Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 27, 2004 15:39:17 GMT 1
(First published 1998 by Writing Space Publications in the literary magazine This Is –The Poisoned Chalice)
The original brief for this story being written was to 'Paint a Picture in Words' and that for a children's writing competition. Although never entered for that, the story certainly illustrates the potential of young people involved in the activities of the TRPD Therapy Writers' Groups.
THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE
Grandma's whole bearing drips arrogance. I mirror her contempt.
"You may help me milk the goats," she says, condescension slithering down upon me like mucus from her nose. Am I supposed to curtsy or prostrate myself at so great an honour? I do neither.
Daisy's muzzle flicks rapidly over the manger as whiskery lips gather morsels of coarse mix to be drawn in and pulverised between grinding jaws. She seems oblivious to those tensile, aristocratic fingers bent on molesting her udder. Stripping away precious nourishment with as little concern for the bawling kid outside as its demonical mother stood guzzling on the milking platform. (Don't know why, but I quite like goats.)
They are very alike, Grandma and the goat. Compare the aquiline contours of their nasal bones, up and out to matching hazel-green eyes. Onward to temple pulses throbbing in unison. Study the bony ridges of embryonic horns above each white crested brow. How their mandibles bulge rhythmically, bending themselves to the effort of their respective tasks.
Greed drives the goat to fill her belly but far more than that seeps through the pores of those taut, liver speckled knuckles as they strangle the last drop of life from each strawberry coloured teat. Knead. Close the thumb. Draw it down, finger by finger. Squeeze it out...
Knead. Close the thumb. Draw it down, finger by finger. Squeeze it out... Knead...
The ravaged udder begins to take on a flaccid, wrinkled appearance, echoing the withered fleshy folds of Grandma's jowls. A pair of discoloured tongues emerge from between firm, pale lips. One to savour crumbs and corn dust, the other to lap away rancid perspiration from the stubble of old age and depravity.
The odour of goat recedes. Overpowered by last night's Jamesons and the potent urgency of a craving returned.
The fingers tremble and strain. Daisy begins to fret, uncomfortable without the salve of tempting grain to dull the rasp of cracked, callused skin.
Grandma's tongue, insatiable now, begins to clack a premature death rattle. Saliva trickles into deep clefts bordering her chin. Eyes take on the psychotic glint of the rabid hunter lusting for prey. I recall the photograph of her mother, aged ninety-six, toothless and sucking at a clay pipe on a Connacht doorstep. They barely spoke for fifty years, you know. Like repels like, believe me. Who needs a crystal to read their future and take evasive action?
Sure, I'm a cynical bitch. The centuries have made me so. Honed me to a keen edge but
I'm not proud of it. (Who really wants to be immortal, Duncan MacLeod?)
"Put the bucket in the dairy," she says, staccato voiced, "then turn her loose and clean up in here."
"What about the other goat?"
"Let the kids at her while she feeds," Grandma says as she scuttles away, back to her master; shedding pretence into the weed-ridden yard with every desperate, faltering step. I believe she'd crawl naked through nettles to reach her precious Lord. (And her a good Catholic until the priest raped her at seventeen - not that her mother believed it. Things like that never happened in Ireland, you know, only in evil minds fed by the devil.)
"That's one way to avoid preparing a bottle," I mutter, under my breath.
God, but her ears are tuned. She stops, turns. I hold my breath. Watching. Waiting as her features contort.
"A bottle?" she screams. "Yes, you little bitch, I'm going for a bottle. You're enough to drive anyone to drink!"
I let her go with the goat and my blessing. Poor Gran. She does a great job of keeping me sober.
© T.R.P.D. – CDT Project, Ari - 1997
The original brief for this story being written was to 'Paint a Picture in Words' and that for a children's writing competition. Although never entered for that, the story certainly illustrates the potential of young people involved in the activities of the TRPD Therapy Writers' Groups.
THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE
Grandma's whole bearing drips arrogance. I mirror her contempt.
"You may help me milk the goats," she says, condescension slithering down upon me like mucus from her nose. Am I supposed to curtsy or prostrate myself at so great an honour? I do neither.
Daisy's muzzle flicks rapidly over the manger as whiskery lips gather morsels of coarse mix to be drawn in and pulverised between grinding jaws. She seems oblivious to those tensile, aristocratic fingers bent on molesting her udder. Stripping away precious nourishment with as little concern for the bawling kid outside as its demonical mother stood guzzling on the milking platform. (Don't know why, but I quite like goats.)
They are very alike, Grandma and the goat. Compare the aquiline contours of their nasal bones, up and out to matching hazel-green eyes. Onward to temple pulses throbbing in unison. Study the bony ridges of embryonic horns above each white crested brow. How their mandibles bulge rhythmically, bending themselves to the effort of their respective tasks.
Greed drives the goat to fill her belly but far more than that seeps through the pores of those taut, liver speckled knuckles as they strangle the last drop of life from each strawberry coloured teat. Knead. Close the thumb. Draw it down, finger by finger. Squeeze it out...
Knead. Close the thumb. Draw it down, finger by finger. Squeeze it out... Knead...
The ravaged udder begins to take on a flaccid, wrinkled appearance, echoing the withered fleshy folds of Grandma's jowls. A pair of discoloured tongues emerge from between firm, pale lips. One to savour crumbs and corn dust, the other to lap away rancid perspiration from the stubble of old age and depravity.
The odour of goat recedes. Overpowered by last night's Jamesons and the potent urgency of a craving returned.
The fingers tremble and strain. Daisy begins to fret, uncomfortable without the salve of tempting grain to dull the rasp of cracked, callused skin.
Grandma's tongue, insatiable now, begins to clack a premature death rattle. Saliva trickles into deep clefts bordering her chin. Eyes take on the psychotic glint of the rabid hunter lusting for prey. I recall the photograph of her mother, aged ninety-six, toothless and sucking at a clay pipe on a Connacht doorstep. They barely spoke for fifty years, you know. Like repels like, believe me. Who needs a crystal to read their future and take evasive action?
Sure, I'm a cynical bitch. The centuries have made me so. Honed me to a keen edge but
I'm not proud of it. (Who really wants to be immortal, Duncan MacLeod?)
"Put the bucket in the dairy," she says, staccato voiced, "then turn her loose and clean up in here."
"What about the other goat?"
"Let the kids at her while she feeds," Grandma says as she scuttles away, back to her master; shedding pretence into the weed-ridden yard with every desperate, faltering step. I believe she'd crawl naked through nettles to reach her precious Lord. (And her a good Catholic until the priest raped her at seventeen - not that her mother believed it. Things like that never happened in Ireland, you know, only in evil minds fed by the devil.)
"That's one way to avoid preparing a bottle," I mutter, under my breath.
God, but her ears are tuned. She stops, turns. I hold my breath. Watching. Waiting as her features contort.
"A bottle?" she screams. "Yes, you little bitch, I'm going for a bottle. You're enough to drive anyone to drink!"
I let her go with the goat and my blessing. Poor Gran. She does a great job of keeping me sober.
© T.R.P.D. – CDT Project, Ari - 1997