THE TRAGIC DEATH OF DRY HEATHER.RIGINAL.
The small thatched-roof Scottish cottage set in the hills of Ericaceae stood not so much as a threat to its surroundings,more of a tiny ornamental defiant lean-to supplement. A bright white hiccup stamped by nature's branding-iron of morphological randomness, to frame a God-scented splay of the picturesque.The small windswept village was named after its wealthy unhealthy coal-mine owner Bruce 'flower power' Ericacea. The happy village was 'Brucesified.' A ramshackle life propelled the big blustering loveable handyman into the mines. He saw the potential, grabbing it with strong eager hands. A man who shared his good fortune, loved his music, flowers, revelry. Most of all his tentative tether on life, his love for his enchanting daughter. Loved her more than life itself. Indeed, when life dropped a stern calling card. A rasping warning. Bruce coughed up the bloody hint, lit his pipe, poured himself a homemade, stiffer than the stiffest Scotch, poured another so as not to break the cycle of overimbibementary exhilaration of his particular life cycle. A devil may dare, raised clenched glass fisted Scotch mock salute to death.
When his smoke-damaged lungs protested Bruce lit another pipe, rasped uncrontrollably, stained another handerchief. Laughed uncontrollably with the village patrons at his laughter-strewn watering hole drinking an inordinate amount of mixed spirits to induce dancified impregnation of the scuff-marked clay tile floor.
The musical mayhem always featured his beautiful adopted daughter, the belle of the musical ball, rampant manipulator of young men's hearts. A bloodless unseen incision but the heart liasion breaks showed in the longing boy's faces and the swept-aside embraces as she flitted from one suitor to the other, pollinating desire then side stepping to continue her musical flight of lovelorn charades. Her love for her father surpassed all earthly temptation and she wept the night her father succumbed to his excess.
Death stood by impatiently as the last words were exchanged. "Marry yerself a young laddy Heather lass...be happy child...love him as much as I'll always love you." She held his pain-racked face gently against her bloodstained dress, wipeing blood from his frothing lips. "Even if I end up at the gates of Hell I'll send you a message of love, for you will always forever be my heaven...may God grant me...even from Hell to hear the sweet music of your life my child...my darling Heather."
(According to Scottish History covering the entire 'Ericacea' family Bruce E died in1846. Ericacea landmarks can still be seen. The scent of this story still roams Scotland. Look up 'Ericacea' for the story of a bloodless power cutting growth.).
Heather buried her father by a millstream diverted and engineered by Bruce. The distraught Heather shunned her wealth. The small sparsely-furnitured cottage described at the beginning of this story was built next to the grave, where for the next five years the broken-hearted devoted daughter prayed over her father's granite headstone pon which she placed fresh flowers religiously every day.
In a sculptured glass vase bust of her smiling father. The twenty-five-year-old shunned the men of the village. She lived a simple life. Only travelling to the village centre 4 miles distant to buy meagre provisions for she ate little in her grief. Please read NO FURTHER if you are overly sensitive.
A strange silent young newcomer entered the village. He was handsome, aloof. He didn't drink, smoke, rarely danced. The women were entranced by him but his work as a farmhand/gardener was his all encompassing passion. One of the old village gossips remarked sagely "that there young man has a dark evil streak. "Heather was feeling at loss. She had heard of the young man and requested that he come to her cottage to clear overgrown vegetation around her father's grave.
A knock on the cottage door. She opened the door slowly. The handsome young man removed his beret, he held a finely sharpened sickle in his work-worn hands. DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE!
"Name's Jack miss, Jack D Repper, you be wantin' some clearin' done I been tol' She felt uneasy, but strangely attracted as the dark eyes stared unblinking...a heady desire streaked with fear filled her body. She shrugged, "been alone to long" she thought to herself. She started to tremble with some sort of anticipation thrill she hadn't felt in her grief. A longing. An unfulfilled indescribable passion.
"Come...come in Jack."Look, if you want to look up the full 'SICK' account check out the family name 'ERICACEAE' as mentioned...have to skip a bit of 'gory'. Jack rested the bloodied razor-sharp sickle on the rough-hewn table. Heather, cut cleanly, lay DYING on the table.
Jack smiled, let out a sigh as he fondled the dying Heather in his hands. "Not my business miss but yer Heather here been cut...dying. Would ye be wantin' me t cut some fresh n' fill this here vase bust with water?" "That's very nice of you Jack, that would be splendid...you're very kind. Been meaning to do it. Heather is dry." She noticed the blood on the sickle,Jack's bleeding hand."You've cut yourself! I'll get a cloth."
She picked up the cloth...looked into Jack's dark probing eyes, he reached his hand out to Heather. She dropped the cloth as his strong arm encircled her slim beautiful body. Her arm knocked her father's bust off the table, it lay grinning on the floor and rocked momentarily in rythm in anticipation of the two passionate lovers. The dry Heather cracked open...its buds forming a halo around Heather's blonde hair. "You're beautiful miss. A lovely flower" "Love me Jack, please love me! please don't stop!..."
Look! i didn't want Jack to get too deep into Heather as there's a fair bit of Heather sickle work to be done around the place. I mean some of these 'Jack' of all trades. I'll be blunt. Hope there's no adults around. Some of these 'Jack'of-all-trades, girls...quite frankly, if you let them, they'll root around all day!
FOOTNOTE: Heather put on weight. I mean she was eating for two plus herself. The villagers waved as the couple drove away in the late model Mercedes. Shit! hang on! They didn't have late model Mercedes in the 18th century? The Villager's waved their hands in front of their noses...as old Mercedes dumped a load of about four horsepower of horseshit on the concrete curbing then trotted off under his own steam...or should I say AWAY from his own STEAM! Shit!...they didn't have concrete kerbs in the 18th century!
The Villager's stood waving unhappily in mud up to their fannies as the 22" mags on the cart smoked horseshit,mud, and settled as the 'lockup' in the 9" diff kicked in...SHIT! they didn't have....................! cheers.
Heather put her twin boys to bed. Her dying father's words rang in her ears? How the hell can words RING in your ears? Did Heather have tinitus?
BRUCE: "Marry yerself a young laddy Heather lass. Love him as much as I love you." Don't listen to people's bullshit about how to write, do your OWN thing, tread your own literary path through the weeds of disappointment. I mean no-one taught me to write and look at the dickhead I turned out to be without anybody's help!
Don't suck up either! Wish now I did when I was offered that job in the ABC...and others. Don't suck don't self promote and with those words dear dear followers and dear dear readers and all those people who have encouraged me to be a dear dear dickhead I have one more thought. Don't listen to me! We'll all get there after a dry spell...look at Heather, how she went ahead in licks and bounds?
Just had a funny thought. "BOUT TIME" I hear yews say!" What if Heather's dad Bruce said these words to Heather on his deathbed. "Marry yerself a young lady Heather lass. Love her as much as I love you...? "SHIT! they didn't have lesbians in the 18th century did they?...or dildo ed they? cheers...