JULIE LINDAHL
  • HOME
  • ABOUT
  • WRITING
    • Books >
      • The Pendulum >
        • English
        • Swedish
      • Rose in the Sand
      • Letters from the Island
      • On My Swedish Island
    • POEMS & SHORT PROSE
    • Columnist
  • Collaborations
  • Events & Media
  • CONTACT

White Teeth, Gold Doors

12/11/2016

0 Comments

 
White teeth shone neon against the gold doors as Caesar shook hands with his new ally. Each day he  appeared before the people to receive their cheers, like a fire god who fuelled their passions and, in turn, his own. They were poor, thin creatures, always running on near empty, who needed daily refilling lest they begin to jeer. The stakes were high - this he knew, but it was all worth it. In this mutual fuelling of the passions was that thing he coveted most - more precious than his gold-guilded vessel or all of the treasure chests in his palaces. Power, power and more power. As he shook the hand of his once enemy who now submitted to him, he gorged in his victory, as though at a feast where the wine ran sweetly down his jowels, and the women with the long tresses pried him with more wild boar flesh than his belly could digest. To have not merely possession of supreme power, but more of it each day was the engine of life, the very thing that gave him meaning.

In another time, another Caesar looked out towards the horizon to the East. As the sun rose over the flat land, its fire fuelled his passions, which he gave to the people in return for their own. They too were poor, meager creatures ready to hear that they would never have enough and that the only worthy creed was more. Eternity must be theirs and they would reach for it on the Eastern horizon. In a clutch with the people, he had rolled like a conquering fireball across the land, sparing its riches and incinerating those deemed unnecessary. He had shaken hands with his enemies who had been fool enough to believe him, and devoured their handshakes with relish. Each one was food for the attainment of the only thing that meant anything to him. Power, power and more power.

One day in the past, one day in the future, power becomes weary of its abuse. It begins to fall apart, like a flower losing its petals. Power doesn't die, but recedes to the earth in waiting for a more or less craving Caesar.

A snow storm puts out the fire, leaving Caesar standing alone on a cold tundra without a horizon. Without power, he lets himself be buried by it like a helpless bird.

Caesar retreats behind the cold, gold doors and speeds to the top of his citadel to escape the people's jeers below. There he remains and tends to his neon teeth that have begun to him to look yellow.
0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    Author

    See About.

    Archives

    February 2023
    January 2023
    December 2022
    November 2022
    May 2022
    April 2022
    March 2022
    February 2022
    January 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    October 2021
    August 2021
    February 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    November 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    November 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    March 2016
    November 2015
    October 2015
    June 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

JULIE LINDAHL © COPYRIGHT 2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Photo used under Creative Commons from stavale8099
  • HOME
  • ABOUT
  • WRITING
    • Books >
      • The Pendulum >
        • English
        • Swedish
      • Rose in the Sand
      • Letters from the Island
      • On My Swedish Island
    • POEMS & SHORT PROSE
    • Columnist
  • Collaborations
  • Events & Media
  • CONTACT