Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked

The party was in full swing. Indentured servants did their best to placate the unruly guests, refilling the carafes of thick, mulled wine, pouring the bourbon that glistened in the crystal glasses like casts of amber in the sunlight. The French Doors were open to the patio, letting in the warm Savannah air that clung to the pooling ponds of sweat that graced the little grooves behind the ears, where the hair was damp and matted in a fierce display of humidity. Air so thick you could cut it with the fine, silver bread knives that rested gently against the lips of gilded China plates.

The fireflies swarmed, their glowing forms dancing like the shooting stars streaking through the night, erratic patterns of chaos, like the whispering flumes of smoke that blossomed from the roof. And as the smoke took form, it’s monstrous figure lurching out, the guests began to cough. The night grew warmer, the fierce flames licking at the heavy, patterned fabric of the drapes that lined the windows, devouring the perfect, wooden feet of the upholstered French chaise lounge, igniting the varnish coating of the floors that clung like water to the slickered decks of ships.

And one by one, the servants and the guests carried the tables and the chairs, the seasoned roasts on silver platters, the fine china and the crystal glasses, they carried it all outside to the garden where they sat and dined by the light of the roaring fire that consumed the house.

And the host stood up from the head of the table, raised his glass before him, composed and calm and unruffled. With a draw back of his arm, he let loose the flying crystal, which spun through the air, chased by a stream of crimson wine. And with the shattering of the glass against the nearest oak, the party cheered, and the men and women, clothed in the finely draped fabrics of the era, let loose their cutlery and their dishes in a sheer display of animalistic frenzy.

On dark, foggy nights, you can still hear the clinking of champagne glasses and the tinkling of merry laughter. You can hear the flames crackle as they engorge themselves, feasting upon the ancient sideboards of the old plantation home. You can still hear the shattering of crystal, the demolition of fine china as it finds its final resting place upon the earth.

In this old cemetery, where the party never dies, but continues on into eternal bliss, all is uninhibited by time and space and rules of superstition. Bring along a glass of champagne; drink to the spirits all around you; let loose within the confines of the piercing iron fences and let your feet dance upon the graves. For though this may be a place for death, nothing here is dead. And though this may be a place of rest, in Savannah, rest never comes to the wicked.

37 thoughts on “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked

                  1. Ah, gotcha – I thought you were in NYC for some reason. You’re in the land of milk, homey and the perpetual fear of earthquakes then. That would terrify me! I saw the water slosh in the toilet bowl the other day and it sent me into a frenzy of wild imagining: a sewer monster just about to send a tentacle around the u-bend, a major quake or just a bubble in the pipes.
                    What terrifies you, Shayleene (as part of the research into my next book (about a psychokiller))? 🙂

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                    1. Haha I have a terrible fear of that which I cannot see. water. I love the water with a fierceness, but can’t stand to swim in it, unless it’s a pool, or the clarity of coral reefs. I love the dark of night when illuminated by moonlight. But cover it up with clouds, and I won’t leave my front door.
                      I have a dreading fear of dying before I have learned everything there is to know, which is, of course, impossible. But it doesn’t stop me from trying. My looming ignorance terrifies me.
                      Also, I’m afraid of people. Large crowds. Loud noises. I think, for the most part, people are not good or kind. And so they make me nervous.
                      What an interesting question by the way. As you can tell, my imagination runs off with my mind far too often. Although I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing. Is creative types are always a little quirky.

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                    2. Your creativity does you credit, Shayleene. 🙂 Yeah, a little quirky, but not so much as tip you over into weird. I guess that’s one of my fears, though – that people will recoil from me because of my determination to be myself, quirks and all. I just want to be loved for what and who I am. Okay, I just stopped myself from going into rant-mode, so that’s good.
                      I have the impression that people are kind and that we are all looking out for each other – generally.
                      Being attractive can be such a drag at times. I’ve recently grown a long beard just to stave off the attention – it’s difficult sometimes. How are you coping with being moderately good looking?
                      Hey, I’ve just realised – isn’t having a blog on WordPress a great way to overcome the fear of what you can’t see, what with everyone being essentially invisible and anonymous – kudos to you for doing that, Shayleene!
                      Kindness – Robert (trying my darndest to be who I am).

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                    3. It’s an autobiography, mostly geared towards adolescents–about discovering and shaping yourself before the world has a chance to (because as you know I’m convinced people are generally not good haha). I don’t know. We’ll see. It’s going through an extensive edit right now. I hope it survives haha

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                    4. The process of shaping oneself without reference to others sounds like (computer term) bootstrapping – picking yourself up by your own bootstraps. I’ll be interested to read what you have there, Shayleene – sounds like it’ll be very useful. 🙂
                      Autobiography? Hinteresting!

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                    5. I want to get to the stage where I can create a body of work that’ll look after me in my old age. I hope to make people smile along the way.
                      Is it true that people who work behind bars are good communicators and experts at getting people to share their hearts, or is that just a myth perpetuated by bad TV shows? 🙂

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                    6. Haha no we are therapists for sure. Liquor loosens the tongue. You’d be amazed by some of the stories I’ve heard. My job really does require me to just sit quiet and listen sometimes; be empathetic. People go to bars often because it’s where they feel comfortable and safe. We’re not trying to get their secrets, but they offer them up, that’s for certain.
                      That’s a great goal and I wish you well. Making people smile is a huge gift, hone in on that; there is too much sadness in this world.

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                    7. I’ll do my best to keep on smiling.
                      Meeting my dad in a couple of hours and I have a grown a massive beard since I last met him and I just don’t know what his reaction will be to that. It’ll be interesting to watch. Talking about secrets – people say that when someone grows a beard it is because they are trying to hide something. So that must mean that I have secrets galore. 😉 Hmm – perhaps I need to visit a bar. I doubt that it’s the same in England as it is in the US. That’s something I’d love to see – your first day at work in an English Pub (Public House – the UK equivalent of bars). I’d love to see how you deal with English guys and their hangups. I imagine them to be similar to those of US guys, but there certainly will be differences! Food for thought.
                      Hope your day is going well, Shayleene – laters.

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  1. Pingback: Sunday Share – Story telling I aspire to! – transcribingmemory

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