Saturday Morning Follies
Two bits of flash fiction, with a Masonic bent
Not long ago I wrote of my quest to craft a proper Masonic vignette. If you missed it, that post is here.
Days later, and I’ve still not managed to craft that vignette, but I have come up with two pieces of flash fiction, both posted below.
Now before you read them, let me warn you…
They are both a wee bit odd. Both are well outside the usual here on Emeth.
One of our regular commenters here, W:. Brother Glenn wrote in response to my vignette post that it reminded him of Snoopy, sitting atop his doghouse with his typewriter, imagining the world’s great novel.
As Snoopy began: “It was a dark and stormy night…” I channeled the famed Peanuts character and ended up with a bit of flash.
The second bit of flash is admittedly erotically themed. Not pornographic by any means, but probably ‘not safe for work’ either.
So, that’s your warning. The flash fiction below are flights of fancy. Fiction, not fact, odd, but both touching upon the lessons of Freemasonry. If that’s not your thing, I understand, and I’d advise not reading further.
Worry not, I promise the next post here on Emeth will be back to normal!
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
If Snoopy can do it, I can too
It was a dark and stormy night when I walked up to the door of the Temple on Ballard’s Market Street. I started to reach for the door, but it was opened from inside by a friend. My natural inclination was to smile and make small talk, but he’d have none of that. He was serious, virtually silent.
Within mere moments I found myself blindfolded and felt myself being lowered by the Temple’s elevator. My friend's hand firmly gripping my arm at the elbow. When the elevator stopped he led me on a walk through what I assumed must be the basement. The scent of must and dampness caught my attention.
Without a word I was helped into a chair. The blindfold was removed, and I heard my friend exit through a door directly behind me.
As my eyes slowly focused, a human skull on the table directly in front of me caught my attention. Eventually looking around the chamber I had been placed within, I realized that I was surrounded by images of death. The blackness of the room illuminated only with the steady flame of a single candle.
I looked down towards my hands and saw that they were resting on paper. That paper commanding me to contemplate my own mortality.
The Divine Feminine
A visit from the muse
Shut up in his dark bedroom, sleep hadn’t yet overtaken the writer, but it was close. Lying on his side, his eyes were almost closed, his body was relaxed, and his mind was growing quiet. He waited, in the silent dark, for sleep to embrace him.
The writer didn’t know how long he had been in that state when it was abruptly interrupted by his door being silently opened. The light now entering his room from elsewhere in the house was very dim, but in it he saw the muse.
It wasn’t her first visit to him, and as in the past, he found her form striking. A thin, taught body, nude except for the long hair cascading across her shoulders and down her back. He was motionless as she entered the room.
Reaching his bed, she gently pushed him onto his back. “You worshiped me well today, over two thousand words of flowing prose. For that, you’ll have a treat, a nice desert.” The writer thought he heard the muse, this Goddess say.
He lay still as she climbed into his bed and over him, pushing the blankets away as she did so. Gracefully she placed a knee next to each of his upper arms and when positioned as needed, she slowly sat on the writer’s mouth.
Captivated, he began to worship with lips and tongue. He felt the muse’s fingertips begin caressing his chest, but soon her gentle touch grew harder, more forceful. Her fingernails found his sensitive nipples, and pinching, squeezing, she transformed them into points of pain.
Lost in a heaven of her creation, the mortal writer worshiped his muse, his Goddess, as he suffered for her. Somewhere, deep within his soul, he remembered the mythological checkered pavement of Jerusalem’s first Temple. Black and white, good and bad, pleasure and pain.
The muse left, as quickly as she had come, and the writer drifted off to sleep. That night he dreamt of that checkered pavement. Dreamt of the lesson it teaches. That to truly know pleasure we must know pain, to truly know good we must know evil.
I close this odd little post with a thought from Louis L’amour:
“You asked if I have reverence? I have reverence for truth, but I do not know what truth is. I suspect there are many truths, and therefore, I suspect all who claim to have the truth.”
Solid prose on both accounts. Not quite outside the circumscription of the Compasses, lol.
I feel these could be snapshots within a larger story of one's Masonic journey.
I haved lived a few situations like this, bravo to you Sir, for knowing the difference betwixt a cable tow and cable chain. I am currently writing a novel that starts with a man eating a salad. "No great story ever started with a man eating a salad" is often said. "Wanna bet" says I.