When a book is written, there is an inherent, implied, desire for the sharing of such writing To be discussed, disseminated, pondered, and advertised,
at the will of the reader, as requested by the writer in the simple act of publication/showing. Since this it technically a 'technological' verbal
story I own what I right....but have no writ, and it goes as such..........................
"The boy made her think. He made her think of things no
other V----- have ever considered while on her decks. Half his
life, she reflected, seemed to be considering how he saw that
life in respect to the existence of others. She had known of
-a, for all the other V------s had revered him in a cursory
way. But none of them had pondered the existence of the
divine, nor thought to see the reflection of divinity in life
around them. None had believed so firmly that there
was goodness and honour inherent in every man's breast, nor
cherished the idea that every being had some special destiny
to fulfil, that there was some need in the world that only that
life lived correctly could satisfy. Hence none of them had been
so bitterly disappointed as W----- had been in his everyday
dealings with his fellows.
"I think they're going to have to cut my finger off." He spoke
hesitantly and softly, as if his voicing of the fear might make
it a reality.
V-v---- held her tongue. It was the first time since the
accident that he had initiated conversation. She suddenly
recognized the deep fear he had been hiding behind his harsh
words to her. She would listen and let him share with her
whatever he could.
"I think it's more than broken, I think the joint is crushed."
Simple words, but she felt the cold dread coiled beneath them.
He took a breath and faced the actuality he'd been denying. "I
think I've known since it happened. Still I keep hoping...
But my whole hand has been swelling since this morning. And
it feels wet inside the bandaging." His voice went smaller. "So
stupid. I've cared for others' injuries before, not as a healer, but I
know how to clean a wound and change a dressing. But this, my
own hand...I haven't been able to muster the courage to look
at it since last night." He paused. She heard him swallow.
"Isn't it odd?" he went on in a higher, strained voice. "I was
there once when -a G---- cut a man's leg off. It had to be done.
It was so obvious to all of us. But the man kept saying, "no, no,
let's wait a bit longer, perhaps it will get better," when hour by
hour, we could see it getting worse. Finally his wife persuaded
him to let us do what had to be done. I wondered, then, why
he had kept putting it off, instead of simply getting it over
with. Why cling to a rotting hunk of flesh and bone, simply
because it used to be a useful part of your body?"
His voice suddenly closed itself off. He curled forward over
his hand again.And now she could sense the throbbing of his
pain, the beat, beat, beat in his hand that echoed every pulse
of his body's heart.
"Did I ever really look at my hands before, really think about
them? A priest's hands... one always hears about a priest's
hands. All my life, I had perfect hands. Ten fingers, all working
and nimble...I used to create stained-glass windows. Did you
know that, V-v----? I used to sit and plunge myself so deeply
into my work...my hands would move of their own accord,
it almost seemed. And now..."
He fell silent again. V-v---- dared to speak. "A lot of sailors
lose fingers. Or whole limbs. Yet those sailors still..."
"I'm not a sailor. I'm a priest. I was to be a priest! Until
my father condemned me to this. He's destroying me. He
deliberately seeks to destroy me. He and his men make mock
of my belief, when I try to hold my ideals they use them
against me. I cannot withstand what he is doing to me, what
they are all doing to me. They are destroying..."
"Yet those sailors still remain who they are, lost limbs or
not." V-v---- continued implacably. "You are not a finger,
W------. You're a man. You cut your hair, your nails, and
you are still W----- and a man. And if you are a priest,
then you will remain one, nine fingers or ten. If you must
lose a finger, then you must lose a finger. But do not use
it as an excuse to stop being yourself." She paused, almost
savouring the boy's astonished silence. "I know little of your
-a, W-----. But I know much of the V------s. What you
are born to be, you will be, whether it be priest or sailor.
So step up and be it. Let them do nothing to you. Be the
one who shapes yourself. Be who you are, and eventually
all will have to recognise who you are, whether they are
willing to admit it or not. And if your will is that you will
shape yourself in -a's image, then do so. Without whim-
An author of three faces, is it me? Is it not? Did I live this? Did you live this? Is the author really talking about cutting off of fingers?
Puzzle..........puzzle..........toil and rubble...........and kiss my bubbly flask
(Shats said it best................weird!...........or what!?)
Now you go ahead, you bored ats readers and tell me, secret society, who, what where and when....or not....? Did you even notice, smarty pants?
If you can not be bothered, please don't bother, for I'll not bother at all XxAa for now I must away to my fine fine flesh and cot, with nary a word
to say, goodnight sweet things, and may your light shine ever brightly though it is but night
edit on 3-5-2012 by AussieAmandaC because: (no reason given)