THE WAGES OF SIN
The graveyard was old
but the houses around it were brand new.
Paddy needed some timber for his
and he knew just where to get some.
So, late one night
with some Dutch courage in his belly
and a flashlight in his hand
he went
over the wall
behind his house
across the graveyard
into the building site of the latest phase.
Sure, nobody would miss the few planks he needed.
They were just lying around.
He gathered a few bits and pieces on his shoulder
and proceeded homeward
through the burial ground.
Back at his back
wall
he had a problem.
The burden of his ill-gotten gain
made scaling it again impractical.
Made bolder now
by the ease of his task so far
he made a tactical change of plan
and presently our man,
with his booty across his shoulder,
was exiting the side-gate of the cemetery
where,
as fate would have it,
an illicit love affair
was being consummated,
herself against the wall,
himself with his trousers down.
Seeing Paddy, herself screamed
and her beau turned round.
Quickly and loudly echoing her cries,
picking up his pants,
not waiting around for goodbyes,
he legged it
with ungentlemanly haste
leaving his love to fend for herself.
And though Paddy had nought
but pity for her plight,
before she could scream another word
she too had run off,
knickerless,
in total fright.
Paddy scratched his head
and thought no more of it
until one night
in the local tavern, some months later
he found himself eavesdropping
on a conversation.
At the next table
a silver-haired gent had a tale to tell.
His friends were held spellbound by his fable
which had three priceless ingredients –
sex, death and religion.
What more could you ask?
The storyteller warmed to his task
and confession was on the menu.
It seemed he had recently been
involved
in an act of mortal sin
at the side-gate to the cemetery
when
an apparition had revealed itself to him
long and thin
and carrying a coffin
on its shoulder.
The ghost of a Protestant he had surely seen,
removing itself from a resting place
where it had been
mistakenly interred
on its way now from the Catholic cemetery
to the rightful Protestant one
down the road
struggling and wheezing
under its onerous load.
As he told it,
The storyteller had protected his lady
from this ghoul
with the utmost cool
but still the shock
had evidently taken its toll.
And from that night on his head
of hair which had been black
as night
had instantly
turned silver with the fright.
Author notes
As I was told it, a true story.
In a list
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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Well done.
I like the way it pulls you through wanting to know what will happen next. I kept expecting something to happen to Paddy. The possible twist of him catching a couple in the midst of a trist I had missed. Sorry couldn't help myself. I do like the story and the image it portrays. It would definitly be enough to put some gray on top.
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Hi Windy,
I came back for a re-read. You asked if it 'works'. It is a bit prosaic. Some alteration of word order might take away the prose feeling some. Other than that I'd say it works OK.
J.G. -
That's funny, good job of taking a story and putting your own flare or touch to it. I enjoyed the imagery, and while read at night produced a really fun energy afterwards, gives spirit to the night with the humor and lies. wouldnt change a thing.
MM
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This is too cute! I belive it is a true story...these things happen all too often..thanks for sharing!
. Rewarded 4
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ghoulishly delightful
Too many puns available here; but I will avoid them.
Yes story poems are difficult. Depends on rhythm and rhyme, and timing; but great fun when it works.
Pardon my ignorance, but why would the Protestant ghost be on its way to the Catholic cemetery?
J.G.
. Rewarded 6
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Oops!
You're the first person to notice that. What a gaff! I fixed it up. You don't say whether you think it 'works' or not. But thank you for reading, commenting and (blush!) correcting. My best to you. >W<
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A moral tale indeed...
Nice story. The hair may now be silver but your roots are showing.... (!!???)
Happy New Year again.... RA. Rewarded 4
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What a cool story. What's really great about this piece is that you were told the story, but I bet you told it better than it was told to you. You added the artistry and poetic flair to it. It captured my curiousity right away and I found it intriguing all the way through. An Irish tale perhaps, and of course, sexiness thrown in. There's Paddy, with some Dutch courage in his belly, going about his business, knowing he was a little on the naughty side and is faced with real naughtiness. You know, naughtiness is not always a bad thing...but I digress.
You said my stuff tended to be along the lines of short stories and that's how this strikes me...but when you spoke of the thin line between prose and poetry, my humble uneducated opinion would be that this is on the side of poetry. I hope that's what your intentions were. Sorry if I ended up on the wrong side of the line...not the first time, believe me.
In any case, I really enjoyed this story and I admire how you can tell a story in poetry since mine end up just...stories.
I enjoyed this and I think you did a great job of capturing a readers interest and keeping it all the way through to the end.
Butterfly
. Rewarded 8
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Line walking
Thank you once again for reading and commenting on my poor fare here BB. 'Story-poems' are something I like doing and it is indeed a fine line between them and prose. I find that rhyme and meter tend to creep in increasingly as they 'grow their own legs' and then I just let the poem go its own way. If it kept you reading and amused you - job done! Thank you for fluttering by and a Happy 2008 to you and yours. >W<
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