Tuesdays...

frequently fly about making rude remarks to the other days and neglecting to wash up after supper. They've been known to be crude to their mothers, flatulent in school, and downright nasty to little old ladies who just want to cross the street in relative peace. They also often fail to change their socks.

What's so great about a day like that, hmm? I'd really like to know...but not enough to ask anyone else. Just enough to want to ponder curiously in my own general direction until I decide that I've had enough and want to go to sleep.

See, right now I've almost attained that mystical state, that miraculous state of "sleepy enough to lie down and drowse off in a few moments". Almost.

I did finish the book I was reading, however, and upon this reading discovered that yes, I really did indeed enjoy it a great deal, and probably will continue to enjoy it every time I read it hereafter. I'm contemplating bringing it to work tomorrow, but that would be ridiculous, and I probably ought to read something else instead. It isn't as though I've a shortage of books to be reading, after all. Quite the opposite, if you wish the truth.

...I really ought to be nicer to Tuesdays. It's not as though they mean to be naughty little beasts--they're simply misguided. But I don't really mind them being rotten scoundrels, and they know that, and that's why they tend to be so awful. They know that I shan't punish them for their misdeeds...

But this time they're sorely mistaken.

come out, come out, wherever you are...auntie alasanon has a special gift for you...

So far from falling, she tied her hair up and spun away.

we watched as things began to fall apart all around her, as the cogs that kept everything going smoothly began to shatter and their bits fly everywhere, as the sharp fragments of metal sliced into every piece of exposed skin...

she kept walking, despite the destruction around her. this, in and of itself, did not surprise us, nor did her casual acceptance of the danger she was in. the thing that startled us into action at last was her jaunty laughter--that she seemed so casual about the blood slipping out of her skin and over her flesh.

when the world had calmed and the dangerous rain of shards had ceased, she tied up her hair with a scrap ripped from her tattered dress, took off her shoes and started dancing. there was nothing more we could say. we gave her our blessings and left again.

we have never held all the answers, but it had become obvious then that, even if we had held the heavy truths of life in our precarious grasp, she would not have wanted them. she had her own beauty, and that was enough.

this week is fiction week it seems, which suits me well enough, because fictions are abounding. simple fictions, complex fictions, and some fictions that seem to be reality...they are collecting themselves and waiting for someone to pick them up.

Endings are not the only thing worth looking for.

The chanting grew louder as the ceremony drew to a close. There was little enough for me to do at the beginning--set the incense, light a few candles, wash the altar--but now that it was nearing the conclusion, I could only sit and wait. A light flashed across my vision and I glanced up, startled. The high priest had just accepted the great knife from his assistant. I could remember being in that place, proud to be the one chosen to hand over that gleaming instrument. At the thought I had to swiftly repress a dry chuckle; it would not do to interrupt at so important a point. He swiftly performed the ablutions, washing the blade and drying it gently in a stained cloth rumored to have been passed down through six generations of priests. Now it would be passed around the circle, and each man would prick the tip of his left index finger in salute to our god. It was a sign, you see, that they would continue to obey his commands for one more year, at the end of which the compact would be renewed. I myself had shown my well-scarred finger to the god at the start, by way of promise.

Nothing to do but wait as the knife went around. We had practiced this ritual until we could do it in our sleep--even the youngest member of the circle could wield that graceful weapon as gently and cleverly as a butcher. Six, seven, eight men now held their hands to the sky, showing the blood trickling down their palms clearly, their loyalty assured. The ninth faltered a moment, but at last completed his part with a trembling furor. Only four more...three...two.... The high priest was last, and began the crescendo as he twisted the knife, now lifted high in his right hand.

Two men, both burly (though each was known for possessing a gentle nature), separated themselves from the circle and walked clockwise around it, passing each other precisely as the high priest intoned the final incantation. The second pass was completed in silence, and they bowed to each other, to the high priest, and then, lastly, to me, sitting and waiting in my throne.

This was my signal, and I responded as I was supposed to, rising and bowing in return. They walked to me, and each took one of my arms. Together we walked to the center of the circle. There they pretended to force me to my knees; I made it easier by dropping as soon as they had each laid a hand on my head. I knelt there in the circle of my brethren, waiting for the knife to fall.