love in october

there was something, shimmering and fragile, at the horizon that caught his eye, he was facing west when heard her go down. he turned around, the friesian mare had gone to ground. constance must have felt the fore leg go, and tossed herself from the horse's back as the she, mayday, had pitched. 

everything moved slow, mayday tossing her head, constance scrambling on her hands and knees, the odd falsetto golden bars of light falling at angle through the october cloud cover. he blinked hard, once- twice, he could hear the blood pulse in his ears drowning out the terrified mare's shrieks. then they stopped, constance's black hands holding mayday's head and neck down- she had named her years ago after a james bond heroine. the friesian was the only thing he had ever seen blacker than constance. 

one hand over his mouth, the other, the left, at his neck. constance was whispering, he couldn't hear anything over the tidal roar of the crickets. she spoke to him. he heard only mayday's breaths, heavy and labored. she spoke to him. the grass had begun to yellow at the tips. she spoke to him. her eyes endlessly jett seem to plead, he couldn't tell if she was crying or sweating. she spoke to him- and he heard her -the second drawer in the barn-

he couldn't tell if her ran or walked, or if the hands of his that had taken to expressing his horror at his neck and lips had moved. he knew that he had to get what constance needed, to the barn, to the second drawer, back to that spot in the field.

it wasn't until he was back where he had begun, standing in the suggestive whisper of that western horizon that he felt the soapwood handle, smooth and worn. she spoke again, he stared at her. he looked to the east, the sliver of the inevitable on its horizon- the indifference of it's purple onset. she spoke again.

-i heard you- he said.

-then please- her again.

-don't you love her?-

-more than you could know - he was only thirteen. he looked at constance, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. mayday's mane fell loose at constance's knees. he didn't understand, the thing his hand felt like an anvil, his arm ached.

constance knelt to her ear. he heard her whisper to her in a voice so sweet he wasn't sure it came from her at all.- it's going to be okay my beautiful girl, my beautiful, beautiful girl-

constance touched the flat of mayday's snout, the stood. he raised his hand though he did not know how. he thought she would turn away, that she would drown herself in one of the horizons, but she did not. she stood there, arms limp at her side, her eyes flat as slate staring at mayday.

he realized that it was easier to remember a beautiful thing that had been lost than it was to live with a beautiful thing that had been hobbled.

and then it was so easy to pull that trigger and make her love just a memory.

On the Nobility of Masochism

a teacher walked through the forum, flanked as was usual by his two students, who walked side by side, though not together. the three of them passed through the decadent arches of those places they knew so well and spoke candidly about the sort of topics that interested them. they did this almost every day, passing through humanity, in it but not of it. the repetitive nature of their daily habits never dulled the novelty of their conversations that they pursued with poorly hid passion and who's value rarely was understandable to those people who happened,in passing, to catch the banter that passed through them. a stop as usual at the public fountain where the teacher would refil the bottle he kept at his hip, and his students would adjust themselves- the male ever dusting off his boots or adjusting his belt,the girl tightening the braids that pulled her hair tightly at her scalp, or pulling at the corset that held her figure underneath the dress her station required.
they moved into the loud temple district past the the drunken priests with their wine dyed hands and the virulent ashen faced doomsday criers. fools bought pigeons and cats for sacrifices, women with wild dyed hair pulled apart the intestines of goats scrying for futures.  occasionally they would stop, listen, turn to each other- the teacher asking questions and each student attempting to explain their thoughts.
near the end of the district there was a solitary man who spoke to no one. he knelt facing a wall, many times covered with sacreligious and suggestive graffiti which he quite obviously was oblivious to. with his left hand he held himself off the ground, with his right he used a small hand made whip, shards of broken pottery woven into the lashes to flail his back. he cried out not at all, only the sounds of the gasping breath accompanied the end of each shuddering effort.
the teacher turned to his students and asked them what each of them thought of the spectacle. the boy's face twisted in disdain, spoke to his teacher saying, 'i am surprised any person would treat themselves in such a manner.' the teacher smiled dismissively, though the boy missed it, as did the   girl for she could not take her eyes off the bleeding, bent man. not even turning back to her company she spoke, and the old teacher was sure, even though he had over heard her, that she had been speaking to herself, 'i did not know any Man could love himself so much.'