Fictional Wisdom

Cal the Sensitive Zombie

Matt — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 21:58:33 +0000

I ate my mother’s face off a few days ago. No joke, at least I guess it was a few days ago, but you know it isn’t too easy to tell time when you can’t sleep anymore. She had just gotten home from the pharmacy and was carrying a bottle of antibiotics for me when I caught her. At first she wasn’t sure what to think, but soon she started screaming, “Calvin! No!” when I sank my teeth into her cheek. You know, I didn’t necessarily want to eat her, but I couldn’t help myself. That’s just the way it is, you know, when you get the zombie virus. She didn’t stay dead very long, of course, and now you can see her lurching down the street with torn clothes and half of her face somewhat intact, looking for some bit of human flesh to prey on. I sometimes try to visit with her like we used to, but it’s not the same anymore.

I still remember the day I got the virus. I was walking down the street and saw my friend Gary up ahead, so I yelled to him. He didn’t seem to be himself, standing sort of hunched over and not acknowledging my call to him. “Gary! How are you doing?” I yelled out, but still he didn’t answer, so I walked up to him. Just as I reached out to tap his shoulder, he turned, his gruesome, expressionless face launching at me with teeth bared. Despite his missing eye and the flesh gouged from his face and neck, he was surprisingly fast, chomping down with a vengeance on my outstretched arm. I yelled out, since I could still feel pain at that time, and tried in vain to pull him off, beating him on the head and face and back, searing pain running up my arm. I ripped out his other eye and badly broke his nose, yet he did not even budge. Instead he ripped the flesh from my arm and lunged for my neck! Luckily, I was able to roll out of the way and ran down the street to escape the bloodthirsty monster.

Soon the inevitable began to happen. My forehead broke out in a sweat and my body was wracked with chills and spasms as the virus worked its way into me. Mother called in some medicine and went to pick it up, but when she got back it was too late. The virus had taken me and there was no turning back.

It’s lonely being a zombie. You may not realize that, considering that we usually travel in packs, but it can be downright depressing. There is certainly no stimulating conversation to be had when the only vocal noise one can make is “Blaaahh!” Even if I wanted to befriend an unturned, intelligent human it would be useless since my lust for human flesh would eventually take hold and they would be turned to the mindless life of the undead.

I tried to turn to vegetarianism, eating handfuls of carrots and broccoli, but regardless of how much I devour, the first scent of nearby human flesh sets off an alarm in my decaying brain, causing me to become a killing machine whose appetite cannot be vanquished.

Again, it’s a depressing life. The world of an undead apocalypse is so drab and gray, especially for a sensitive zombie.

First Words

Matt — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 14:40:04 +0000

“Hey little guy. How’s my little man doing?”

Sitting in a high chair replete with elephants and lions and other blue colored jungle animals was plump baby boy. He gave a huge, open-mouthed grin at his mother, his entire face lighting up with the kind of joy only found in young children.

“Baaahhhh!” he answered emphatically.

“Hey buddy,” the sudden sound of voice to his other side startled him, causing the baby to start and quickly turn to the source of the talking. On his left sat his father, smiling at him and ruffling his scant hair.

“Can you say daddy?” the man asked with a big grin plastered on his face.

“Baaahhhh!”

“No, you’re mama’s little boy, aren’t you?” his mother asked rhetorically, luring his attention to the other side. “Can you say mama?”

“Baaaahhh!” The baby rocked himself back and forth, laughing hysterically.

“Say dada.”

“No, say mama.”

The baby looked back and forth with a slight look of confusion on his face as if he couldn’t decide which way to divert his attention. He turned to his mother, with mouth partly agape and tongue visible, a facial expression that would be considered evidence of mental retardation in an adult, but was cute on a baby. One could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he mulled over the ramifications of these competing requests.

His father held up a favorite rattle and shook it, causing that familiar and comforting sound. “Say dada.”

He handed the toy to the baby, who shook it with great glee and answered with a perfunctory, “Baaaahhh!”

“Honey,” said the sweet voice of his mother, “say mama.” She offered him his favorite soft and snuggly teddy bear, which he quickly grabbed and hugged tightly.

“Baahhhh!”

“Say dada”

“Say mama”

“Dada!”

“Mama!”

The baby looked back and forth, bewildered and torn, unsure of which way to follow. His eyes grew wider and he smiled again with a great, big grin. “Baaahhh!”

His father was getting obviously agitated at the repeated response. “Say dada, dammit!”

The baby looked back and forth, first at his father and then at his mother, before smiling and laughing wildly.

“Ah…ah…ah…,” he began as if he were choosing his words with great care. His mother and father leaned in closely and with great anticipation.

“Ah…ah…da….”

The parents crowded in even closer as if their proximity might affect the child’s budding vocabulary. “Yes, honey, go on.”

“Da…,” the child’s smile suddenly widened and it seemed as though a certain mischievous gleam flashed in his eyes.

“Dammit!”

