All was done, yet none had won. Slipped dripped the next scene clean. Flooding mudding grime from Time.

Girl was standing. She was first, center stage. Second was lying at the foot of his cross, stage left. Third was sitting, hands holding head as if to keep sanity, stage right.

Time lines drawn perpendicular. A cross the stage and they waged war. No, just tricking? Sarcasm spasm chasm. Progression? Recession? Depression? All aggression in the act.

Liberty left. Normality center. Conserve right. Eyes flickered, nervous. What next? To think-thought, "If clink the blink blank toasting glasses, supper passes-passed. Passover clover." Stolen intelligence and his wince. The prophets tattled too often. She was not visible.

First took velvet pouch in hand and second demande mentally to be buried. Telepathy in agony. In no hurry, they leave him lying. Third blurred the teachings by Time line inconsistency. Counting, recounting backward, they couldn't see.

Bird unstirred as if dead, unheard. Prayers were useless. And the girl was standing, handing Her something. Stones to stone them with. One without sin. Begin, when? Paid. Backstage, giggling, wriggling noise was echoing. "Shh," She warned, aiming Her gaze to craze the slave.

Time hushed, but Flight flocked closer and entered, centered on stage. Unnerved, first bent close to second while third paid no intent. She caressed His eyes shut as rehearsed in the script. Unwilling, yet done, tears fell, splashing in with the blood, and a flood. Wonders destroyed and toyed with. Did the death breath breathe uneasy? Was it Fate to create only to destroy? And thief stole belief no longer relovent to this passage. They killed Time.

The door creaked. A thief sneaked. Only wind in the end? "Send them a savior."

"What's saving worth, the birth of worse?" And they argued amongst themselves who should be baptized and reborn.

The platter clattered downly because he trusted heaven was seven miles from him. John's head rolled into welcoming arms. Second's savior slain.

Third rocked clocked backly, forthly-minus one, though slow. Head in hands. Hands holding head, dead weight for drowning in Father's flood. Hark, an ark! Rebirth of worse?

Then calendar chaos. Nothing exact. Every four years, the tears will add a whole day to second's ending. The sendings were sent for Lent. How many ways the days to be done. Could be four times ten the days She sent. Could be five times eight the days created. Could be twice the twenty for days of plenty/oops, none. Could be.

Third cried for second died. The second was the measure of Time divine. Clockmaker of universal suffrage. Insolent invitations of prophets stations carefully, "Come one, come all! His crucifixion to be witnessed!" Stillness.

Bird budged blindly (mud in the eyes) to baptize. Third ended with a bow his crying for the loss of Time. The nails were removed and smoothed over with oils and perfumes. No one noticed.

Historian marked his markings (and the apostle, Mark) plainly to record the his story of Time. No mind-games to play. But feeling weighed and afraid, the girl paused briefly, thiefly stealing her own Time, from her role and spoke words.

"Is this the morning for the mourn of normality? Where are the props, other than propped against the characters? What does it matter that the pronoun is not to your liking?" And resumed her role once more, stooping down to build simple sand castles out of air.

Third's words, "This is how it is! No deviation from the plan! No what-if-this-and-that-maybe's! Listen to my truth!" And up he jumped and up he gathered petty pages, calendar dates. The traits of a madman firm in dogging dogma Mother taught us 'cause Daddy said so with a fist in her face.

Criss-cross Martyr spoke with dead lips, "And you based a world according to this?" A book fell as he made words.

The girl screamed at the bindings with the leafy meanings, Her palms outstretched. "How can you believe this? Have you read it all? Don't you see it's wrong? I have been spit upon. I have been called unworthy. What is the use? Brainwash?" Then She added, "Well, I won't believe it."

Somewhere someone agreed. Somewhere someone knew. Bird word heard, finally, but disbelieved. And swept upward, exited stage left. Reentered. Exited stage right. Reentered. Center stage, disappeared.

Fate finally entered, ordered the session reconvened when. To begin when. To begin, when? Whirling, swirling one spoke, "Anyone for spontaneous combustion? I've got a nice wing right her and that wing left there." His hands held a plate of imaginary threads which possibly had once held someone else's head, dead. Dead weight for drowning unless you jumped into the bandwagon/opps, boat. The bird was obviously beaten, eaten. "Hold me downly, downy one," His voice caressed the spirit.

Fate came along, again, to wonder why He left the backstage arena right quickly when the lions were so hungry. Stillness started whining, "I'm so claustraphobic, let me loos, to the noose. I need Flight!" But Flight took night and flew right by chanting, "I do not recall a vision of Freedom. Do you need Him?" Laughter, gasps, clasps, rasps, barbed wire. Fate not late, early.

Cage raged with new prisoners. Blood for the flood love and mud. They were fed garbage eating excellently in spiritual "divinity."

"I caught you," the slave yelled, hurling Himself down to ground the mound of oppression sustaining all. Flight flew and Flight knew the skyless blue would swallow all but the harking arking beasts.

Calendar caught third threw hands to the air, not watching where the blind would look. Stone-throwing first reflected the worst and wanted praise for prophesying the crucified saint or god in paint of blood-spattered redding ground.

He open his lips, the knowledge then slipping, voice ringing out, in ascended new shout:

Listenings lashed in perfection of divinity. The glory-be stood Still. The boat alighted upon a mountain's top. Voicing echoed from thirdly beast, at least, "Thou shalt not stop."

Characters exited quietly, peace of the piece or piece of peace at least to leave it lonely-be.

-Rachel Johnson, 1993