Alter

A primitive hand held alter, my only companion in the lonely darkness.  I reopen the portal.  Biting white light invades my eyes.  Cold two a.m. coffee hammers my weary taste buds.   My fingers fumble over symbols beckoning  the portal to spit a soulless recorded voice into my dry ears.  The voice ends, a slow beep, my heart pounds.  I beg, I rant, I try to explain why I should get the thing I desire most.  If mistakes are explained well, people will let you fix them.  Right?  I don’t know.  Talking too much, more coffee.  It is flat, muted, and seemingly dead, like the world feels in the cool dark air.  I throw the portal across the room, my angry shouts slam into concrete and are reduced to silence.  I have forgotten most of what I said, and I am still pacing.  Awake in the deep night and the complication of regret feeling like a stone fist stuck forever in my belly.  I offer fantasy dreams of redemption before the dead alter, with its glow holding my gaze.  In the next moment I am dislodged.  Sunlight licks my cheek.  Shadowy demons swim away from the warm yellow light as it crawls forth from distant horizons.

. . .

Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert

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