A Mighty Wind

Matt — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:31:06 +0000

Dark and ominous, the clouds started forming in the early afternoon, violently shoving the bright and shining sun behind its dingy blanket. As time passed, the gray shroud grew darker and darker, casting its deathly pall upon the denizens of the earth, covering them with an uncharacteristic mid-day darkness. The dark sky swirled about like a witch’s cauldron, brewing with a barely restrained energy as though it were just waiting to explode upon us. There was a storm coming, but for a time at least, its power and intensity lay imprisoned behind that great, churning cumulonimbus wall. I sat at my school desk watching the atmospheric spectacle as it unfolded, cursing the now apparent fact that there would be no defending the tree fort from invading armies today, nor would biking down our dirt and gravel road be an option. Disappointed, I slumped into my chair and vacantly stared ahead, the teacher’s voice droning on about adverbs and adjectives as I watched the clock tick slowly to 3:00.
Soon, the final bell rang and the class rose as one, quickly exiting the room and the building to the land of freedom that lay just outside those double doors. The wind blew with strong gusts across the campus, carrying plastic bags and loose papers and a mixture of the normal things left behind by children running towards the light at the end of the tunnel. Among educators, there is a well known, though perhaps undocumented, direct correlation between changes in barometric pressure and the behavior of children, so there was an expected wildness among the student population that afternoon as they were herded into their respective areas for bus and car riders. By the time they began entering their waiting forms of transportation, the noise level had reached an eardrum-bursting crescendo of chatter, making all but the closest of voices completely indecipherable. I was in no mood for small talk, though, as I stood in the designated area awaiting bus 14 and the ensuing ride home.
The first drops of rain found their way to earth as we began filing onto the bus, evolving quickly from a light sprinkling to a full downpour, drenching those of us unlucky enough to be at the back of the line. The gales of wind caught hold of the falling rain, pushing the water into veritable walls that crashed, one after the other, into our vehicle, reducing visibility to almost nothing. We hurriedly shoved our way from the rear into the narrow passage between the seats of the bus, the bus driver’s yells for us to calm down drowned out by the loud peals of thunder echoing about the chamber. Pushing myself up from the rubbery floor wet with mud from the shoes of the students who had already passed, I slid into my assigned seat beside the boy with whom I shared it, James, my sopping wet body landing with a plop on the plastic seat.
James turned to me, his eyes wide and brow furrowed with a worried look on his freckled face. “What,” he demanded, “have you heard?”
Taken aback by his abrupt question, I recoiled for just a moment as though he had thrown a feigned punch, before confusedly returning his question, “About what?”
“The storm, stupid. Somebody said it was gonna be a tornado.”
Tornado. The word itself strikes fear into the heart of any person living in an area prone to these destructive weapons of nature. Landscapes could be devastated, homes ruined, lives taken as this juggernaut bent on total destruction tears through the countryside with its arbitrarily striking attack. The violent winds pummel anything standing in their way with a fierce suddenness, leaving behind only rubble and despair in their wake. It is a terrible and unrelenting enemy, one whose blitzkrieg offensive was unstoppable by human means.
As I watched the dark clouds portending disaster through the solid sheen of rain, my mind turned to God and to the church I attended with a mechanical consistency. From an early age my thoughts had been overrun with visions of a vengeful and angry God, one who would instantly strike down evildoers or wipe out entire populations with a mere wave of His hand. Brother John would stand in the pulpit and look at you with eyes that could pierce the soul and sweat running down his red face as his booming voice told tales of woe and death. We were taught about the great flood that wiped out almost all life on the earth, about pestilence and plagues, earthquakes and storms, fiery rain and murderous angels, all done in the name of an outraged deity. God was in control of all, from the sun to the moon to the oceans and the storm clouds, so all things must happen for a reason found in His divine plan. That being the case, I saw tornadoes as I saw all of these past events, as a mere piece of equipment in His heavenly tool belt, amounting to yet another method for Him to enact punishment on the guilty for their many sins. “Thy will be done,” we would say, regardless of the outcome, for nothing happened outside of His influence.
“So,” said James, no doubt growing tired of my silence, “Do ya’ll got a storm shelter?”
I started, my trance-like state broken by James’ annoying insistence, “Yeah, we got one, but we haven’t used it in a while.”
“I betcha you’ll be usin’ it tonight. You remember that one last year?”
“Yeah,” I answered as my thoughts wandered again, ignoring James as he continued to prattle on about a previous tornado that, in his story, had grown to mythical proportions. I slouched into my seat and stared out the window at the blackened skies and falling precipitation, waiting my turn to exit the great yellow vehicle. After several more minutes of intermittent stops along country roads that lay hidden behind the wall of falling water, we finally made it to the dirt road where my home lay. Stands of trees far older than I stood proud and tall across the land and a line of t-shaped utility poles, barely visible in the downpour, stood in a line stretching out to the horizon like a hundred Galilean Saviors executed for telling people to love each other. I donned the hood from my rain jacket, secured my backpack and made a run for it, attempting to strike a balance between moving quickly and avoiding slipping in the mud as I made my way through the meteorological morass.
The bus pulled away as I climbed the stairs and entered the safe haven of our covered porch, my refuge from the heavenly barrage on the outside. My clothes were soaked despite the raincoat, so I carefully entered the house and began walking toward my room, trying in vain to keep from tracking wet footprints on the carpet. My parents, home early from their respective workplaces, sat in the living room with their eyes glued to the weather report on the screen. I walked through just in time to hear these words emanating from the television, “I repeat, Dalton county is under a tornado warning. All listeners should take cover at this time.”
Dad turned to me with a grim look on his face and nodded his head, “Mark, get the flashlight and the radio. We need to head to the storm shelter.”
Dropping my backpack in a haphazard pile on the floor, I ran to the laundry room and found the objects that dad desired. I fumbled about a bit, found some new batteries and began changing the older ones in the radio when I heard a sudden pop. Suddenly the house went dark, the blackness amplified even more by the lack of sunlight outside, leaving behind a Cimmerian shade of ninth plague intensity. Taken aback by the sudden change in light, I bobbled the batteries about before finally squeezing them into place.
My parents called out a bit worried from the darkness, “Mark, are you okay?”
Before answering I clicked the switch and the beam of light immediately appeared, slicing through the dark shade like the sharpest of blades. I turned it toward them, “Yeah, I’m fine. Are we ready to head out?” Mom and Dad rose to their feet and the three of us stumbled our way to the front door, our path lit by the lone shining bulb.
There is a strange moment in the life cycle of a tornado-producing storm in which the tempest ceases with a curious immediacy. Like a military force on the offensive calling for a sudden truce in the midst of bombarding their enemy with explosive blasts from above, the violent winds and bullets of rain and the cannonade of thunder had come to an abrupt stop, but it would very naïve to believe that this peace would be a lasting one. The unnaturally green sky above spoke of a battle plan yet to be fulfilled, a surprise attack under the false auspices of peace. It was as though the celestial force was looking to lull us into complacency with its calm admonitions before unleashing its most devastating attack upon us. I was taken aback by the unusual and almost stifling stillness in the air as I stepped into the yard, but there was a definite sense of foreboding that overshadowed all and that kept my feet moving toward the storm shelter, for it was obvious all was not right, that there was still a monster lurking behind the overcast skies who was waiting to pounce.
Dad opened the heavy metal door and ushered the two of us into the dark underground enclosure, whose concrete walls were sure to protect us from the forces at work above. Mom clicked on the radio and found their favorite country music station and we settled into the folding lawn chairs which had lain dormant for the past year. The light illuminated our shelter, keeping the darkness at bay but doing little to calm our nerves as we awaited the onslaught that was sure to come. I wasn’t sure if was a cruel twist of fate or a practical joke committed in poor taste, but for some odd reason Garth Brooks’ “The Thunder Rolls” began playing through the static on the old battery powered radio. Just as Garth reached the chorus crescendo, singing “The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes,” the weather warning cut him off in mid-word, with a loud beep followed by a familiar robotic voice: “The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for Dalton County. All residents should take cover now.”
Almost as if on cue the rain started again, this time joined by hail, and together they pounded away at the metal door above us with machine gun-like ferocity. I cowered in my chair with an unmitigated fear that the storm would somehow, someway reach us in our fortified, underground base. Thunder exploded like great and fiery bombs dropped from above and I wondered if this was what it was like to be in a war, waiting for your probable death in an underground shelter. Or perhaps this was the voice of an angry God, like that in Brother John’s ranting sermons, chastising his people for their insolence and promising their destruction at his violent whims.
Dad looked at me kindly and reached out one hand, “Don’t worry, son. It will be okay.”
Tears of terror filled my eyes as I looked up at him, “How do you know?”
“I don’t. None of us can know for sure what will happen, but I believe we’ll get through this. Storms are a part of life. Sometimes they frighten us and move on and sometimes they hurt us, they take things away from us, but we just have to keep on. It’s all that we can do.”
I nodded my head, but the image of Brother John’s red-faced, rage-filled stories of divine holocausts remained imprinted on my mind. Could we be living in Sodom and Gomorrah like he often claimed, just biding our time until suffering the burning death of fire and brimstone? What have we done to deserve this? Have we not been good and faithful servants? We try to follow His laws and precepts and commandments, so why has this punishment come to us?
The rushing sound of the wind had been building for some time, from its early whistling to a steady roar to its now deafening intensity. I have often heard it said that a tornado sounds like a rumbling railroad, its noise level blocking out all else, but I can tell you it is far worse, far more terrible than some man-made contraption. As the wind reached its crescendo I thought back to that story from church about the spirit of God coming upon the people like a mighty wind. But this wind was not bestowing gifts, it was enacting devastation. Yes, it was a mighty wind indeed.
With the overpowering sound echoing in my ears, I bowed my head, closed my eyes and began to pray. “Oh God,” I began, “please, please save us from the storm. Please save our home and our family. I am sorry for all I have done, please God, just save us. Please,” I cried out, “save us. Save my family, save our home. In Jesus name, amen.” My faith was strong, my confidence was restored and I believed that God would take care of us.
The sounds of crashing thunder and roaring winds continued for the next several minutes as the three of us sat huddled together in the dark, waiting whatever fate had been bestowed on us. It was impossible for us to gauge the situation above ground, for all we knew came from the sounds resonating around us. Dad’s face was grim, his eyes a bit turned down, but still he managed a loving, half-hearted smile when he looked at me and answered my silent question, “It’s almost over, Mark.”
Soon the winds had died down enough that we could hear the static on the radio and then, with a commanding voice that burst through the snowy cloud, the announcer spoke, “It seems as though the worst has passed us in Dalton County, but listeners should stay in their shelters until the tornado warning has been lifted. I repeat, remain protected until the warning has been lifted.”
Mom looked at me with a look of concern on her face, “Mark, we made it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’s over.”
“Yeah.” We sat in a silent for a minute, but I still had images of Brother John proclaiming divine judgment still running through my head. “Mom, do you ever wonder if tornadoes and things are God’s punishment?”
“Well,” she was obviously startled by my question, “I don’t know. I guess they could be.”
“But,” dad interrupted, “sometimes things just happen and they don’t make sense.”
I was a little confused, “But Brother John always says that nothing happens outside of God’s plan.”
“God’s will,” continued Mom, “is not something that we can question or second-guess. All things turn out for good for those who believe.” She still saw the confused look on my face, though. “What do you think, honey?”
“I don’t know.”
“And that,” stated Dad, “is the best answer. We don’t know. We can’t know.”
Silence settled over the three of us again as we awaited the radio announcer’s all clear signal, but my thoughts were running wild. It was all so confusing to my juvenile mind. Did God know what was happening? Was it His plan? Was there a plan at all? Was He there? Was He punishing us? I had so many questions and so few answers. Everything was suddenly so uncertain and jumbled and nothing made sense.
It was at that time that the radio announcer came on again, this time interrupting the latest from George Strait, and made the announcement for which we had all been waiting. The danger was past. Normalcy and the relative calmness of everyday life had returned. Breathing a sigh of relief, Dad pushed the door open and climbed out of our protective bunker. Mom followed close behind and it was her voice that I heard first as I mounted the ladder to enter back into the real world. “Oh God,” she cried out in horror, “No! No!”
Hurriedly I pushed myself up the ladder and out of the storm shelter and that was when I saw my parents, standing with their arms around each other, staring at the ruins of our home, the house for which they had scrimped and saved and had bought before I was born. The home where I had resided my entire life. Mom, her face a mask of agonizing grief and pain, lay sobbing in Dad’s arms as he shook his head in shock and bereavement. A few of the inner walls still stood, but the rest lay in a heap with various boards and shingles and broken furniture. Toys from my upstairs bedroom lay strewn across the grass like some poorly organized yard sale along with clothes and appliances and other everyday items now rendered useless by the great fury of God. All was lost.
There must be some reason for this, I thought to myself. What could we have possibly done to deserve this? Why did He see fit to enact such terrible judgment upon us? I looked at the utter devastation around me, the warzone that once was our home, the end of an era in our family’s history and I cried. I cried for the tokens of happy memories now lost forever in the heap that was our home. I cried for my parents and for the years of hard work and toil that were now blown to pieces. It was gone, all gone. Casting my eyes downward, I again prayed, “Lord, why? Why has this happened to us? What did we do? Oh, Lord, please answer me!”
But the only sound was the wind.

