(S)praying For The Country

Dear God,

Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?
I haven’t had so much excitement since I was a but a child and that big, burly farmer bellowed at me to, ‘Get the fuck out of my wheat field, ya wee bastard!’
Peed my pants that day, I can tell you. Gave a whole new meaning to crop spraying.

And that fellow was so out of order. It was, after all, a devil-may-care moment, shared, I’m sure, by all normal children from time to time.
Honestly, who hasn’t, in the flush of exuberant youth, cast off the yoke of obedience, thrown caution to the wind and trespassed on someone else’s property? I like to think of it as my ‘Buckfast in the park’ moment. Pissed, at least, in one sense of the word. Har, de, har, har!
Such japes.

I should, of course, have left those days behind for good and followed daddy’s advice. ‘Be a good girl.’
Such wise words.
He was quite the sage, you know. Well, you would know.
I learned so much from him.
Although he did have the unfortunate habit of speaking in cliches.
Ah, but he was so strong and stable.
And I did take his advice.
I was as good as good can be.
But, Jesus wept, (my bad), it was so boring.

People used to look at me like I was some sort of robot. Always doing as I was supposed to do. ‘Tess the Tame’, I once overheard someone whisper. Well that, and ‘Little Miss Pee-Your-Pants’.
Can’t trust anyone to keep a secret, I’ve found to my cost.

I suppose I just had to rebel at some point.
I’ve practised quietly for years.
Doing little things here and there, you know.
Never accept a court judgement.
Make stubbornness an art form.
Under no circumstances, give in. Except sometimes. Stamp a metaphorical foot in the recesses of your mind.
Curse them all. ‘Ya cunts, I’ll have you, one day!’
So liberating. In a mental, internalised, repressed sort of way.

And another wheat field day arrived.

How I longed to relive that glorious, carefree day. Without the final flood.

I felt sure, this time, that I would get away with it. I was sure I had the farmers and everyone else on side. I had practised speaking naturally till I had it almost off pat.

I had traipsed all over the country, talking to a few people in barns and the like. What is it with me with farms and isolation? Might need to work on that too.
I had even, as one does, practised, to the mirror, keeping my face composed at all times, so that no one, no, not even daddy, would know what I was thinking. All those, ‘fuck off ya trumpet’ thoughts were so well contained, apart from the odd twitch of my lips when I almost came right out and said it.
‘It’s my party now! I’m in charge! I’m head girl! Getyersel’ tae yer ain wheatfield!’
I had it all carefully organised.

And then I peed my pants again.

Thank god for Tena Lady.
I have shares in them, you know.
Always be prepared.

And now that corn-coloured, flop-haired saboteur is on his bike again, working up what passes for a sweat in the crack of his arse.
Waiting in the wings. Ready to steal my thunder. Undermining me at every turn. I don’t need his help for that. I can do things by myself. I have words. And stuff.

I’ve always been a loner, though.

Didn’t do naughty till that day, back then.
The shame of it haunts me still.

I’m not saying I’m going to flip. That would be so middle-class. And daddy wouldn’t have approved.

But, I swear to god, if I hear one mention of ‘pishing it’, I’ll sell my shares in Tena Lady and spray this country from Land’s End to John O’ Groats.

And, with the wind in the right direction, so, help me, Ireland will taste my piss.

I will be remembered as the biggest piss artist of all time.

Got to be remembered for something, after all.

Amen.

(source)

gods in the heavens…..all’s right with the world…..

Warning. Contains sexual references.

I’m attempting to work my way through the alphabet based on myths and legends. This is my offering for G. It’s not part of the April A-Z challenge as I couldn’t figure out how to enrol for that! D’uh!

 

 

Votive candles charged the night. Suspended in glass from trees in the glade, their whispers of smoke rose to the heavens.

The gods glanced down and shook their heads in wonder that still they were appealed to, despite having relinquished the right to interfere in matters below millennia ago.

Amid chatter and wine flagons they looked on and viewed the kaleidoscope of colourful candles with a mixture of despair and puzzlement.

Dancing below the makeshift candelabra was a myriad of creatures intent on eliciting a response from deities long dead in interest.

Heavenly cavorting took up a good deal of their time. Not that they were in short supply of that commodity. But still, it was nice to rest now and again from semi- permanent orgasm. Even eternal ejaculation had its limits of pleasure. In fact, truth be told, time and titillation were hanging heavily on their hands. There was only so much frolicking anyone could do. And the new laws on monthly monogamy were proving to be something of a trial for a number of deities.

Tcanchin  worried away at his erection and wondered if he might go again. He had a slight itch and speculated whether Faunus might have been responsible. Or might he have caught something from himself? He checked out his vagina and all seemed well there. No, he was pretty sure that whatever was causing the itch was not of his own making.

He picked at his penis a little longer and wondered which of the fauns had caused the itch. They were such sluts among themselves and were the only ones exempt from the law. So it was difficult to be sure.

He grew bored at his own meanderings and caught sight again of the carousing below. A thought occurred.

Conclave called, the gods gathered and discussed the incessant demands from earth. Argument flowed to and fro. When it had exhausted itself and they were back to their origins Tcanchin decided it was time to speak up.

His suggestion was well received and it was decided. He, as the only hermaphrodite, should be the one to revisit earth and check out possibilities for further excitement. Perhaps some intervention might pique his interest and the fallow connection could be re-established.

Tucking his mighty warrior into his belt he gave a shout to his peers and disappeared from the heavens in a shower of glory and good luck cheers.

Excitement bubbled within at the memories of maidens and youths who had previously succumbed to his charms despite their best efforts at resistance. Now, exempt from the laws of heaven, he fairly felt the sap rise within at the possibilities. Such a pleasant change from the eternal assured gratification.

And Tcanchin was nothing if not a player. He would give them a fair chance. There really was no fun to be had in weaving spells that allowed easy conquest.

From the depths of the forest a greater light shone than the candles now almost extinguished.

First one, then the others of those gathered, glimpsed the haloed form. As one they fell to their knees and began to chant in exultation at this evident answer to their prayers. One had come among them whose lightened aura proclaimed him a heavenly being.

Aware, suddenly, that he had omitted to dim his internal light Tcanchin cursed to himself and thus diminished his glow.

Slowly, the supplicants rose and approached what now appeared to be a mere mortal. Some, however, caught sight of the twinkling light that remained in his eyes and were drawn more readily to him, just as he had intended.

Momus hid among the foliage determined to remain quiet and prevent mischievous mirth from rising to reveal his hand in matters. He had waited a long time for revenge for his expulsion from the heavens. The frolics could begin. How he had missed this connection with gods and man.

Tcanchin allowed the devotees to gather closely. Time, he knew, to establish some adulation and reassert supremacy of the deities. Time to relieve the tedium. Time he had plenty of. And it no longer hung heavily.