Clover Leaf & Barley Mill
a short story by Gwivera
Clover Leaf & Barley Mill
Gwivera
She wasn’t going to do it.
Shuhnell was wicked to the men. She was best for her women. They didn’t like it any other way. He was once and thing they’d lay. Then things changed and time flew back to teach him of the one big lack.
His lineage so bore through time. Its trauma’s mark was lady’s kind. Life’s he lived were all the same. His shining soul would find the train.
Starting there so very back. He couldn’t care for cowards lack.
Hovered doves had bled his name. It wasn’t choice—his early grave. That was but not, he wouldn’t speak. His women knew it something bleak.
They found his kind among their lot. They wore a mark that earned, a clot. Nothing but a blessing still. Less than ladies chewed the bill.
Something in their holy kind had flipped it round and blown their minds. Truths were known to many, not. Twas it just them?
Twas it the lot?
Hot—it wasn’t summer yet. Still, the pill would make her sweat. She made it out of barley cakes. They bore a stone deep in their cakes.
Layers, lots, left in the pan. She came back thrice to that same pan.
Humor found would be their kind. They had it right. At least, sublime.
Railings were a sacred thing. Woods would warp and pines were things.
Scepters sewn would be the chore. Somehow, someday, pray for more. How could we all make it so? How can we turn these men to hoes. Our gardening tools for watered spouts. Our ladies all—these little sprouts. They love it too for how they sleeps, with us in arms and rosy cheeks.
Ladies last into the night. Soldiers bear down every fright. Never would their spirits break. They loved the world and all their makes. Except the few, those tortured lot. The brittle boys who wouldn’t flop.
The world would see us upside down. Our words diminished took our crown. Out meaning lost—the truth profound. We spoke it thrice each every round.
Tress were friends and dogs the way. They taught us most with how they’d play. We thought them holy, something kind, a way to teach us of true mind.
Horrors on us wouldn’t break. Our soulful brothers bled on stakes. The men of our most lost of kinds. The world would need their healthy minds. To speak in ways which meant the most. They bled the men to holy ghost.
Towers took their damseled brew. Brothers twisted, time seen through. Tortured into hating all. Every way they fought the squall.
Our special ways of seeing truth. They hurt the foolish fools of youth. While hearts were birthed deep in the sea, broken bellow spoke through knees. Rigid walks were of one kind. Forever more their men were blind.
Women loved their ladies most. It hurt the men—burnt their toast.
Christian Lords of lands blaze. They wrecked the way we made a play. Dancing, brewing, growing fast. The way we spoke had cut through glass.
Our vicious way of fighting back. The nuance hidden in the cracks. The trios and the tridents too. Our fortune fell for how we chew. We love it still for all we are, are heavens holy loving whores. Except the men. At least, for now. It’s just the way we like to bow.
Traitors seen in something pure, had made us bitter of allure. We stole our men from women most. Us ladies played the very most.
We liked between, but not—but yes. Just do it please and lift my dress. But not right there, not this time. I need to clean my bum with lime.
Something wicked this way came. All over me into my grave. So many ladies were this way. They took a crown which came to stay.
Christian men and traitor boys who couldn’t wield their little toys would seek to tame the vicious minds which skipped the crap and made-up rhymes.
Crystal-dust into the butt. It broke the world with dirty smut.
Crystal suits were best inside. A special one would feel the ride. A timeless stone when put into. Would fuck one back and forward too. At least, perhaps, it worked that way. Perhaps, perchance, one couldn’t say.