A Finger Between Friends

Matt — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 04:59:45 +0000

You could hardly see the old, dilapidated single-wide mobile home from the nameless gravel road it was set off of. Its dingy, mildew-covered metal exterior seemed to blend in with the rapidly graying December landscape where the now-barren trees protruded from the ground about it like the claws of some monstrous, earthen creature. Sitting precariously atop concrete blocks, the home looked the same as it had for a generation, with only the Direct TV satellite dish serving as evidence that time had moved on from twenty years prior. A lone vehicle sat on the rutted dirt ground next to the house, a 1986 Ford F-150 pickup truck whose weather-worn maroon paint job might have sported several rust spots, but its rebel flag bumper sticker sporting the words, “Ferget, Hell!” showed brightly against the dingy background.

When Billy Simmons and his wife Laurie Ann were joined in holy matrimony four years ago, it was understood that the trailer on the back of his parents’ land was only temporary, just amounting to a roof over their heads until Billy built her the house of her dreams. Plans have got a funny way of changing over time, though, and when the meat packing plant downtown went out of business two years ago, he was one of many left jobless. Employment opportunities are hard to come by in a small town like Dalton, and Billy was forced to bounce between odd jobs, from toiling away in nearby rice fields to minor car repairs to his current seasonal employment, Santa Claus at the local Family Dollar store. It didn’t pay much, but the money was easy and in Billy’s eyes, there were few things better than that.

On this fateful evening, Billy was laying back in his second-hand, broken down recliner, whose dark green color had faded over the years to more of a vomit-like hue, relaxing after a hard day of “Ho Ho Hoing” and letting bratty little kids sit in his lap. Having just returned home after an eight our shift at the Family Dollar, he was still sporting his Santa outfit. The red in the suit had faded a bit over the years of use and there were several unwashable stains on the shirt and pants. The fluffy white cotton on the hat and shirt was now a dingy gray and his fake beard was covered in cigarette ash. Billy took another gulp from a half-empty can of Natural Light and then a drag from the GPC cigarette in his left hand. Inhaling deeply, he tastee every delicious bit of the tar coating his internal organs before emitting a great cloud of smoke that seemed to just hang in the air about him, obscuring his vision for a few zen-like moments.

