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Subject: {ASSM} Write Club duel: celia batau vs. Father Ignatius
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2000 23:10:08 -0400
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The below two stories were each written in 3 hours, for the Write Club
(information in ASSD)
The copyrights of the stories are owned by the authors.
As the referee for this Write Club duel, I declare the winners to be all
who read these two stories.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Write Club.
required words:
convent, halcyon, Hawking, Heisenberg, priest, raspberry, spirituality,
sweat, tortured
Siesta by celia batau (pinataheart@bigplanet.com)
The air was hot and bright in the narrow street. Eyes closed, Lena
wandered, her fingers tracing over walls, frayed pasted posters,
corrugated iron doorways, and blue-washed adobe walls until her hand
skipped and lost its place. Lena opened her eyes and looked into the
dark entranceway beside her. Then she turned and carried herself up
the steps.
It was Antonio's bar, she found as her eyes adjusted. There were
several men sitting at a few tables, Miguel, Eduardo, Enrique, a
couple other men, and Antonio behind the bar.
Lena walked across the floor and leaned against the bar.
"Gimme a chela," Lena said, pointing at the beer taps behind the
counter.
"You know I can't do that, Lena."
Lena looked up at the wall behind Antonio's shoulder.
"Please. I'm thirsty."
Antonio leaned into her vision. "The baby. Think about the baby."
Pushing herself from the bar, Lena turned. "Think about the baby,"
she mumbled as she found a seat at an empty table. She crossed her
arms on its top and dropped her head into them.
The room became quiet.
"Women," announced an old man's voice, "are not permitted here."
Lena groaned and looked up toward the voice. It had belonged to an
even older looking man seated with a newspaper to her right.
"This is a men's club," he added.
The men were waiting. Lena looked at each in turn. Then she turned
her gaze back to Antonio.
"A juice, then, Antonio. A little juice."
"Please go home," Eduardo softly asked from his chair.
The old man folded and placed his paper on the table.
Lena closed her eyes. And for a moment she didn't move. Then pulling
herself to her feet, Lena crossed around the table and leaned back
against its edge.
"I am a man, then."
There was a sudden roar as the men yelled at her. And there were
more than a few laughing glances in Enrique's direction.
"You are not a man," one of the men finally yelled above the rest.
Lena crossed her arms.
"I am not?" she asked.
The men fell silent again.
"Definitely not," spat the old man.
"No, priest?" Lena replied, noticing the old man's collar for the
first time. "I will show you!"
But before Lena could grab the hem of her skirt, Enrique shot out of
his chair and practically leapt toward Lena's table. He grabbed her
by the shoulders with an obviously tortured expression. Lena ignored
his hands and bent down between them, pulling her panties down from
beneath her skirt.
Stepping out of them, Lena wadded the raspberry-colored fabric in
her fist and threw it at Antonio behind the bar.
Then men sat shocked.
Before any of the others had sense enough to speak, Enrique pushed
himself against Lena. No convent girl, Lena pushed back. But
Enrique's weight did prevent her from pulling at her skirt. It also
pushed uncomfortably against her slightly swollen belly. So, Lena
let go of her skirt and, instead, looked up into Enrique's pained
face and gave him a wicked grin.
"Stop it," Enrique whispered.
Lena reached up around his arms and placed her hands behind his
shoulders.
"Go home."
Lena playfully scratched him with her nails.
"Now."
Sighing, Lena dropped her arms. Enrique relaxed his grip but didn't
let go. Something else had tensed in its place. Her eyes turned
serious, and as she held his gaze, her fingers slipped up the front
of his shirt and undid the buttons. Enrique stood motionless, little
beadlets of sweat growing above the bump of his nose.
The world seemed motionless as well, as Lena parted Enrique's shirt.
Leaning forward, she kissed the little gold symbol of their
spirituality dangling around his neck, then she lowered her lips and
followed the line of hair down his stomach with tiny kisses. At his
navel, Lena paused and dragged her tongue around the depression.
Enrique, no longer frozen, stepped back and let Lena's mouth slide
over the buckle of his trousers. Her teeth bit into the bump of dark
leather and tugged.
