literature

Francesco

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Literature Text

The rough linen and wool warmed his frail, pallid body as he lay stretched out on the makeshift bed in his little church. His eyes, which he kept close, were burning and swollen. Blood still seeped from his open wounds. It was late in the autumn afternoon, leaves falling from the trees in their spectacular array of colors. They were crimson, orange, and saffron like the fine clothes that gay daughters of nobility wore when the summery days had been warm and sweet. Snow would soon fill the valley, and the mountains already wore their white caps of winter. His donkey stood at the foot of the bed, and his dearest friend knelt at his side. He could barely see either of them, but their scents told him that he was safely in their care. He could also hear his donkey nervously shifting around on its hooves.

"Clara, Clara," he whispered hoarsely. His bleeding hand clutched hers. Yellow discharge mingled with his tears, and yet he smiled. "I have always been so certain of a heavenly kingdom, and yet I'm afraid to leave." His voice quavered.

The woman was serene, never weeping because she had seen the end coming. She was in the prime of her life, but to many she was already a middle-aged spinster for not marrying when the flower of her maturity had just bloomed. But she felt that she had happily married her faith.  "What makes you so afraid, Father?"

"I don't know." He chuckled through his quiet sobs. "I could never let go of my friends very easily. God is calling me away, and yet…." His weak arms tried to pull her closer. "If only I could gaze on you one last time, my child." His arms trembled as he spoke. It was his destiny, like all men, to take this journey into the world beyond. "I have always been very bad at saying goodbye. I think this is no exception."

"We will see each other in heaven, Father." She kissed his brow, embracing him. The sun wouldn't linger much longer.

"Clara." He forced himself to open his diseased eyes despite the pain. He saw a blurry image of her face, just as he had wanted. "My pious friend."

"Francesco, my spiritual father."

A shaky breath escaped his lips as he clasped her hand. "Please. Sing with me."

"I will be singing with you forever." She hummed one of his favorite tunes.

Though his voice was reedy and his throat stung, he sang with his fading breath:
"Lord, I cry unto thee
Make haste unto me
Give ear unto my voice
When I cry unto thee…."

Everyone in the little church seemed to hear him. The last words of his prayer floated through the ears of the listeners when the last rays of the sun fell from sight. There was silence, and there was darkness.

Clara led the donkey back into the manger. There was something falling from its eyes, as if they were tears. But when she led it into the hay, she fell to her knees. The donkey laid down next to her. As well as she had known that the end would come, the knowledge did not lessen the pain when it finally came to pass. She wept on the beast's neck. As much as her heart ached, she was relieved to know that the man she called father would, at last, be at peace.  


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Buildings were the closest things humans could have to immortality. But after the reign of destruction, not even buildings could last forever. The Umbrian countryside was a scorched and rocky place. Where meadows had once flourished, only the salted soil was left. No trees or even shrubs could grow. The grass lucky enough to thrive grew in small clumps.

The enormous temple in Assisi was like the rest of the city: a large pile of rubble. Some structures still stood to show that it had once been a magnificent place dedicated to the saints born in Assisi's streets. Many people had abandoned it because the soil was no good. The friary was non-existent. On some of the standing walls, one could almost make out the iconography painted their centuries ago.

It was the crypt of the church's saint that had suffered with the temple. Cracked and battered, the great tomb's stones had either removed to build houses or just turned to dust. The iron around the tomb had been taken long ago so people could melt it down into something useful. The same fate came to all the riches and treasures contained in the church.

There was one thing that had survived, however. In the crypt were a collection of old bones. They were caked and covered with dust so that no one even knew what they were. But intact by some miracle they rested undisturbed amid the rubble. It was as if they were waiting.

Of the people who stayed, they were desperate. Even if the old ways of the Church had been forgotten, they began appealing to something more ancient: the old pagan practices. The fact that the crypt had survived such earth-shattering strife and catastrophe could only mean that it possessed magic. The Umbrians made pilgrimages to the site. They took little bits of the broken stone as amulets. Elaborate paintings and poems became part of the dilapidated structure, the people using wild berries or charcoal as their ink. One clever person had even made a little mosaic from rocks.

The animals. So many animal bodies. Beloved pets and livestock were led here so it could be their final resting place to demonstrate to the saint how much they ached. They wanted their cows and cats back, their dogs and donkeys. All prayed for their animals to be revived and born anew just as it would come to pass for the humans. Nothing had come. So the bodies of animals were wrapped in linen, just  like their human caretakers. They were given the same rites. They were treated as if they had souls.

It seemed that this would remain as such forever.

And then someone did something very, very stupid.

Apparently this someone wanted to play a prank. And he—this someone—had a little magic to spare. It seemed like a great idea at the time.

It was  on the day of a summer storm. Thick, dark clouds clustered overhead. The magician walked into the crumbled building amidst the great strewing of animals and icons and paintings and poems. He walked to the great crypt which seemed so delicate that it could turn to dust in his hands. The bones were also delicate like paper. He laid them out in the likeness of the saint.

Standing before the bones, the magician uttered an incantation which no other ears heard.

The wind seemed to pick up a little as the incantation's words resonated in the temple ruins. The rain drops fell from the sky crystal-clear. They hit the bones and turned them white. Shortly after cleansing them, the rain would turn red upon impact.

The carcasses that still held some flesh began to groan. Cows lowed and chickens cackled. Shaking off their linens, the corpses moved clumsily toward the human skeleton. Some of them had only their sinews. When they stood up, some lost their entrails which fell in a mushy pile underneath them. Some of them couldn't even make a sound because their tongues and throats were too decayed. Ignoring the others, they formed a circle around the saint's bones. They called to the sky as if praying to divinity. Blood was pooling underneath the skeleton.

The rain seemed to replenish the decaying flesh, giving it new life. Little morsels of skin and muscle dropped off the animals before slithering onto the skeleton. A pig gave up his lungs; the animal gasped and staggered away while more of its self came apart. The lungs found a proper home in the ribcage. A cow donated her eyes; she lied down next to the bones so the saint could take the rest. The muscles of the man slowly became apparent. The chickens gave their throats, the goose his liver, and the dog her spleen. When they had presented their gifts, the rotted creatures would return to the resting places.

The last animal to leave was a mule. Flesh writhed and settled in, creating a full human. The mule was completely naked because she had given up her hair. She bowed on her weak, ailing knees. Opening her mouth, she coughed hard onto his lips. After licking his face a few times with her maggot-eaten tongue, she stumbled beyond the ruins to die a second time.

Only when she left would anyone realize that she had given him the most important gift of all: Breath. The man gasped, sucking in the first wind of life.
Huzzah!

This are two short pieces I wrote for another project that got defunct and never really off the ground. I'm really fascinated by the life of St. Francis of Assisi. He struck me as someone who, despite this whole divinity thing going, would have been very human. But I like him because, according to the accounts, he found a way to cope with the anger and the strife that he encountered in his life. He found a way to psychologically cope with the harrowing events of his life and of other peoples' lives, and he coped in a way that was incredibly constructive. Regardless of religion, you have to admire someone who can come away from being a prisoner of war in the 1100's for a total of two years and not want to just murder people after that. This is way before any thing in the way of mental health. A person who can deal with the hell of war and come out of it a better person has a bigger spine than I could ever hope for.

The first scene was something sweet. The second is something fanciful where I was going for a bit of body horror and some religious imagery. Hope you enjoy both.
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Talionas's avatar
St. Francis the zombie creeps me out...as all zombies do but that's beside the point.

love the fic ^_^