Due to his deep, meditative state, Billy did not even hear the door open and shut. He didn’t hear his wife walk across the room and sit down on the dirty, rapidly deteriorating couch across from him. Her presence was completely unknown to him until, finally, she broke the silence.

“Billy,” she started, reaching out to grab his nonresponsive hand, “We need to talk.”

Billy jerked back reflexively with the realization that a person had just barged into his Edenic paradise. He blinked his eyes several times in a vain attempt to focus in the dimming light, “Huh? Wha? What’s going on?”

Finally the fuzziness cleared and the figure of Laurie Ann took shape before him. Her bleached blonde hair fell in tangles to her shoulders and framed her makeup-caked face quite nicely in the low lighting. Her hot pink stretch pants were a little faded but still caught the light rays and shown fairly brightly. “You know, Billy,” she began, still holding his hand in hers, “We’ve been through a lot together over the years.”

“Uh,” Billy’s dulled mind couldn’t quite figure out where this was going, “yeah?”

“Well, I, um,” an errant tear began to run down her cheek, “Billy, I’m, I’m, sorry.”

“What’s wrong, honey?’

“I’m…I’m…I’m….ummm….”

“What is it baby? Did the repo man come back? Did the police stop you?” Suddenly a wild look of terror shot onto his face, “Are you with child?”

“Nah, it ain’t none of those things,” she wiped her sleeve across a tear filled eye.

“You can tell me, Laurie Ann. What’s on your mind?”

“Billy, there’s…there’s….there’s another man.”

Suddenly Billy’s look of concern darkened, his brow furrowed and his eyes squinted. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Billy, I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

“Arrggghh!” he roared, “Who is it? Who have you been cheatin’ on me with, woman?”

Laurie Ann put her face in her hands, sobbing, “I….I….I’m sorry, Billy.”

Calming his nerves for just moment, he reached out, grabbed her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. “Who,” he asked, pronouncing every word clearly, “Is it?”

“Billy,” she cried wildly, “I’m sorry. It’s Jimmy.”

“Nooooo!” He cried out, slamming his fist through the thin paneling on the wall. It was his worst nightmare realized. Jimmy, his best friend since childhood had done the unthinkable. He had committed the ultimate betrayal, the worst of all sins. Billy suddenly stood up, staggering a bit under the effects of the earth-shaking news and the cheap beer, and charged out through the trailer’s entrance, slamming the door behind him with all of his might. After gathering his bearings for a moment, Billy knew just what he had to do. Jimmy would pay for this.

Billy climbed into his old truck and turned the key in the ignition, though it took several tries before the old engine coughed itself begrudgingly back to life. In the meantime, Laurie Ann came running out the door, mascara running down her face, screaming, “No, Billy! Don’t hurt him! Please don’t hurt him!” But Billy paid her no attention. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and tore out of the yard, showering Laurie Ann and their home with rocks and dirt clods and leaving behind just a cloud of dust. Her face and hair now caked with dirt she screamed again, “No, Billy! Don’t do it!” But it was too late, he was gone.

The old truck pulled onto the paved road, tires squealing like some great exclamation point declaring his murderous intentions. The sun was now down, no longer using its great powers to push back the darkness from the face of the earth, mirroring the darkness in Billy’s soul. He gulped down another can of beer as he barreled down the road toward the one place he knew Jimmy would be, Wal-Mart.

After hearing Billy’s stories of easy money playing Santa, Jimmy had decided to do likewise and found a spot at the closest Wal-Mart. Now, there wasn’t a business such as this in Dalton, but one could be found in the nearby county seat of Bethel. Billy didn’t get over to Bethel very often, but the unearthly glow of the new Supercenter illuminated the skies for miles around, pointing the way to the holiest of holies like that great star leading the wise men of old. He navigated the dark streets with little regard for trivial things like traffic laws or pedestrians, his squealing tires piercing the darkness like a knife.

The parking lot was filled from front to back with the vehicles of eager shoppers doing their part to fill Santa’s sack with goodies for the little girls and boys, but Billy pain no attention to the rows upon rows of vehicles. He gave no heed to the crowds of people pushing rickety metal shopping carts filled to bursting with plastic bags. The truck jumped the curb and barreled toward the electric doors, making people throw themselves and their carts filled with Christmas treasures to safety, finally coming to a halt amid the spilled packages. Then Billy, still clad in full Santa Claus regalia, stepped from the vehicle. Kicking a teddy bear who happened to fall next to the truck to the side, Billy glared menacingly at the shoppers gathered about him as he gulped down the remainder of his beer and then smashed the aluminum can on his forehead, leaving behind a bright red ring just above the bridge of his nose and just below his receding hairline..

As he stepped through the electronic door, a shaky female voice called out from his side, “Welcome to Wal-Mart.”

Turning to his right, he took in the welcoming person, an ancient looking woman who was squinting up at him through impossibly large glasses. With a sneer, he growled at the elderly lady, “Where is Santa?”

She looked back at him quizzically for a moment before her expression suddenly brightened, “Oh, you mean Jimmy! Yes, yes, what a nice boy. He’s back in the toy section.”

Grunting in return, Billy began pushing his way through the crowd of people. A young boy grabbed his arm, “Santa!” he cried out excitedly.

Billy turned and snarled at the child, his dingy beard askew and his bloodshot eyes seeming to pierce right through the youth’s small skull. “Outta the way, kid. Santa’s got a job to do.”

Soon the crowd seemed to thin a bit and turn into a sort of single file line, stretching from the toy section all the way to lawn and garden. Billy followed the column of people with his eyes, scanning across them all the way to the very front where he finally saw the object of his desire, his once-friend and now nemesis, Jimmy. He was seated on what looked to be a golden throne while wearing an immaculate Santa costume, its bright red and white colors contrasting perfectly in the well-tuned light. Behind him stood a full-size sleigh led by realistic-looking plastic and metal reindeer and a gargantuan electric sign proclaiming, “MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM SANTA.” At the head of the line, allowing eager children through the gate to Santa’s throne stood an elf, an honest-to-God little person, wearing a green outfit complete with a pointy elf hat and small bells that jingled every time he took a step.

With an incredulous open-mouthed expression on his face, Billy stared at the Christmas spectacle before him. “A midget? He got a real freakin’ midget!”