Reaching down, Enrique eased Lena away and unbuckled himself. Lena
leaned back and rested her bottom on the table edge. Enrique stepped
up, pulling himself free. Hopping a bit, Lena pulled her skirt over
her hips and then wrapped her legs around Enrique's.
Lena was ready. It didn't take much to guide the head Enrique was
thinking with into her.
Enrique leaned over and placed his hands on either side of her
waist. Lena moaned and lifted her legs. She urged him in again.
Enrique complied and began thrusting mechanically yet
enthusiastically.
Lena rocked with the motions. She lifted her hips, squeezed his
retreat, lifted her hips, and squeezed. Enrique grunted. Lena
moaned. The men were gone. The bar was gone. Everything vanished to
the rumble and thump of an internal physics Hawking and Heisenberg
never dreamed of.
And then she was gone. She dipped in the halcyon surge and rebounded
just in time to feel Enrique stiffen and unload.
Panting, she lowered her legs. Limply, she hung under Enrique until
he pulled himself out and tucked it back into his trousers. Lena
slid back onto her feet and stood. The men were still staring,
Smiling, she pushed down her skirt and smoothed it out.
Out of somewhere, a hand offered her a club soda. She took the
bottle and walked back to the doorway. Then taking a final look back
at the men, Lena uncapped the top, took a swallow, and stepped down
into the brightness.
"Enrique, your wife is a better man than you!"
(c) copyright Aug 12, 2000 celia batau
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Sister Celia's Damascus Road
Father Ignatius (c)2000
fatherignatius@hotmail.com
Write Club: convent halcyon Hawking Heisenberg priest raspberry
spirituality sweat tortured
-----
"Are you awake?" has to be the re-statement of Heisenberg's
Uncertainty Principle for Domestic Relations. The question wakens
the sleeper, the wakeful interlocutor feigns sleep.
"Are you awake?" I asked Celia. She did not reply. I walked
around the narrow bed and saw her smiling gently up at me--a young
woman at peace, completely different from the tortured spirit of
the previous night.
* * *
It was very late that night the telephone's ringing took me from
my breviary. It was the Convent Superior, Sister Innocenta, and
she was clearly greatly agitated.
"One of our novices is asking for a priest. Can you come?" she
said, forsaking preliminaries. I left immediately to walk past
the church to the convent. The Novice mistress was waiting by the
gate to let me in. Sister Mary Ruth's customary stern, forbidding
facade was showing definite signs of the compassionate human
within.
"Hi, Ruthie. What's up?"
"We've got trouble, Nat. One of our novices has got big problems.
She wants a priest."
"Let's go, then."
Sounds of shrieking and sobbing echoed down the novices' corridor
as we approached. The other novices were peeking round their dark
doorways, wide-eyed and interested as the crowd round a
road-smash. The Superior was clearly relieved to see us. She
gestured wordlessly into an open doorway with light streaming out
into the corridor.
"Over to you, Nat," she said, "Ruthie and I have done no good
here." It was a significant admission of defeat from two strong,
capable and experienced women who were very good at what they did.
I stepped into the doorway, into the tiny, whitewashed novice cell
lit yellowly by a single lamp and gasped. There was blood on the
walls and on the face and hands and virginal white woollen habit
of the young novice sprawled shaking on the bed.
I knelt down by the bed and whispered, "How can I help you, my
child?" There was no response. I reached out and touched her
shoulder, gently as I knew how. She sprang back, into a sitting
position, back to the soiled white wall and looked down at me.
For the first time I looked into the fear and hurt and anger that
her tortured brown eyes were to signal again and again in the long
night that was to come.
"How can I help you, my child?" I whispered.
She didn't reply but her eyes flicked to the doorway that framed
Ruthie and Innocenta. Innocenta hesitated, shrugged, gave me a
look and they withdrew, pulling the solid oak door gently behind
them.
"What are all you girls doing out here?" I heard Ruthie snap,
"This is none of your business. It doesn't concern you. To bed
with you all, this instant."
