The Collage of Taben’Rael

 

Collage of Taben'Rael 

 Friday Morning: The Call of Refinement

5:00 a.m., the heights of Taben’Rael were still cloaked in silence. Malaki and James lie deep in their dreams, their bodies bruised from purification, their minds stirring in the echo of vows whispered the night before.

Then—{Bang. Bang. Bang.}

Malaki jolts upright, breath short, heart already halfway down the candlelit corridor. He casts a glance toward James—still asleep, tangled in the white sheets like a boy half-forgiven.

Quietly, Malaki steps over and gently presses a finger to James’s lips.

"Get your butt up," he whispers, steady but stern.

"Five swats after breakfast. You know why."

James blinks awake, eyes wide.

"Oh shit! Did I miss the call?"

But there’s no time to answer. Both boys move instinctively to posture—standing firm at attention in their tight white briefs and tank tops, the uniform of repentance.

The door creeps open. Isaac stands in the frame, candlelight casting long shadows behind him. He steps inside like silence made flesh.

Isaac: "Good morning, lads. I trust your sleep refined you as well as it healed. You are to be washed and dressed—gray shorts above the knee, white shirt buttoned to the collar, gray tie, gray shoes. Dressed not just in uniform, but in expectation. You have one hour to reach the dining hall.

Be late... and your cleansing will be public.

Is that understood?"

The boys reply in unison, crisp and reverent:

"Yes, Sir. Guide Isaac."

Isaac saunters between them, inspecting the silence where bruises still burn. Then, with ceremonial swiftness, he smacks each of them on the backside—a gesture not of punishment, but of renewal.

He exits without a word, leaving the door wide open. The two watch as his figure recedes into the candlelit hall, swallowed gradually by the shallow darkness.

A Ritual in White

 

🕊️ Creed of the White Cloth 🕊️

Beneath the belt, beyond the bruise,

We stand in white where pride must lose.

In ritual fire our hearts are sworn—

Not punished, but daily reborn.

By brotherhood forged, by silence made,

Our strength is shaped where discipline's laid.

Discipline Matters: A Ritual in White

Room 217. Tight Whitey Wednesday. Midweek.

The dorm was still, lit only by a desk lamp and a sliver of moonlight spilling across two beds. Malakai adjusted his briefs with silent focus, the cotton hugging tension and trust. Israel beside him, arms folded, eyes forward—both prepared, both convicted.

Between them, a belt and paddle lay folded on a white towel. They weren’t instruments of punishment—they were symbols of pruning. Of strength. Of formation.

The door creaked open.

Isaac entered like a hymn walking on two feet—solid, deliberate, reverent. His physique carried years of ritual, his wrist adorned with a braided bracelet inscribed with Hebrew letters: שמע ישראל—Shema Yisrael. He didn’t speak immediately. He laid the paddle gently across his palm, and whispered a prayer.

Malakai and Israel stood.

“You know why you’re here,” Isaac said. His voice was deep, unmoved by emotion but saturated with purpose. “Midweek isn’t just a checkpoint. It’s a fire to forge what softens.”

They nodded. Not out of submission—but out of brotherhood.

Side by side, they bent across their beds. Tight white briefs stretched into sacred canvas, framing posture, vulnerability, and intent. Isaac touched their shoulders before the first strike—an anointing by leather.

The swats began. Measured. Alternating. Five with belt. Five with paddle. Between each, Isaac spoke with theological clarity:

- “Obedience is not weakness—it is strength surrendered.”

- “Pain corrects nothing unless love is present.”

- “Discipline without dignity is empty.”

Malakai clenched the sheets—not from rebellion, but to hold onto resolve. Israel bit his lip, absorbing each impact with quiet gratitude.

By the tenth strike, the silence was holy.

Isaac laid the belt and paddle down. He placed both hands across their backs—firm, fatherly.

“You are not punished,” he said. “You are being shaped.”

He left the room without ceremony.

Malakai and Israel remained still, inhaling the sacredness of the ritual. No tears. No shame. Just the echo of transformation etched into flesh and spirit alike.

In the brotherhood of Discipline Matters, midweek was no longer ordinary. It was liturgy. And in their white, they were made strong.