Mothers looked at Billy in his dirty, unkempt Santa suit disapprovingly, doing their best to position their children so that they would not be forced to lay eyes on the disheveled father Christmas. He paid little heed to them, though, pushing crying children aside as he forcefully made his way to the front of the line.

“Move it, kid,” he scornfully snarled as he pushed a sobbing little girl to the floor with one arm, while brushing past a young mother holding a baby. He ignored the calls for him to stop the rampage as he shoved the last young boy from his path and stood before the undersized man in the elf outfit.

“JIMMY!” he yelled out, allowing the threatening sound to echo around the cavernous opening, “I’m comin’ fer you!”

“Sir, umm, Sir,” the elf tapped Billy on the leg. “Sir, I’m afraid you need to go to the back of the line and wait for your turn.”

Billy ignored the little man and began to walk toward his former friend, with only his single purpose in mind. The elf stepped in his way once again, blocking the path and tapping his leg more forcefully. “Sir, please go to the back of the line.”

“Ugh…it’s that midget, again.”

CRACK! With a quick, but powerful kick Billy sent the small man flying through the air into the sleigh where he landed with a loud thud. The wailing cries of children and mothers filled the air, but Billy seemed immune to their howling tears. “JIMMY!” he yelled for a second time, raising one hand and pointing directly at the mall Santa. “I’m gonna kill you for what you done!”

As Billy charged at him like a mad bull hellbent on his destruction, Jimmy pushed the child in his lap to the side and stood, hands in the air, pleading to his old friend. “Billy, wait. This is all just a misunderstandin’. Let’s talk about it.”

Billy, though, would not be placated. He continued ahead at a full sprint, ducking his head and aiming his shoulder directly into Jimmy’s gut. BAM! He slammed into his old friend with an impact like a truck, bowling him completely over backwards onto his back. Pouncing atop him, Billy began pummeling away on him, landing blow after blow about Jimmy’s face and head, bloodying his nose and leaving his pristine beard stained dark red. Reaching behind his head, Jimmy grabbed a handful of the fake snow and defensively brought his arm forward, forcefully rubbing the strange white substance directly into Billy’s eyes.

“Argghh! You blinded me you little…ooofh,” but before he could get the words out, Jimmy had raised himself and landed a hard blow right into his stomach, reflexively causing him to bend over at the waist and hold his now-injured torso. While Billy was subdued for a moment, Jimmy reached to the side of the throne and produced his bag of toys. “You’re gonna pay for disruptin’ my work, Billy Boy,” he said through his bloodstained beard.

WHAP! Jimmy swung the present-laden bag around at full force and caught Billy in the head and shoulders, causing him to stagger back to the edge of the stage. He swung the bag back again, picked up some more momentum and again brought it around as hard as possibly could.

The hard plastic boxes, swung at such great velocity in the cloth sack, cracked against Billy’s body with an audible crunch that sent him falling off the stage and flat onto his back in the fake snow-covered ground below, but, as he fell he reached out with one last gasp of strength, grabbed hold of the sack with his clenched fist and pulled with all of his might, yanking Jimmy to the floor as well.

The two men began to roll and tussle about, punching and pulling hair and biting with reckless abandon as both men attempted to gain some bit of advantage over their opponent. Over and over they rolled, until they had finally left the Santa scene and were instead in the adjacent Nativity display. This was of no matter to either man, though, as they both battled for the destruction of the other. Billy again rolled atop of Jimmy and began swinging fists with all of his might, hoping to end this public struggle for dominance, but Jimmy pushed upwards, heaving Billy with the entirety of his strength directly into the manger, knocking the life-size plastic figures of Mary and Joseph to the floor and spilling the baby Jesus from the trough that was his bed.

As Billy tried to raise his beaten and exhausted body to its feet, Jimmy reached down and grabbed the surprisingly heavy plastic baby Jesus and slammed it on his head, breaking the Christ child in two with his mighty swing and sending Billy to the floor, where he lay, unmoving.

“Yeearrrgghhh!” Jimmy raised his arms in the air and gave a triumphant victory cry. His blood-soaked beard was to the side of his face now, the suit was in shreds, and his cotton topped hat had been lost sometime ago in the struggle. Looking at the large crowd that gathered around them as they had blazed their path of destruction through the displays, Jimmy laughed. Children and mothers cowered in fear and disgust as he maniacally cackled. Suddenly, a mischievous look flashed across his face as looked upon the horrified multitude.

“Ya’ll know he ain’t the real Santa now, dontcha? Watch his.” With that, he reached down and lifted Billy’s motionless head so that all the crowd could see. With one hand on his chin, he grasped the bloodstreaked beard with the other. “Now just look at this, his beard ain’t even real. It’s all a fake.”

Just as Jimmy began to jerk the beard from Billy’s face, his eyes suddenly snapped open and a strange look of animal-like vengeance came across his face. Sensing the fingers close to his bottom lip, Billy knew what he had to do. With one lightning-quick snap, Billy chomped down on Jimmy’s middle finger with all that he had, flexing his jaw muscles to their fullest extent.

Jimmy let out a surprised yowl of pain and desperately punched at Billy’s head with his free hand, screaming to be released. The blows raining down from above just hardened his resolve, though, and caused Billy to bite down even harder, through skin and muscle and all the way down to the bone. Wrenching his head to the side, the lone digit ripped completely away from the hand, leaving only a bloody nub where it once stood. Billy rose to his feet and spit the bloody finger to the side where it came to rest on the floor directly in front of the crowded shoppers. Women and children screamed at the horrifying spectacle. Jimmy shrieked in pain as he grasped at the gaping hole where his finger had once been. Billy cocked back a fist and was just about to release a devastating blow into Jimmy’s face when he heard the cocking of a pistol directly to the side of his head.
“Freeze, Santa!”
———-
After receiving medical attention for his maimed hand and following extensive questioning from an officer at the nearby precinct, Jimmy was herded into a holding cell where a solitary figure stood, staring out the barred window. It was a person that he would know anywhere and not just because he still wore a dirty, blood-caked Santa outfit, it was his old friend Billy.

“Hey.”

They stood in silence for an uncomfortable moment, neither quite sure what to say or where to start or if they should engage in another bloody fistfight. After what seemed like an eon of quiet, Jimmy finally spoke up, “I’m real sorry ‘bout Laurie Ann, Bobby.”

“Yeah.”

“I jest couldn’t help myself, you know how she looks in that camo bikini top.”

“Yeah.”

After another minute of complete deep space-like silence, Billy cleared his throat. “I reckon it’ll be alright, Jimmy. I cain’t blame you fer all of it. I know she done her part as well. I figure we’re okay.” Billy took a deep breath, exhaled and then continued, “An’ I’m sorry fer your finger, too, Jimmy.”

“Ah, hell, Billy. What’s a finger between friends.?”

