Kicking Sand In The Face Of Jehovah Read online

never could experience in the flesh. The pile of pictures grow and grow and inter me.

  I lie motionless, obscured from the world by a mountain of pornographic photographs. Dark fascinations. I struggle my eyes open. They see only black now where the bright blue sky should be. I turn my head to the left. Belle is now lying beside me, but Belle has aged. Aged beyond her time. The maggots have had their fill and her body tissues have liquefied. She lies a mass of skeleton in a pool of thick fluid. Under Mephistophelene’s watchful eyes of secrecy, and my lust to taste her, it has reduced my Belle to nothing. The scream from my lungs fail to penetrate the outside world.

  But suddenly light attacks me. I feels hot hands shoot through the pile of photographs which cover me, and unceremoniously I’m wrenched aloft. Mephistophelene has a hold of me. Her grotesque, distorted hands have me. I feel her nails digging into my arms. I also feel my blood break the surface of his skin at those points. Mephistophelene releases me, and takes a step backwards. She begins to claw at the red skin that encompasses her body.

  This I do not want to see, but cannot avert my eyes. The sickening sound of tearing flesh is all I can hear, but visual senses conquer audio as with the vermilion skin removed, Mephistophelene stands before me in her natural womanhood. Just as in the photos. But the photos lie. Mother, wife they do not tell the story of. Me, 13 years her junior sucked into an alluring crush on the 40 year old woman, who in turn would surely want to reciprocate with a stab at youth again. But of course she didn’t, she didn’t even notice the man who had been longing for years to lay with her.

  Obscenely, with my bride-to-be behind men, I still cannot resist my lust. For a glittering moment, with Belle obliterated, Mephistophelene beckons me forth. I approach the way I’ve wanted to do for five years or so. Something that I know which would forever remain a fantasy, should remain a fantasy, has suddenly been bestowed upon my reality. I reach a hand out towards her, panting hard as I long to feel her skin in my hands. All these years waiting for this moment. All those years of secretly coveting the married mother. But brutal, searing pain greets my touch. I cower backwards, clasping my singed hand. Mephistophelene laughing, revoking me, shaking her erudite head.

  I take more than one step back. I want to run, to flee into the arms of Belle where comfort awaits me. But now there is nowhere to run to. A black cavernous void surrounds my feet. I am teetering on a tall island, barely wide enough to support my feet. Shaky, on high, the jaws of Hell bubbling at the foot of my flimsy bit of earth. My tiny world.

  Mephistophelene has gone. She was never really there. Never one to be touched.

  Belle is back as she was, resting in her place across the chasm in the door of the Church. She looks at me longingly, begging me to unite with her. Below me, I feel the heat of our dearly departed guests rising from Beelzebub’s belly.

  Isolated.

  My love lust lost.

  Standing on the edge of my small world I close my eyes. No salvation in blackness. Only fear. “Where am I going?”

  A leap of faith. I flex my knees and push off with as much forward momentum as I can muster. I leap towards Belle, eyes closed.

  Something solid beneath me hits the soles of my feet. Good enough for me. I made it. I run, run with blinkers, eyes still closed.

  I run.

  I run.

  My lungs fight each other for air. I force my eyes once more to open.

  I blast through the Church doors and before I can spin around to drag Belle into safety with me, I hear sounds behind me. Shuffling, muttering. I turn my head to rest on my left shoulder.

  There, looking resplendent, Belle, escorted by her gangling father, glides down the aisle towards me. Her beautiful ivory dress flows with her, making her glide towards me. I let out an exhalation of some magnitude, releasing some stress. I can see everyone standing in the pews. Mum, Bessie, Anthea, Thomas and Paul. David, Suzy, Jason and Saul. Everyone is here. Everyone is here to witness our holy union. I turn to face front and the vicar before me smiles.

  Belle and I are side by side. Soon to be joined.

  The vicar starts to speak and I hear the words ringing in my ears: “Do you, Dexter Stanley Forsyth really want to take this woman before you and be comfortable being loved or do you want to walk back down that aisle to the buxom harlot that you lust after? Do you settle for being loved instead of waiting around in the hope that the woman you dream of having, the one temptress that you think you will love, comes along and offers herself to you? Do you settle for being loved, instead of loving?”

  The vicar is looking at me, anxious at the pause. I’m sure it’s not really what he said, but it’s what I hear. I feel the pressure rising again.

  The plain young face underneath the white veil next to me expects.

  I turn my head to my shoulder again. Behind me out of the corner of my eye I can see Helene striding towards me. She’s shedding her reptilian skin as she storms down the aisle, revealing her mature beauty and licentious pleasures of temptation.

  ###

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  Lee A Jackson

  About the author:

  I began writing in my mid to late teens, sequestered away in my bedroom in rural south west England. The writing was borne out of a need to express myself and to communicate with the world, something I was not good at doing verbally. It became an outlet for me and my writing grew with me through the years.

  For the longest time I had a fear of being forgotten and the way I figured to combat that would be to have a published book sat on a library shelf somewhere. I would have indelibly left my mark somewhere, long after I passed. To this day, the enduring nature of my words in print following my end, is comforting.

  Other titles by Lee A Jackson

  S & M

  A Soul of Stone

  A Cerberus Jaw

  The Salvation of Sam

  Twenty Miuntes Later

  Snow Falling in Colours

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