In the forbidden fruit and nectar of his own mother’s womb, my old family friend Joshua fathered his own father, planting his fertile seed and crafting the fleshly chalice in which a soul returned victorious from seeming oblivion–the flower of the face, where earth meets sky and the light touches the edge of darkness.
Opening the unfolding chapters of this sexual bible, I profess a strange, twisted tale based on my friend Joshua’s private confession about a sexual encounter leading to his mother’s pregnancy when he was nearly out of high school. Only later did Joshua David, who now works as a visual graphic artist somewhere in the American Heartland, begin to understand some of the mysterious supernatural forces shaping this episode more than twenty years ago, not to mention how his intriguing and intelligent young adult son, who remains unnamed here, came to dwell among humankind.
Besides incestuous molestation, his entranced mother, named here Mary Joy, seduced Joshua for the purpose of helping resurrect her deceased former lover who had turned her away to become a Catholic priest. The incident took place after the priest’s, Father Doran’s, funeral following an untimely death.
Uncovering dark sexual magic and hidden secrets, my account of “Flower of the Face” seeks to capture the truth that my old family friend haltingly confided to me, baring his soul as he entrusted me as a professional writer to bring to life what he hopes one day will serve as a mental or psychological portal into what in fact lurks under reality’s surface. It is a cautionary tale of life, death, and love, and the thin line that binds or divides them all. Perhaps one day another artist inspired by this story would possess the confidence to make it into a graphic film.
Beyond the crude sexual ways of mere mortals, the story bears witness to the supernatural intersection with the ordinary, everyday world. Their bodies were transformed into altars and temples to a higher power that refashioned the forces of life and death into one. I almost shuddered between dread and arousal when writing down Joshua’s confession, making me wonder whether cold, hard fate dealt the cards for all who play the game of existence to the end. Feelings of desire, bewilderment, discovery, and at times terror have also accompanied Joshua to this very day whenever recalling the incarnation of incestuous coitus.
Before moving on with the series installments, I must tell of the backdrop to this Midwestern web of forbidden lust, violation, and invocation. First, it included sexual spells and shadows weaved by Joshua’s older aunt, a New Age witch and registered nurse named here Karen Janel. Joshua later discovered that his beloved aunt Karen was long involved in the occult and often drew from the deep wells of lust. I subsequently learned that she was a semen vampire, necromancer, and, according to local legends, a rider of stiffs’ stiffs. Before her suicide, she once said to the authorities, “I might not have a soul, but I hold a purpose.” I met her briefly when I was younger, but I could never forget her keen brown eyes (which contrasted sharply with Mary Joy’s piercing baby blues) and found her overall aura both sensual and alluring.
In an indirect but surprising way, this act of selfish mother for vulnerable son also attracted the spirit of Joshua’s own biological father, named here Doran Sebastian. Doran had abandoned the young family before Joshua could even remember him, much as the aspiring young priest had broken off with Mary Joy long ago. But a strange turn of events later came knocking down reality’s walls when the father’s spirit joined with their flesh. His true identity made itself known to the son. Meanwhile, the new child of incest in turn became his own grandfather through Joshua and Mary Joy, this same progeny whom I have now encountered face to face!
The illicit, taboo union of mother and son unfolded in Joshua’s maternal grandparents’ home basement, inside his mother’s old bedroom from early childhood through college days. Young and old alike could find numerous little hiding places and dark corners down there. This small room sat next to an ancient coal, and later canned food storage, cellar, where patient and watchful souls might yet dwell. The land, on which his grandparents had built the house many years ago, was situated by a plush coulee on the edge of this mostly Catholic German immigrant community. Later on, Joshua learned that the residence lay near former Native American sacred burial grounds and the town’s old and now defunct pioneer cemetery.
What transpired and became material behind closed doors in that quiet Midwestern basement more than twenty years ago I have tried to recreate faithfully here from Joshua’s general testimony. I sometimes have feared that in rendering the tale in full, I, too, have knocked on and open that house door, finally stepping down into that dark, cool basement room near the old cellar. There I am pulled into Mary Joy’s moist cave to release a flood of liquid Christs into her sweet and hungry womb, while a grinning Aunt Karen pulls out the spent snake for a most intimate, knowing taste.
Perhaps the powerful spell of that time and place has not yet been broken. A lingering danger remains for all who tread there. In a sense, I have come to crave more and more each day to perform self-sacrifice upon the soft bellies and thighs of Mother Mary Joy and Aunt Karen, only to emerge as their newly begotten child–arisen as a calm fetal Buddha already wise to the world.
Indeed, my old family friend Joshua granted me permission to enter the winding valleys of his memories and to add the flesh of my words and thoughts to the skeletal structure of his basic portrayal. Swirling windmills of experiences and sensations envelop my very being, crashing together in an orgasmic nirvana. Thus his story has perhaps become my own. What now will I find when I gaze into the mirrors of my own mind and soul? Will my face be his face?
The flower of the face…yes, could it be who I think it is? I now spy the bedroom door’s hanging long mirror in the darkness, my silent shadow found inside its reflection. Joshua’s dark gospel plays again and again in my willful mind as I step around the door to lie with a sleeping Mary Joy…