With a slight smile on his face, Billy threw an arm across Jimmy’s shoulders and the two of them looked out the window at the bright moon high in the sky.

“Merry Christmas, Jimmy.”

“Merry Christmas, Billy.”

Neither of the two men is quite sure who started but soon they were both humming the melody to Silent Night.

Hmmm….hum…hmm…hmm
Hmmm….hum…hmm…hmm
All is calm, all is bright
Hmmm…hum…hmm..hu.hm
Mother and Child
Holy…hmm…hu..,.hmm
Tender and Mild
Sleep in heavenly peeeeaaace
Sleep in heavenly peace

The two men stood together in the moonlight, savoring the moment, realizing that life would go on. They could still be friends like brothers, despite their mistakes.

“One more thing, Jimmy.”

“What’s that, Billy?”

“You know I love you, but you better stay the hell away from my wife.”
:
”Yeah.”

Fishing For Grace

Matt — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 02:14:17 +0000

The oppressive July heat covered the land like a heavy winter blanket soaked with water, smothering the general populace as it pressed in tightly about them, leaving mouths agape with panting breaths. Salty perspiration beaded up on brows and ran freely, cutting a swath across skin like a great fiver rushing along its appointed path, striving to reach its destination. The central Arkansas summer was a great brick oven, encapsulating the land and baking the denizens, sucking the life-giving oxygen from their lungs and stealing away the energy to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks. But the tyrannical gaze of the great Sol was nearing its end for this cycle as the great rock we call home turned from his gaze, nearing a temporary respite from the fiery eye.

I parked the truck just off the beaten dirt path leading through the green, empty fields to the oasis awaiting my visit, for there was no reason to disrupt this Edenic paradise with the forbidden fruit of progress, a man-made hunk of steel that would merely rip through the rich, green grass while spewing toxins into the atmosphere, and all in the name of some idea of comfort. Carefully climbing from the cab, I quickly gathered the well-worn Zebco, tackle box, and bait, beginning my short journey into paradise, my personal Elysian field – the pond.

Soon the object of my desire appeared and, as I quickly stepped atop the heaps of earthen material comprising the levee, the watery expanse loomed before my very eyes. Though many may look upon it as just another stagnant, insect-breeding ground, to some of us this signifies much, much more. The pond represented an important duality in human nature, for, though part of our being desires control and yearns for exercising our supposed God-given dominance over this conceivably lesser piece of our reality, we also long for its acceptance. We hope and wish that this small segment of the natural world might allow us within its existential confines, to accept us as one of its own and envelop us with its arms in a primeval embrace of family.

The dark canopy of night was slowly and forcefully pushing our solar neighbor beyond the horizon and to the depths below, drowning it within its mysterious, murky essence. But, before its final nightly acquiescence, the great star released one final burst of power, covering the skies with a psychedelic tapestry of blues and oranges and reds and pinks across the canvas of the night like Jackson Pollack at a Grateful Dead show, which soon faded away, eaten by the oncoming darkness.

The water lay still in dimming light, beckoning me, challenging me to uncover the treasures hidden within the murky depths. Catfish are an interesting sort of fish, lacking the armor covering of their cousins, they scour the pond floor, scavenging dead matter for their meals. Their appearance is not one of beauty, with their dull-colored skin and conspicuous whiskers, though this does little to belie the people of the South, for to them the fish is a culinary staple, a scrumptious piece of their fried food repertoire. And on this evening, this sought-after creature of the deep was my prey.

Like many other fish, you may snare a catfish with worms, those small, legless denizens of the earth, but, as many experienced anglers will tell you, dirt-dwelling invertebrates are not always the most effective choice. Being oftentimes scavengers by nature, the appetite of catfish leans heavily creatures that have recently passed from this world, so it then makes sense to use as your bait a deceased creature – or at least part of one. On this night, my once-living choice is chicken liver – inexpensive, but disgustingly slimy glands that are acquired in small tubs of blood and have a distinct odor which, despite the number of times you wash your hands, will remain for some time to come.

Removing the first oozing lobe from the tub, I sliced it into two pieces and carefully ran the large metal fishhook through the bile-filled organ several times to ensure that it would remain on it. After rubbing my hands upon my now-bloodstained jeans, I attached some heavy weights to the nearly invisible fishing line and tossed it into the water, watching it quickly sink, pulled by the unavoidable force of gravity upon the weights. In little time, the line ceased unraveling from the reel, so I quickly locked it into place and sat upon the damp, grassy ground, keeping the rod firmly in my hands and awaiting that magical tug from the water below.

I soon positioned the rod across my lap and reclined back, gazing at the now dark sky in deep thought. The moon shown with its mysterious, phosphorescent glow, gazing upon its dark kingdom of night from on high as multitudes of stars crowded about, trying to fill the cold, vast emptiness of space with their pin pricks of light. Directly overhead, mythical strongman Hercules was locked in battle with nearby Draco, while Perseus continually pursued his winged steed Pegasus across millions of light years in the deep recesses of the cosmos. It was a beautiful, cloudless night and, despite the near-stifling, heat, I was comfortable and content to just watch the universe swirl about me.

As the sun set, the area was relatively quiet, but soon the restless wildlife began a cacophony of sounds. At first, the crickets and frogs were rather noisy and sporadic in their timbre like a musician warming up their instrument prior to a concert, but these noises soon came to halt, followed by a moment of silence as the imaginary conductor raised his baton and nature’s orchestra readied itself. The crickets opened the symphony with their wikki-wikki-wikki cadence, their harmonious violins scratching out the night’s melody. Soon they were joined by the bullfrog’s deep bass, providing the lower notes for an accompaniment. Once the melody was set and deepened, the next and last player in tonight’s movement entered into the mix, the whip-poor-will, who released his trumpeting call high above the others, sending the magnificent piece into a new level of transcendence. The land was alive in triumphant jubilation with a tune that was surely penned by God Himself and I laid back, listening, in awe.

After some time passed, the extent of which I lost track, an old, familiar feeling struck. The hair on the back of my neck stood with anticipation as I gripped the rod that had been lying across my lap. Again the line pulled downward into the watery abyss, bending my rod tip toward the earth once again. It was unmistakable, I had a bite.

I hurriedly arose and let out a bit of line, hoping to wear the creature down a bit before reeling him in to my awaiting grasp. While catfish are not known to put up a magnificent battle of wills as others do, they don’t give up very easily, either. I lifted the rod tip up a bit more and watched as my prey pulled it down once again. Deftly, I began reeling the line in a little at a time, being sure to let the fish expel more of his energy in a futile attempt to escape. But, after several minutes of back-and-forth struggle between our wills, it gave in, forfeiting its life to the more evolved animal. As it reluctantly rose to the water’s surface, it gave one last hopeless splash with its tail as I scooped the fish up with a nearby net, avoiding his razor-sharp fins as I lifted it to eye level. It was nice looking, for a catfish, with nearly unblemished skin, sleek and gray, and weighing in at around five pounds.

