The Wall of Roses

Notes to Persephone

The Wall of Roses

Draft 1

By: Chase L. Currie

 

The October winds hissed along the trees with me. I move on from the smoky nights in the hidden places of the world, in your dreams. My hands in my pocket as stroll into my time of year. The long gasp of summer before the end had passed on, the heat of scrambling lives was over, now winter turns her lovely gaze on to the world. It is my time to slowly roam the miserable city streets and the haunting forest where summer played so well.

                The winds moved on with my head low.

The bangs off beyond view pulled me to the red roses being hammer into the wall. My eyes saw the horrors, my mind dear not wish to believe, but there it the dreadful rhythm of history. The blooded inked words at the hands of the Cossacks, the Krasnaya, and Sturmabteilung had moved off the pages, back to life, at the hands of those Devils wearing Angel wings.

                I removed my hat, sorry this had come yet again.

The fools had learned nothing about hate. The wise said little in the game of ideas. The powerful laughed at the useful children playing hero. One of those lovely heroes stood near the edge of the wall close to me, dressed in black and red, hiding his face in a darken mask, weeping at his hands.

Blooded and buried.

                The woman beside him held her baby within her belly. She only hours ago called for good-hearted people to rise and take the riches of those Ghostly Devil. The sweet-hearted people stood aside as the Knights of the New Holy Doctrine of the Age came marching into town. It is better to fall in line then to step tall with your neck out.

                She wept. She had a Dogwood Flower in her midnight hair and Raven tone. The tears kissed her cheek, I wished to free them, but my time held on the edge.

                I move on along the line to the Clown from the Church. We sat together, listening to the Words of God. We left to get tea at noon. He told me silly jokes which were not funny. He winked at me to say,’ I see the joke now. It’s haha-funny, the punchline a killer.’ He roared with laughter as I went past him.

                There was an empty spot,

but they were marching a new man into this line.

He wore a cross around his neck. He stood tall, victorious as if the battle had already been won, and smiled at the sky. He walked up to each man and woman holding the rifles of Ture Ideology blessed to them from the Masters of the Age. All he said to them as he shook their hands, his wrapped in chains from this cold world, is, ‘I’m going home.

I’ll put in a good word for you.

I hope to see you there.’

                They call him an idiot.

                I shook my head in disbelief.

                They put him against the wall,

he wouldn’t take the knee,

but he gave them a rose in the end.

Reviews

[Ankita Dwivedi]

Well ,i am not really sure what this story is about ..But it's silly despite being unaware it sounds good and warm like a slow song ..apout pain and love .How some people choose to love no matter how bad they are treated ..i would like to read more .
Love, Ankita

[CLCurrie]

Thanks so much for the review and there is a lot more to read coming down the pipeline