Ecclesia (rewrite #575,797,680,541,003)

Ecclesia (rewrite #575,797,680,541,003)

A Story by Christoph Poe
"

Another rewrite. I'm trying to catch that WOW factor. Be blunt. Just if it's 's**t' then tell me why it's s**t. You can't hurt my feelings. :)

"
The heat blistered my chest as my sister pulled down the lace around my shoulders. She tugged and my griping quickly followed "Lorri, please, I don't want to look like a tramp--" and I was careful not to add 'like the women around me' (italics).

Lorri stepped back and eyed me from a short distance. "I just want you to look like something desirable," she explained.

'Desire' (italics), I stared in emotionless aggravation from the top of the stands across the beaten fields beneath me, and on to the wood line, and contemplated on its definition. If being desirable meant I would have to reveal the crease in my chest, then I did not wish to be chosen by the victor of the tournament.

"Please," my voice faded. I strained my concentration into my sister's eyes. "Let me be. I'm only here to watch the men fight. None of them will choose me anyways. I'm fine."

In defeat, my sister swiped the sweat from her brow. She circled, nearly falling, and she estimated the number of women who offered themselves to the victor.

I didn't take the time to look. "There's around four hundred women," I said.

"I'd guess three hundred."

"It doesn't matter, the odds are still low."

I wanted to be picked, to feel superior to every other woman in the village, when in truth any and every other woman towered over me with their 'gifts' (italics). Even if he picked me, they'd always have the upper hand--the god hand. Acceptance didn't come easy, but it came harshly enough and the burn scar under my stocking forced me to accept my giftlessness. A valuable and life changing lesson sat woven into the contorted flesh, and I was reminded of it every day.

I narrowed my eyes as the announcer rounded the corner, and stepped into the field. My sister grabbed my hand. "Do you remember these?" Lorri placed seven Bell petals in my hand. "When Mother had her garden out back? She'd carry the petals in her dress pocket for luck, and she'd give me and you one."

I nodded. "Yes Lorri, thank you." I said shortly. "Go before they bring out the fighters."

Her brow loosened as she kept a quiet stare. She remembered mother better than I did and she did everything and anything she could to remind me of her. I let go of the petals as the bronze clashed against the white of my skirt. Lorri watched them fall.

My voice came very low. "These aren't from Mother's garden. Mother's garden died a long time ago."

(To be continued)




© 2014 Christoph Poe


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Added on February 28, 2014
Last Updated on February 28, 2014

Author

Christoph Poe
Christoph Poe

Tuscaloosa, AL



About
Laughing might be my weakness, but my humor is the only characteristic that drives my positivity in this damned world. I'm a bit blunt at times, but always respectful >>and to be blunt, I expect respe.. more..

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