Scattering

Scattering
@aladreth antoinette brown


During the night he screamed.  She ran her long nails along his back and then tapped on him, "You are only dreaming.  Wake up."

Because she knew he did not fear anything, she wanted to know what he was dreaming.  What could have made him cry out in fear?

He told her there was a man at the third story window grasping to the screen. He had just climbed up and was staring in at them like a peeping tom.

"He was some type of killer, murderer, oh, something like that," he said.

"And, you were scared?" She asked.

"No, I was not scared," he protested, "I was screaming to warn him away."

"Well, I think you were scared," she smirked, "It sure sounded like a scared scream."

"You were standing behind me, so I was protecting you," he remarked.

"What did he look like?" She wanted to know so she could keep an eye out for this man should he appear in real life.

"He was a white man," he replied.

Well, that explained it all.  White men were to be feared.  Look at all the atrocities that have been done by white men.

Geez.  Men in general.

***

There was a boy clown and many other boys.  They were walking with Goddess and me.  Goddess was a tad bit older.  She had "sparkle" in her name but her sparkle was fading.  It did not matter to me, however, because she was still Goddess and had a way of grabbing me by the womb.

I liked it.  She could be rough and persistent and I preferred it that way.

I suggested the boys go try to fix things.  That is what boys do.  I like watching boys fix things but I like being with Goddess better so I suggested I give the boys a few trinkets and gadgets.  Maybe they could go and try to fix things.

I gave them a cardboard box.  I did not want to give it up because I thought it might be better suited for something of mine, but alas, they could have it if they would just move along.  I gave them other things that would keep them busy.

I had many doubts they could do anything.  Especially the clown.

Goddess reassured me if I gave them the magic stones in my jeans pockets it would help them to complete a task or two.

I didn't want to give up the stones.  But, I wanted to go.  Go somewhere with Goddess.

I took the stones out.  They were smooth, circular, and rose quartz.  I tried to remember what they stood for.  Peace, love, happiness ... something good like that.  No matter what they stood for, they were magic and would help the boys to fix things.

I kept the best stones for myself.  Goddess and I would need them on our walk back home.  We were in Butler.  Anything could happen in Butler.

***

He had not cried in months.  I knew he needed to cry.  I was slightly worried that he had not cried in so, so long.

The other night I asked him if he loved me.

He said, "Yes."

I asked, "Do you love me so much it makes you cry?"

He cried.

He cried on command, it seemed.  

I like this fellow.

But, I did not think it would be so quick.

It must have given me power.  His tears gave me power, for I went on to find relief many times in his capable hands.

***

It was a story.  An old story.  It was all the rage in France.  I had never read the story but I had heard many things about it.  I asked this fellow I like to read it to me.  He obliged.

I think he has read dozens of books now to me.  More than anyone has ever read to me.  He moistens his mouth, clears his throat, and reads.

Sometimes I am irritated if the book is getting in the way of sex.  Like that Annie Dillard novel was always getting in the way of sex.  I like sex and hate to be interrupted from having it.

Sometimes I am overjoyed to have someone's voice as I do not like to be alone.  The sound of his voice comforts me.  Even when he reads Edgar Allen Poe, I am truly calm.

Sometimes I am so engrossed in what he is reading that I cry.  I cry, shake my head or nod in agreement at what is happening with the characters.  What the characters are saying or going through.  I agree.  I concur.  I went through it myself.  I am going through it now.

But, most of all, his reading aloud is an answer to a fantasy.  A fantasy of a man in chains at the end of my bed, holding my feet while reading me a nightly bedtime story.  Sleeping sideways until I undo his chains and allow him to crawl up to me.

Well, this last book he read was that story that was all the rage in France.  We liked the first chapter and then we hated the rest of the book.  We hated it together. That is a strong emotion to contain.

We once read a book where a woman was in handcuffs for the first 246 pages and we liked it better. We kept wondering when the author would let her get out of those damn handcuffs.  What power authors have.

I told him he did not have to continue reading the French book as it was frustrating him.  He felt it was, perhaps, the translation from French to English.  I told him, "No.  The book is crap in any language."

But, we had it under our belt.  I think it was about 3am when he finished reading it and we sighed but I begged him to 'fix' it.

"Please, love of mine, fix it."

"Fix the last scene."

"Fix it, fix it!!!"

He obliged and he retold the last chapter of the book in the form and manner it should have been told in.  A little black rodent of the age of 15 was pecked at with the talons and teeth of a beautiful majestic owl as she swooped and danced breasts flinging two and fro.  And I had a powerful orgasm.  It was a wonderful fix.  A fix to end all fixes. I forgot the evils of the story.  I forgot how it had frustrated us both.  It was like there was no more story except the story he had told and within minutes all was well with the world.

It is much like that now with him.  I remember telling him of the hope I had when I saw a bee on the two toned pink flowers of the desert willow of the run down and neglected home.  He said nothing.  But, I felt he knew as I have figured so recently that 'nature finds a way.'

At times I thought I might be tricked and that he was not a man.  He was Jesus.  I was sure I heard the voice of Jesus in his voice.  My mother says I think him to be the Messiah.  I now jokingly call him my Messiah.

Make no mistake, at the end of the day, I know he is not Jesus.  I know he is not the Messiah.

He is just a little clown boy who fixes things.