The Difficult Drink

I was in a coffee shop and I saw an old man quietly reading a book in the corner.   A pair of women argued at a nearby table.   One was aged and haggard, her face showed lines from years of frowning.  The other was young, her eyes were puffy, and her tears wet the wood of the table.

“God wants you to give him another change,” the old woman’s shrill voice stung the air.

The young woman stared at the floor, “I can’t, I can’t he has hurt me for the last time.”

I grow tired of this sludge poisoning the mood,”  his eyes never left the pages as he spoke to the two women.  “God wants?  An arrogant notion indeed…”  he turned the page and  laughed to himself.

“This is none of your business, please don’t interrupt me!  I am doing God’s work!”

Ahh yes, I see…” his atheistic mind churned behind his steady eyes, as he placed his book on arm of the chair he was sitting in.

Everyone in the coffee shop grew quiet, and listened to the booming roll of the old man’s voice. “I find it interesting, the concept of God.   How is it that those who claim to know and love an all powerful creator, take matters into their own hands?  If there exists an immeasurable amount of power what could humanity possibly add?  I assume you are trying to save a doomed marriage.  I have seen the angry people yelling, killing, and hurting those who would deny their God.  Yet, if in fact the peopled world is the belongings of a Creator, who has the right to disturb or disrupt on behalf of said Creator.  If you believed that which you squawk, your anger would subside, and the only action you would have left to take is the only action you are supposed to take, talk to your Creator.  Yet, you impose your will.  You mettle and wound the weak on God’s behalf.  Show me  your mandates, do you have any documentation of your divine orders?  Who has given you authority over creation?  If you trust and believe as you have said, then perhaps you should wait and watch to see the proof of God in his response to your praying.  Yet you pray, and then you meddle and talk and meddle.  Do you wait for this God of yours to have a chance?   If you are always moving, then perhaps the stage behind the curtain is truly an empty void, but if there is something beyond life, behind the curtain, maybe you should get off of the stage of humanity, and be quiet while the rest of us have a look. Isn’t your job to get people off the streets and into the theater?  You ask me to believe, yet how can I, when you do not believe yourself?

The old man rose to leave, and the angry old woman blocked his path, “The bible is my authority!  You are going to hell!”

He smiled as he slung his coat over his arm, “No my dear, it is 1 in the afternoon, I am going home to take a nap.”

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

Panacea of Shadow

Shadows dance and argue deep within the cold cave.  Some shout “No object.”  Laughing they whisper, “Fire isn’t real”.   Other shadows, in folly attempt to describe the fire they have never seen.  Yet, some know.  Yet, some feel.  Their object is the bridge to the fire.   They hold it close to the warmth and peace.   Invisible strings tug and pull, some shadows toward the fire.  Wispy fingers of grey push away the dusty wall.  Do shadows seep out and rise from the stone?  Or perhaps, are they only there for a season? Some shadows dig their claws deep into the wall, lodging dirt into temporary fingernails.  Denying their object, laughing at the notion of a Fire, they embrace only the shadow.  One day Fire gathers up objects who’s shadows have placed their backs to the stone.  They are carefully wrapped in a golden blanket of light and placed in the blue sky.  The shadows left behind still cling to the wall deep within the abyss of the cave.   Shadows with dry throats try to drink up the darkness, but without fire, only objects remain.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

The night I Disobeyed the Demon

Pressing the button to silence the radio, I drove on in the thick darkness.  The road like a frozen river of stone.  Lights like lost souls drifting, steady towards home.  I asked my Creator to sit with me, I felt as if he was listening to me in the empty passenger seat.  With tires howling and wind lashing at my car I asked for his help.  I said I was sorry for telling him last, for fighting on my own, for saturating in evil for so long.  I drank a tall cold glass of water that night as I went to bed.  As I slept, a swirling and glowing microscopic lightning danced peacefully in my brain.   Glowing threads, like little fingers, clean my mind.  They are pulling a sticky putrid sludge loose from my memory.  An angry storm of black clouds and red lightning falls out of my ear as I sleep.  Scales covered in oil.  A screaming angry invader writing in protest.  Rendered powerless in its eviction, it falls.  Shadows rule minds that choose to stand with backs turned toward the light.   A yellow warm listening light, when called upon, when unblocked, burns demon flesh to ruin.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

Grip of Darkness

I found myself being fitted for a 500 dollar suit.   My sister in-laws wedding would be including my son as the ring bearer. At the time he was only a year old.  The sleeves of the gray of the suit were about 8 inches (20 centimeters) too short.  The salesman laughed and said, “It’s ok, just never put your arms up.”

