It could be I saw her, or maybe, I just wanted too. It might be I whispered her name, a time or two, and that’s the way she rose, like a young lady, with “lace in her soul”.
“Gethsemane”
She rises in swaddling cotton from reeds, with lace in her soul she follows the river, and somewhere close by she senses the bay, the place wicked boys come to play wicked games. For what she remembers so cloudy in mind, the syllables of her name seem to rhyme. It could be under the bridge, or maybe only due south through the gate in the mist, but somehow she only knows. Her whispered name on a rose. The one her daddy gave her in play, a garden for Christ he always would say. For unto who is given so much, here by the swamp, now fare thee by luck. The preacher would laugh, as he stayed, inside her forever, his large belly naked and grey, oh he played with a wicked game. He taunted with a wicked game.
“Gethsemane”
Her body fills wet from the surge of the bay, the suns almost up, and she must go away, but in her mind she prays. The places at sixteen a girl could go, riding her horse with her bonnet to show. Through Bagdad to Milton, the county boys know, she is a lovely tow, with the garden of Christ, on your arm. There you go, a smile upon your face. The dear farmer’s daughter, with lace in her soul. The humid hot sunshine, the streets all aglow. Please make a way, her thoughts from the past begging how to know. The place that she entered and what sin did sew, in all a wicked game. In all it was a wicked game.
“Gethsemane”
As she slips through the dawn, the mud cools her toes, her restless spirit, makes her a ghost. She died under the waning Gibbous his hands on her throat, her nakedness displayed, white under the moon, she strayed. And over and over the water it flows, a Sunday night missing, while they seek her by boat. The preacher looking, the scratches hidden under his cloak. He’s laid her all away. In swaddling cotton, in reeds by the bay. The garden of Christ, with lace in her soul, she gathered herself, refusing to play, those wicked, wicked games. Those wicked games.
“Gethsemane”
Gethsemane Simmons, was murdered, and hidden away near the East Bay, close to Bagdad, Florida, on Sunday, August 18, 1867. There was a waning gibbous moon. – 08.18.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל
OMG this is so good, it leaves me cold! 😉
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Thank you Linde, I am happy you liked it.
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It was a pleasure to read it! 🙂
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Well this left me with a shiver or two myself. Fantastic writing!!!
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Thank you. 😉
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I came riding in on the southern Gothic tag, and bless your heart I was not in the least disappointed. 😉
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Thank you. I do love Southern Gothic.
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I do too. You did justice with this piece. Please more! 🙂
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This is down right creepy, and I loved it. Is it based on a true story?
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Thank you Jamie. Yes it is based loosely on a true story.
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That then makes it all the more creepy. I am glad I read it while it was still light outside. 😉
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“Lace in her soul” is a fascinating line. I love reading your writing. I always wonder whats next???
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Thank you Lynette. I love it when it surprises people. 🙂
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I would love to sit and talk with you about where you get your ideas for writing. Would you be open to an interview with my publication?
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You bet. I would be thrilled. 🙂
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I will email you the info, and we can set up a time for the near future.
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Great writing Daniel!
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Thank you.
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i always think the branches and leaves of trees look like lace, against a full moon….perhaps it’s silhouetts of a soul leaving this earth
haunting music seems to whisper her story….
I too would like to sit down and talk to you… your stories seem to come through from the otherside …
Take care…You Matter
maryrose
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Thank you Mary Rose. I would love to talk to you. Email me anytime. :). You made my day.
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You’re Welcome Daniel 🙂
I don’t think I have email addy’s since I closed my blog…do you have mine?
I have been enjoying keeping up with your blog…..keeps me going 🙂
Take Care Daniel….You Matter…
maryrose
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You took me there! I loved every word! ❤
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Thank you Laura. 🙂
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Wow, just wow 🙂
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Thank you Blaire. 🙂
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Creepy and full of a gothic taste of madness. This was wonderful. I too loved the line, “lace in her soul”. ❤
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Thank you. 🙂
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You already knew, I was going to love this. 😉
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I thought you might, being the swamp gal you are and all. 😉
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You got that right! 😉
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There are a lot of haunts in this Daniel, and it was good to the last word!
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Thank you Bill.
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I too find the line “lace in the soul” to be fascinating. It was as if she hid it there, to protect her own immortality.
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Thank you KM, I really appreciate you reading and commenting, and I’m happy you liked this.
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Daniel, beautiful and haunting. A very emotional post. As always, a pleasure to read your writing. Take good care. ~ Mia
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Thank you Mia, I am happy you liked it. 🙂
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You’re welcome Daniel. 🙂
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Sad story, and there are many. It’s a lovely tribute you wrote that I read to the haunting voice of Grace. Do you recall the Holly Jones murder in Toronto about 15years ago? A few years ago, I photographed a tribute mural done in memory of her. It’s very beautiful & poignant. Every year on the anniversary of her death, I want to post the tribute mural. I thought for sure to turn off likes & comments. Then I wonder if people would like to comment, decently, honorably and with good will? Still, definitely no “likes”. Then I wonder if it is not right to do so? I would value your opinion on this.
Understand please, I feel it’s not like reading prose. It’s all about images & how they convey.
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