Shared - Two Cups of Tea

Rain;
Laughing at the window.
Thought I saw your face.
Only cloudy images,
On my window pane,
And all I hear is rain;
And things I tried, to say.

- Concrete Blonde

Storm clouds brewed over head. Oman watched them churn and threaten. In some ways they mocked her as they turned their blooming shade of charcoal gray. They reminded her of great loss, utter sorrow, and life changing heartbreak. The rain that came soon washed away any doubt that somehow we live on after death. It wasn't the first time she'd had the inclination to imagine such things, for if there was a City of Dust, then they were all surely there, their ghosts, raining down on her now. Taking whatever melancholy broke free of the prison-like box she compartmentalized it in.

Fog began to roll in as the sun settled in the horizon. Just as she rounded a street corner a chalk drawing melted into the street. She paused then, proudly, to watch the slow rush of water into the grate, swirling in color defiantly around the iron bars. Once, she had known an Artist. Just like the one who painted this temporary reminder, he was living and breathing. No more, though. Now he is but a bloodstain on the wooden floor of a row-house in Port Kar. Like this chalk, his blood had drained through the cracks into the canals. The sin of his death; of his murder, washed away. The Accountants had seen fit to remind her that she is always of the Black. That this is the life you sign on for, and these are the prices you pay. Steep, as they may be.

The Rabid Sleen's sign creaked in protest. Behind its door there was the raucous laughter of men doing what men do. Inside, on a top tier above some dancing sands, her Sister Savana sat. Oman scanned the crowd to find her. The thoughts proceeding her arrival might seem melodramatic to some. Others still, might see them as a means to an end. Somewhere in those constant reveries she found the sense to procure what she needed in a way that was diplomatic rather than demanding. The two Women met and adjourned to a sidebar, an office, where they could speak without the worry of appearances and expectations. Over their second cup of tea their conversation came understanding and to a degree, trust between them.





" I have come with a request for Names, " The Sea had said.

" I can provide you with Names, " The Crossroads had replied.



Some sin, never washes away. Some sin, stains. But for the Two there can be no regret.

Al Hallaj

Il mio cuore ha occhi che vedono soltanto per voi e sono completamente in vostre mani. Al Hallaj (10 C.)

-Hassan Massoudy

Thread is ripping.
The knot is slipping.
Blindness.
-U2


Knifed.


Bloodstains between us.

I cleaved a niche, crawled inside.
Average Vessel, last Vestige.
Insignificant weight
These leavings of Hate.


Fetal comfort. Love.
Marked, my only sworn Stone.
Its' scar thick walls sealed.
Fused and Healed.


On a rooftop I seeped.
Gone from over your bone.
Drink of my vine.
Threads of silver twine.



Tethered.

Reciprocity

In 1907, MacDougall weighed six patients while they were in the process of dying from tuberculosis in an old age home. It was relatively easy to determine when death was only a few hours away, and at this point the entire bed was placed on an industrial sized scale which was apparently sensitive to the gram. He took his results (a varying amount of perceived mass loss in most of the six cases) to support his hypothesis that the soul had mass, and when the soul departed the body, so did this mass. The determination of the soul weighing 21 grams was based on the average loss of mass in the six patients within minutes or hours after death. Other studies were soon put forward to confirm the results. Experiments on mice and other animals took place. Most notably the weighing upon death of sheep seemed to create mass for a few minutes which later disappeared. The hypothesis was made that a soul portal formed upon death which then whisked the soul away.





I want my 21 grams back, Mother Fucker.







" I saw him," she told her own reflection in her Mother's antique mirror. At times, the distinction between who she is, and, whom she must become is a finite line. World's collide. Tides break. Men fall beneath the ink on a brow. She was trying to convince herself that the delusion of it all, was real. Needing it to be real. The cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the vanity. Through the furl of smoke, she saw her Mother's eyes, so pathetic, weak, and watery pale. Like her Father's ashes. Dust.




In the other room she heard Basle, " Oman, they are here," he knocked gently on the locked door. She flung the paintbrush, with its ink loaded bristles, at the mirror. A hand smeared the stain in large circles. Lineage obscured in the opaque paint. Oman turned her hand over looking at her palm. Black. The Men waited. Seven couriers, bringing the package to her target.




"Drink your tea," another Ghost said behind her, recovering the thrown paintbrush and dipping it into the bottle. With a deftness of memory, she was painted.