Pebbles Scattered Across The Land
Ron Morelli

I ignore the Chechen terrorists on the television.  Master would not have me watching that for it corrupts the mind, he says, and he needs my mind to be pure and open.  

If I'm good at my labor; if I allow the spirit to come into me and guide me; if I do as the soft white voices in my head ask me to do, then Master will reward me for a prize awaits after the possession has passed.  Sometimes it's candy, other times it's rum or flowers.    

I hear my heart beating in my ears when I regain consciousness on the floor.  The air is musty and chalk scented, and I'm back to being me with Master standing over me grinning with a nod.   

This tells me the spirit has told him what he wants to know. I've done good. Master will bid me to sit up, fetching a cool glass of water that nearly slides out of my hands when I take it, for the sides of the glass and my own hands are slick with perspiration.   

I nod a silent thanks, greedily drink and nearly finish before handing it back to him.  My arm sweeping across my mouth to wipe the wet from my lips.   

I will flow in and out of dreams tonight.  I will empty myself out like a pitcher and await to be filled once more.  My body will break apart from me like a thousand pebbles scattered across the land.  

First published: May, 2007
comments to the writer: Knob'sWriter@iceflow.com