Goliath

Stories tend to be the same, with familiar plots and full of characters nothing more but clichés. Eternal fight between good and evil, which ought to be destructed by the time denouement arrives, and a Hero reluctant to be one who eventually dies. Simple stories of simple people which were plainly tied. Open-ended foreshadowings leading to climax so-called. Jaunty symbols tread on one another while inscrutable sub-plots indicate twisting plots. Reading asinine comic elements borrowed from altered vernaculars, reader simply leaves the chair unsatisfied.

With every line and word and syllable, this story is one or all of the above.

Before you it lies as follows...

Nights are known to mark the end of a day, concealing nature as we know it, covering humane errors and having them wait till bleached hours of the day. People retire to their beds, having dreams hopefully to lead them out from a mare's nest. Rapid eye movements, though, are to give them away revealing the nightmares where instead they'd rather be in a taxidermist hands.

This starts at a night very similar to those, in a rather expected irony.

One night among many when people slept – some in agony, some in excitement, and some just plain dead – and forgot to appreciate the world and all its living things, she was awake as usual appreciating some of nature's things, beloved pets and wildlife, posthumously. She was a taxidermist, stuffing the remains of lost loved animals generally.

That night, the night of the leap day, she was about to complete sewing her latest job with her usual assiduous style. She was checking each seam over and over again to make sure she had not left anything loose on her counter, which was in the middle of her workshop among the shelves on which there were no souvenirs, no family photos, no memories but a little rickshaw statue she timidly cherished.

She never liked receiving only the fur so always did she ask for the whole body to comprehend the posture and to purify bad aura and to apprehend a vivid state of the late one in a rather permanent way than its temporary life.

A pose to summarize its life was the important point.

And usually with fur it would be much easier.

Her phone rang. It was her father to celebrate her birthday.

"It doesn't happen as often, Abigail."

"Leap years are not annual, dad. It was your fault, you and my mum."

"Sorry, Your Grace."

Abigail was born on a leap day, which was one of the many reasons her father called her as Goddess. Goddess of exhumation. Goliath, a poet who also was born on a leap day many years before, came to her mind and so did his inaugural lines from his poem Lucifer as she was speaking on the phone to her father.

"When little, good was I told to be

Goodness never made me happy, though...

No sooner had I reached cloud nine than

I did not prostrate before earthly 'human'..."

"Have you met him after the divorce? He's been most desperate lately."

That was a question she did not want to answer or face under any condition, yet it was her father asking. She did not mind.

"No. And no I don't think he is or has ever been as desperate."

She still was sewing as she had made an odd mistake she rarely did or she dared admit. She was never mad at him, her husband. Her aggravation was merely of her own doing. She wanted to talk about it but was afraid to bore people redundantly; the mutual redundancy that co-workers have in short post-work chats in a bar or so.

"I don't regret... being loved... and left." She exhaled.

"You must have felt like having wasted your last five and a half years."

"Time spent making mistakes is not wasted, I call it wisdom and experience, instead."

"Angry?"

"No, not any more."

Not any more was she angry or as angry as before. No.

"Sinner" told they "Infidel is thee!",

Never consumed though I was stonned...

When "man" knelt down before man

I regained my honour against their omen..."

The corpse before her did not agree with her, though. The blood that was shed from the body onto the counter took different shapes as to remind those psychological tests applied to figure out patients' mental states. And the results on the counter did not tend to be interpreted as such healthy states of yours and mine. They were reflected previous anger.

No longer was she angry.

No reason left to be.

Her father hung up leaving her focused on the job at hand. She, once loved and forsaken now, was not ready to let go off of him yet. She thought her love would be eternal, endless as songs always had insinuated for all her life. And she was determined to keep it that way.

Fortunately, she just knew the way to achieve eternal life (or something like that) as she was a taxidermist as mentioned above, one of the few excellent ones. But it took her some time to remember his exact posture since she had to clear up all her fury to recall his most beautiful state, and some more time to forget the terror he was in when the knife first sank in his loins, later slowly finding its way to the groins, purifying him from his worst, which she yearns for the very moment that she was bound to tell everyone.

She wanted, needed to tell but just could not.

"Upon receiving their innate cruelty,

I was unable to bear standing blind...

Watching man sordidly serving man

Had me see that I was divine."

She had finished stuffing her husband or what was left of him, who once was bound to flesh and bone.

She had and shared life; she took back the life she gave; and now she was preserving it with perfect seams against her better judgment. A genuine goddess she was.

And like all other Goddesses of ancient world, as the night concluded

Yet, unlike all gods, who spoke their legends to people with bells and whistles

She sheathed her verses modestly inside her beloved one.