Wetting my hands so as to not disturb his precious mucus covering, I took hold of the piscine creature just below his pectoral fins and wrenched the large hook, with bits of liver still attached, free from his gaping maw. For just a moment I looked at that twisted metal hook and the fish gasping for breath in my hand and felt a twinge of sorrow. The animal desire for gratification, whether needed or not, is a powerful yearning within the psyche. Given the limited capacity of this creature’s mind, it could not have grasped the absurdity of an avian organ nestled at the bottom his home. How much worse is it when you do know better?

So, I released it back into its watery home and, with a flick of its tail, the fish was gone.

I figure we could all use a little grace now and then.

The Gospel According to John (and Paul and George and Ringo)

Matt — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 02:04:27 +0000

Sam Strickland awoke in the morning with a knowledge that, to many, would be at least discomforting and more likely to evoke wild screams and cries of terror and despair, but he just shrugged his skinny shoulders and pulled on the wrinkled clothes piled haphazardly on his floor, content with the enlightenment that had been bestowed upon him during his sleep. The world was about to end, and he felt fine.

He gazed from his 4th floor apartment window at the hundreds of sentient carbon life forms passing below him with no idea that this would be the final day of their existence. Cars sped past with nary a care that soon their sturdy bodies of metal and plastic would be blasted into nothingness. Towering edifices of concrete jutted from the ground about him, monuments to supposed human progress that would soon be reduced to mere molecules floating through the vast, cold, desolate emptiness of space. Sam slowly inhaled, filling his lungs with the life-giving oxygen-rich air that would soon be intermingled with the microscopic pieces of the once-proud planet, as he observed the daily activities on the street below, cars honking, people yelling, dogs barking, and a faint smile played at his lips as he thought of their imminent destruction.

Never again would he be forced to endure the belittling comments and denigrating looks. No more would those around him scoff and laugh. Soon, it would all be over.

Sam wasn’t sure when the dreams started, but he could scarcely remember a time in his life when they were not constantly plaguing his nights, disturbing his regular excursion to the mythical palace of Hypnos, with visions of terror and death and destruction wrought from on high by some unseen Power. With one swift stroke from the celestial eraser, all existence would be eradicated. Immediately following these divining pictures of mass extermination was always the crown, the headpiece that had haunted Sam’s every thought for these many, many years. It was a ridiculously innocuous diadem, formed from cardboard and aluminum foil, and though everyone else lacked the capacity to understand, Sam knew that it would be his salvation from this world of toil and woe. The image of the crown was then followed by a date and time, an occasion that had been imprinted upon Sam’s brain since he received the first harrowing hallucination years ago, August 14, 2008, at 8:00am, and finally, after seeming eons of anticipation, the morning of that great disaster was upon them.

He was not always this cold and calloused, though. For years his impassioned forewarnings had fallen on deaf ears and soon family, friends, and seemingly the entire world’s population had forsaken him. They pointed at his unkempt clothes and his hand-drawn sign that read, “The End is Near,” and laughed, pronouncing him insane and pushing him to the margins of society. After some time, Sam finally admitted defeat, raising the proverbial white flag in a show of despair for his fellow human beings, who he and he alone realized were traversing an irreversible path to imminent destruction. Soon the incredible sadness and sympathy he felt for the unwitting billions around the globe facing a sudden and total demise disappeared, leaving him with only red-faced anger welling up within him and a certain sense of twisted happiness at the thought of the awaiting ultimate retribution. Sam glanced at the otherworldly green numerical glow on the digital display beside his bed and read the numbers with a developing satisfaction, 7:38, the apocalyptic moment was nearly upon them. Yes, this would be a good day, perhaps even the greatest day of his life.

Sam stepped out of his apartment door, not caring to lock it or even close it behind him as his normal fastidious nature would demand, and stepped into the dirty, dilapidated hallway of moldy walls and open, stinking bags of garbage on the floor. The muffled cries and yells of his fellow apartment dwellers could be heard all about him, but Sam continued on, oblivious to whatever may be ailing the poor souls facing their mortal destruction in a matter of minutes. He traversed the concrete stairs with nary a thought of the young lady sitting, sobbing with her head in her hands as he strolled idly by. With the end so near, what did it matter anymore?

It was a beautiful day in the city, with the bright August sun high in the gorgeous cloudless sky, bequeathing its gifts of light and warmth upon the earth’s ungrateful denizens, showering the planet with its plentiful photons of energy. The well-placed greenery spread about the city to give citizens at least a small sense of nature among the asphalt and smog and busyness seemed to attain a brilliant glow in the astral radiance from our planet’s lone star. Sam though, with only his mission in mind, perceived none of these pieces of picturesque beauty about him. With a fleeting look at a nearby clock standing upon the sidewalk he observed the time: 7:50. He intently focused upon the second hand, a single radii consistently measuring the circumference of the near circle every 60 seconds, as it ticked along its pre-chosen path approaching oblivion with its emotionless ticking. Time was growing short.

Sam pulled the bent and crooked tiara from his pocket and quickly attempted to smooth it out somewhat before firmly affixing it atop his head, not quite giving his slightly deranged appearance the majestic aura usually associated with crown-wearers, but, with a global apocalypse drawing nigh, his physical manifestation mattered very little. Fellow pedestrians gave him quick looks of disgust before continuing on their way like single-minded automatons with little to no care for the multitudes alongside them. For a moment, Sam felt a twinge of compassion for his fellow human beings as he watched them march unknowingly to their final destruction like lemmings barreling toward a towering precipice, but, after again registering their looks of condescension and revulsion, his loathing once again prevailed. The clock read 7:58.

The last two minutes of earth’s existence passed along like many before over the last 4.5 billion years. From those prokaryotic microorganisms floating amid the vast oceans over 3 billion years ago to the modern day human being with a laptop and a cell phone and an automobile, life had always flourished amongst the vast depositories of natural resources contained within this small blue orb floating through the measureless darkness of space. Creatures of one sort or another had survived cataclysmic extinctions occurring periodically since the birth of time, but this calamitous event would differ from those asteroid strikes of eons ago. Sam watched these representations of modern man – the pinnacle of Kingdom Animalia – hurry past him oblivious to their surroundings in a vain attempt to reach their destinations. 7:59.

