»
Archives
»
Open Poetry #49
»
Homecoming.
| Open Poetry #49 |
|
Homecoming. |
|
|
Cari Member Posts 411 Englnand |
Haven’t had time to write any new poems, so a little short story I hope you will enjoy. * * The old bus grated to a lower gear and gave the climb a second try. Wheels bounced over ruts and a stone, tired suspension springs groaned in protest as the bus reached the crest, leaving behind a comet plume of dust and diesel exhaust. The few passengers adjusted their bottoms for more comfort on the wooden slat seats and relaxed, just a kilometre remained to journeys end. Juan de Dios Sara turned his head to the window and looked through the pitted blood currants of squashed flies, beyond to the beauty of the blue mountains of the Sierra del Segura. He struggled to focus on the moving glimpses of memory. The bus wheezed thankfully to a stop in the tiny square. Broad hipped women gathered baskets and shopping bags jostled their way down the centre aisle and out through the open door, ignoring the hopeful tip box. The driver consoled himself with a cigarette and asked Saint Cecelia for the hundredth time what sin he had committed for him to be condemned to this lousy run. Juan de Dios Sara followed slowly; crumbling vertebra had arched his spine, greedy pain searching for a new home had long since found his hips and knees. He stood for a moment in the square. Yes, there the drinking trough and to the right, up the stepped path was where the little tower of Santa Maria pointed the way to heaven. Juan de Dios Sara smiled, he was home. From light to shade he blinked away the temporary blindness. The bar resting in the afternoon siesta held four card players gambling for a few pesetas; a bored figure in a grubby full length apron leant against the bar. Juan ordered wine a Chorizo tapas and seated himself at a corner table. Time, bought with rough wine meandered through the long afternoon. Alcohol loosened shards of memory; dreams like old friends returned and were grasped and savoured. A torn tourist poster advertising a local Corrida caught his eye. He smiled and shook his head. A charade for the unenlightened, a show for the white bellies as the posing nonentities seeking glory in the assassination of milk cows. His mind recalled that hot afternoon in Linares. The fifth bull, a mighty Miura blooded, untamed. Manolete the master, small and standing proud, grateful for the courage of his partner in the dance of death. Two-- three passes, ever closer, the blood of the Miura staining his chest. The last act, the suerte de matar. The cursed gust of wind that took the muleta to your belly; ah Manuel, you took too long to die. The sergeant blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Sorry sir, I thought I had”--- “Where is he?” “I’ve put him in the back room, we found him on the road to the church” “Effects?” asked the sergeant. “A few pesetas, by the look of him a gypsy, a stinking Gitano.” “Nothing else?” “This old suitcase, I haven’t opened it yet” “Then do so” The young police officer untied the string and opened the lid. On layers of tissue paper lay two letters. The sergeant leant forward lifting the paper covering. “What the hell” The sergeant let his hand caress the white silk, and then he reached for the letters. “Your stinking Gitano is Juan de Dios Sara and this" He said, pointing to the silk bundle. "Is his ‘Suit of Light’ ” He replaced the letters and closed the case. “I saw him once in Seville, he was too old for the ring but his work with the cape was still a thing to behold. The courage is in the feet boy, at the pass they are still, only the coward dances. The one worthwhile man this dammed hole produced has returned to us and by god that fat pig of a mayor will pay for the finest funeral this town has ever seen, or I will take a closer look at the town hall expenses.” He laid his hand gently on the battered case. “Welcome home Juan de Dios Sara” * * Authors Note. * Manolete, mentioned in this story, was a real life bull fighter and was killed in the bull ring at the town of Linares. He died in August 1947 following a goring in the upper right leg as he killed the fifth bull of the day, the Miura bull Islero, an event that left Spain in a state of shock. The rest of course is fiction. |
||
| © Copyright 2016 Cari - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Redstart Senior Member
since 2014-05-16
Posts 535 |
I really enjoyed the read. The old hero returns, and they don't know. Comes back to die; an old warrior of the ring. Killing bulls? We all eat them, and placing your own life on the line is an honorary way to kill, or be killed. |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