We listened to their heels clunking on the echoing oak floor as
they receded down the corridor, chivvying other novices away.
Doors closed, the footsteps withdrew beyond hearing and we were
alone.
The brown eyes were now lowered; I couldn't see what they were
saying but the memory of how they had looked reverberated through
my soul.
"How can I help you, my child?" I whispered for a third time. For
a third time there was no reply.
After a long silence I asked, "What's your name, my child?"
"Celia" she whispered. Her eyes looked up at last and again I
looked into the personal hell that blazed out beneath the bloodied
forehead. She seemed to have no more to say so, speaking as
gently as I could, I started speaking to her.
"I see you carry on your forehead the sacred wound of our beloved
Saint Ruth," I said, "Maybe you are blessed with such grace as she
was." There was no response to this.
"My child," I said, "Let us ask God for strength, and to guide us
through what we have to face."
I started saying the Lord's Prayer and, after a brief resistance,
she followed along as I knew she must and would. I took her hand
in mine and blessed her.
"My child, I need your guidance. What troubles you?"
Still, she couldn't speak.
"Would it help if we went to the the church? The confessional?"
A quick nod. Eyes still downcast.
She seemed to have difficulty walking so I picked her up and
carried her down the echoing oaken corridor. Ruthie, anxious
Novice Mistress, was waiting at the far end. She let us out the
front door of the convent, opened the gate for us and I felt her
concern boring into my back all the way to the church door. I
carried Celia to a supplicant's bench in the confessional and went
back to shut the door. As it thudded closed, the sensation of
sanctuary and solidity made itself felt. I put the bar across the
door and we were alone and secure in the church, dimly lit by the
flickering banks of votary candles.
I genuflected to the altar, garbed myself with all decent haste,
said a prayer and entered the confessional. I drew aside the
shutter on Celia's side and waited silently. After a length
pause, a quiet voice came out of the darkness.
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."
I blessed her. "Yes, my child? How long since your last
confession?"
"Three weeks"
Three weeks was an extraordinarily long time for a novice.
"A Mortal sin deprives you of the everlasting life of sanctifying
grace and causes the supernatural death of the soul. A venial sin
does not deprive you of sanctifying grace but is a disease of the
soul."
She didn't need to be told that--the words were long graven on her
heart and would remain so until death, wander as she might. But
the familiarity of the ritual comforted her and forced her forward
down familiar territory.
"Have you committed any of the Seven Deadly Sins, my child?"
"Yes, Father."
"These are the perverse inclinations of our fallen human nature.
You must confess all mortal sins."
There was an agony of waiting before she said, "I confess to lust
and anger, Father." And then the dam broke. She took me into the
black hole of her soul and and it was a hole blacker and deeper
than any that the calculations of Hawking and Ellis could
describe. It was a black hole not of mere space but of the
universe itself. Sister Celia took me where no man should go and
whereof no priest may speak. I lost track of time as Sister Celia
cleansed and purged her guilt. It was an eternity before I heard
my voice say, "I absolve you in the name of the Father, the son,
and the Holy Spirit! Make an Act of Contrition and I will tell
you your penance."
I left the confessional and drew her out, towards the altar.
"The matter of your penance is most complicated, my child, as you
must realise."
A nod. Downcast eyes. She realised. I led her to the
confessional rail before the altar and she genuflected and would
have knelt but I restrained her.
"God wants to see you as he made you, my child."
She nodded. The blood-stained white, woollen habit slipped off
her shoulders and puddled on the marble floor round her feet and
Sister Celia stood before her Maker, as he made her. She was a
small woman, still a girl, really. The flickering candlelight
showed that her hips did not not yet have the full roundedness of
a mature woman. Her slender waist was nipped in under a broad
chest and small, child-like breasts seemed to embrace the deadly
sin of pride as they stood out from her chest as Celia stood
straight, shoulders back, and stared steadily forward.
"Kneel before your Maker, child."
She knelt, knees clamped together. I pulled her right hand
forward until it rested on the railing. She was kneeling too far
from the railing for comfort but we both knew that comfort was not
why we were there. Out of the confessional now, I slipped my stole
off my shoulders and tied it tight around her wrist and around the
railing and around the post beneath.