Furtively glancing from the sky to the sidewalk clock, Sam slowly, methodically counted down the seconds to final doom. The harried pedestrians continued to push past each other, competing in an inconsequential race to reach a destination that would soon be dissipated into nothingness, 45 seconds to go. An uncharacteristic chill suddenly blew through the August air, inducing a shiver in all those present like a warning of the cold, blackness of space awaiting the disintegrated atomic particles that once composed the planet, 30 seconds to go. Sam dropped to his knees, panting with a euphoric anticipation, staring above at the sky while those passing by made a wide detour around him and his strange smile smacking of insanity, 15 seconds to go. “YESSSS!” he screamed out as the final seconds ticked away. Finally, he would be free. The universe went dark and Sam’s limbs flailed about him as the sensation of free fall took hold of his senses. Then there was no more feeling, no more sight, there was nothing.

After some indeterminate amount of time, the first awareness coursing through the bundles of axons in Sam’s arm was that of a cold, unyielding steel floor beneath him. His head swam with waves of nausea, causing him to keep his eyes shut tight while gathering his bearings. A sudden fear gripped his senses, clenching his stomach into knots and causing his brain to careen along crazed tangential paths of reality, as he became cognizant of the fact that he had no idea where he was. That was when he heard the humming. The tune itself was vaguely familiar, but in his current mentally addled state, the lyrics and title eluded his grasp.

“Hmm Hu Hmm Hmm Hmm. Dum dah dah dadum.”

It was normal voice, a human voice, and slightly off-key, but pleasant nonetheless. Sam slowly cracked open his eyes to see just what creature was standing before him humming this slightly discernable melody. He valiantly fought back the trepidation tearing away at his insides and lifted his eyelids, exposing his naked eye and causing his pupil to instantly contract due to the overly bright light glaring directly into his face. His eyes gradually began to adjust to the light and Sam was able to distinguish the human figure standing before him. The man was rather tall and strapping, with long dark hair and skin with a rich, full beard covering his ample chin. His garments consisted of robes that were so white they seemed to shine as if they had captured a twinkling star of their own and spread its essence throughout the fibers of the material. He held out a rough, calloused hand, extending his fingers toward Sam in an apparent sign of friendship and helped him to stand on his rather wobbly legs.

“Hello,” the man said in his stronger-than-expected voice, “I’m Jesus.”

I’ve lost my mind, Sam thought to himself as he squinted and scrutinized the imposing figure standing before him, “Wha?”

“You know, the Prince of Peace, the Son of God, the Messiah. And I know who you are, Sam Strickland. There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known. Nothing you can see that isn’t shown. Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”

“But, but, how? I don’t understand.”

“Yes, I know Sam. Before now, living was easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. But, I have chosen you, Sam Strickland, to be my vessel, my prophet, to humankind.”

“But, the earth was destroyed. I saw it…”

“Did you? Look behind you.” Sam slowly turned around and there before him, on the other side of a wall of glass, was that blue sphere that he and 6 billion others called home. Though rotating about its invisible axis at a breakneck speed of 1,070 mph, it seemed to hardly move at all as it floated along its invisible path through the infinite nothingness. Sam, with eyes wide open and mouth agape, stared in astonishment at the incredible beauty of the scene and at the revelation that all had not been destroyed.

“Ah, yes. There’s something in the way she moves, Sam. You are correct that your world, your old life, is no more. From this point on, you will begin a new life as a messenger for God.”

“But, why me? I mean, I don’t even go to church or anything.”

“You were chosen long ago, before you were even born into the world. Though you did not realize it, you’ve always known. It’s always been in your mind, submerged somewhere in the far netherworlds of your subconscious. Sam,” Jesus reached out and held his arm, “you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.”

They stood in silence for a moment, with Sam looking at the celestial bodies floating past with a bit of terror at the unfamiliarity of the situation, while he attempted to formulate a question for this man purported to be the Son of God. “Jesus, what exactly is your message?”

“Of course, have a seat, please.” A stool seemingly appeared out of thin air and Sam gingerly settled onto the extraordinarily comfortable chair. “Would you like a slice of wild honey pie?”

“Thank you,” Sam answered as he took the delicious-looking pastry and began to eat.

“Sam, my message is the same as it has always been. It is the same proclamation that I have been making through my prophets for the last two thousand years. It’s a simple sentence, though it can be rather hard to keep. Sam, all you need is love.”

“That’s it?”

“That is all that is important, Sam Strickland. All you need is love. Love. Love is all you need.” Sam could have sworn that, as Jesus spoke, he could hear a band of horns echoing in the background.

“What happened to the past prophets? Why did their exhortations for love go unheeded?”

“You see, at first the people were happy to comply, but love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight and soon, despite the words from my prophet, they fell back into their old ways.”

“But, what can I do?”

“That’s the rub, isn’t it, Sam? Let’s take a closer look.” Suddenly the view from the window of the planet earth zoomed forward like a powerful camera, hurtling through the atmosphere and focusing, in a matter of seconds, from continent to country to state to city and all the way down to the street outside of Sam’s apartment. Crowds of people hurried by in their huddled masses absorbed with their own thoughts, oblivious to those around them. With a look of sadness in His eyes, Jesus turned to Sam, “All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?”

“Will they ever learn, Sam? Will they ever realize that money can’t buy them love? Will they look past their own petty selfishness and see that life is very short and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend? I wonder these things constantly, and it fills me with sorrow.”

“Can there be any hope, Jesus?”

“There is always hope. Though the crowd of people may turn away, there will be an answer, let it be. Sam, you have been chosen and you will spread my message of love around the world.”

“But, but I don’t understand. Why me? There are hundreds of thousands of others who would be much more qualified than I.”

“Well you know, we all want to change the world, Sam. And this is your chance. Return to your home and tell the people my message, that all you need is love. I want you to lead the people, Sam, and come together right now over me.”

“Jesus, I want to hold your hand!”

“You’ve got it, Sam Strickland! I will always be with you, here, there and everywhere, my presence will follow. Here comes the sun and it is time for you to leave, time for you to get back to where you once belonged. As you travel that long and winding road, know deep within your very being that I am walking beside you.”

“The voice of the Father beckons me now, His limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns, it calls me on and on across the universe. So, you must go. Goodbye, Sam.”

A bright flash of brilliant light flashed before his eyes, causing him to clench them shut as the feeling of free fall again gripped his mind. His limbs flailed about him in the empty darkness before he again felt that familiar, cold, hard sidewalk beneath his prone body. He slowly opened his eyes, allowing the bright sunlight into his pupils little by little until his sight adjusted to the new surroundings. Once again he sat on the street in front of his meager apartment dwelling. People marched by, as always, like automatons, completely oblivious to their surroundings and to the newly enlightened man sitting at their feet.

Sam thought of the people marching by. He thought of his screaming neighbors in the apartment building. He thought of the young girl he had witnessed crying on the steps. The task was immense, but he walked on with confidence, Christ’s words ringing in his ears, “All you need is love.”