The tentacles of evil, are strong and painful.  They wrap around hearts and wring painful emotions out.  If their hold persists, then the heart turns dark, and becomes lost within its pain.  Evil will always say, “After assessing myself, I have discovered that I am not that bad.  I am a good.  If you feel discomfort, then you are just too sensitive.  This is just the way things are.”  I am sure this word track is as old as humanity.  The abuser will self asses, then blame the victim.  Their laughter shakes the tentacles, amplifies the hurt and breaks the heart.

Why is God, the last one to know?  I ask myself this many times.  I gripe alone in my car.  I tell the tale to any willing ear I can find.  Evil’s conquest of my heart, my moral, and my life.  Yet, I don’t tell my creator.  My friend.  I wonder how he feels when I try to steal his job.  When I say with my actions that I am better equipped to dislodge the tentacles than the expert.  Evil laughs at my efforts and tightens its grip.  It hopes that I will never call upon God.  Alone, I am defeated.  I begin to believe the lies.  I become evil myself.

Then I make a choice.  My wife, my sweet angel, tells me to call upon God.  “Let go of this junk!” she yells at me.  She yells, because she so passionately loves me.  The solution to all of my problems is so simple, and she knows it.  What a stubborn fool I am.  I wrestle with my pride, as my heart grows tentacles of its own.  The dosage of pain, hurt, and evil is saturated.  It leaks out of my mind, my words, and my life.

Alone in the car, my soul covered in putrid rot, I ask God if he will ride with me.  I fight the tears.  My eyes are hot.  I am so ashamed I can only whisper.  I clear my textbooks and coffee shop napkins off of the passenger seat.  “I need to talk to you,” I say.  I turn off the radio.  I power down my phone.  I am alone with my creator.  I roll up the tinted windows, “I don’t know what to do.  I have been poisoned for so long.  I offer up a punch list of my own failures and sorrow.  I ask for forgiveness.  I reluctantly ask him to forgive others.”  I cry in silence.  I tell him about a crossroads, about difficult decisions.  I feel like he listens.  The tentacles become brittle in a moment.  I feel like evil is purged out of my body, locked in my tears that fall on my shirt.  The pain becomes blurry.  I hear answers to my direct and specific questions, I uttered alone Answers light yellow light, shine within the smiling commentary of the people I meet for the rest of the day.  The feeling of relief and protection is like a warm blanket wrapped around me after I have drifted in a cold dark ocean for days.  I look up to the sky, the tug of my heart being pulled into the heavens is almost magnetic.

Copyright 2017 © Zachary W. Gilbert

 

Origin

The existence of demons is indeed, a visceral notion.  No zoo or museum houses the supernatural for the scientific mind to sample and define.  Consider for a moment, that perhaps demons are real.   A massive load of worry and anger from the injustice of favoritism, started as a hot neck, and an invisible lead straight jacket tugging on aching shoulders.  Then, as the lights danced in a tormented brain shadowing scars began to accumulate of the wall of the mind.  A creature was born of hurt, resentment, and hatred.  It seemed harmless at first, reaching out into the world with shadowy and sticky tentacles.  Warm black ink would run into the ear canals of any who would listen and incubate more demon spawn.

Humans may possibly be the parents to the unseen darkness of evil, as electrical brains hum and swirl events of hurt and anger.  Churning a massive centrifuge of thoughts and dark fantasies.  Unleashing darkness upon all that step near.  The blackened mist is not bound to it creator.  A human, deprived of life, leaves behind a footprint of warm glowing sunlight, and choking smoke.  Like living creatures they penetrate and saturate those left to life.  The creatures of emotion, live beyond the nest.

God saw it necessary to quell the veil of black, that evil creatures cast as they swim in the air between people.  A bright light, silent and hung on a cursed wooden monolith for a moment.   Light was lost for three hours, so that it could burn away darkness for an eternity.  Without light, demons will nest in the wounded brains of humanity.  Love and forgiveness is poison to evil.  It will writhe and scream under its dose, but eventually, it will die in the light.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

 

Life

 

A giant wooden circle spins.  Old drawings of children riding on animals and laughing, cover the center hexagonal pillar.  The roof is like an ornate hat for a spinning round house.  Wood shaped into framed swirls and borders.   The paint is faded.  This ride has been on the Earth for some time.  An old group of people occupy it.  The music plays, yet the looks of blind joy, knowing sadness, and silent fatigue hangs on the face of the riders.  A voice booms over their heads, the music fades, the lights dim and the ride stops. They make a line, some are wailing, and trying to hold on for one more time around, but when the music stops, everyone must leave.  They begin walking slowly our of sight. The exit gate is closed as new group populates the circle.  Riders sit on plastic animals impaled with vertical poles.  The frozen faced beasts of burden drift up and down, limited to their evolution, or their design perhaps.  The moment is brief.  The ride starts.  The ride ends.  As the gate closes behind the old riders, children run to the animals, laughing and telling their own stories of how it all works.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/carousel/