The girdle of her novice gown was at my feet. I bound her other
wrist with it and dragged it, too, to the railing. I yanked it to
the side and, to keep her balance, she was forced to open her
knees. I bound the wrist to the railing in the same way, far from
her other hand. Like a Muslim at prayer, Sister Celia's arms were
flung out before her, far ahead of her knees. Her buttocks curved
tautly as they took the strain of holding up her body. Her dainty
knees, spread wide, were pressed hard into the marble by the
weight of her torso. Her hands--fingers spread out on the broad,
flat railing--took part of her weight but, once fatigue set in,
this would surely change.
The bell tower cupboard had a store of rope. I fetched a hank
and, with it, bound Celia's feet together as our Saviour's were
nailed together. I led the slack back and secured it to the first
pew, pulling it tight. She could not move her knees forward to
relieve the strain by so much as a millimetre.
"You are bound to the church by your vows, my child, as surely as
you are bound to the church now by these worldly bonds."
No response.
"You surely understand, my child, that God requires no ordinary
act of contrition from you tonight?"
A quick nod. Her breathing was already becoming laboured as Our
Saviour's must have done on the Cross.
"If you made pilgrimage to Our Lady of Lourdes you would be
required to make a long progress over stones on your knees. We
have no such long road here but length of time we have and your
knees will surely know the depths of your commitment to Holy
Mother Church before this night is out."
I fetched the aspergillum, stoutly handled with ash and bristled
with coarse horse-hair, and dipped it into holy water. "You have
dragons within you, my child," I said as I aspersed her back, her
shoulders, her buttocks, the water falling like the gentle rain of
god's forgiveness. "You have dragons that we must defeat if your
soul is to be saved. And, as our blessed Saint Martha slew the
dragon in a miracle by aspersing it with holy water, I too, with
God's grace, shall wreak a miracle here today."
And I hit her back with the aspergillum, as hard as I could. A
hundred tiny cuts opened up on her back, and oozed blood,
raspberry-red in the candle-light. Sister Celia shrieked but had
no way of moving away.
"My child, listen to me. Kneeling immobile as you are, you are
nevertheless on a Damascus road. When you achieve spirituality,
when you get to the end of that road, and not before, cry out in
your triumph, my child. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father."
I touched her gently on the buttocks with the aspergillum. She
flinched. I began a series of gentle strokes of the brush up and
down her buttocks and back. Her body trembled with the strain of
keeping steady and the strain of not flinching away. The sweat
appeared and mixed with the holy water and the blood and I
thrashed her increasingly harder, forehand, backhand, until the
point came where blood was released at every stroke.
Celia gasped and strained and cried but could not break free. My
manhood reared under my cassock and I realised that this was a
near occasion of sin for me. On and on, I beat her and on and on
she travelled on her Damascus road but did not reach the end, did
not achieve spirituality.
At last, in frustration, I tore my cassock aside and knelt behind
her. I plunged my manhood into her sinful depths and she
convulsed as she had not before.
"Spirituality, father, spirituality! Stop, stop, please stop,"
she cried and, buried deep within her, I felt her enter a state of
sin and an Christian love exploded out of me into her. I unbound
her and carried her to my bed where she slept the sleep of a child
of Jesus who is secure in her state of grace.
* * *
"Are you awake?" I asked Celia. She did not reply. I walked
around the narrow bed and saw her smiling gently up at me--a young
woman at peace, completely different from the tortured spirit of
the previous night.
Innocenta and Ruthie were waiting for us by the convent gate as we
approached. Seeing Celia's smile, they relaxed and smiled too. As
we got to them, they gathered her into their arms and hugged her
and she hugged them back.
"Amidst our arms as quiet you shall be
As halcyon brooding on a winter sea."
quoted Innocenta, and I watched from outside the gate as they
entered the convent and closed the big door gently behind them.
-----
--
-denny-
curmudgeonly editor
--
The more people I meet, the more I love my cat.
-unknown
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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