This is a blog by someone who hates blogging, but says stuff anyway.
|Posted by Michele on January 29, 2012 at 12:00 AM||comments (6)|
An Interview with Mike Malone
The other day I had the pleasure of interviewing one of the most unique characters in modern fiction, Mr. Mike Malone. Here’s how it went…
Mike Malone stepped into my office, a handsome, pleasant young man in a crisp, pressed suit. I look at him and, because I know his story, I must confess to a sense of awe. He has a second job that keeps him from ever being ‘just another guy.’
I welcome Mike and direct him to the ‘interview chair.’ He takes a seat.
Archer: “Mike, thank you for coming and speaking with us today.”
Mike Malone: “Well, thank you for having me. I’m excited to be here.”
Archer: “For readers who aren’t familiar with your background, tell us who you are, where you came from and what it is that you do.”
Mike Malone: “Sure. I’m Michael Sean Malone, I was born in Chicago. I recently married…”
Archer: “Oh, how is that going?”
Mike Malone: “Fantastic. Thanks again for fixing us up. Linda, works as a nurse at the King of Angels hospital downtown and what do I do? For my day job, I’m a partner at the accounting firm of Jones, Mabry and Malone…”
Archer: “A partnership, excellent.”
Mike Malone: “Proud to say so. As to the other work, I’m involved in keeping the inter-dimensional portals closed around the Earth. I slow down the traffic of demons and other beings that try flooding our planet everyday. Wish I could say I stop it completely, but there is always one more Luciferian. ”
Archer (I smile): “Gosh Mike, in their spare time most people do things like collect stamps. The complete story of how you came to be that portal guard can be found in ‘The Calling of Mike Malone,’ correct?”
Mike Malone: “Yes.”
Archer: “Of course, part of the reason you became the portal guard is because your own father is an angel, although a fallen one. I’d like to talk about angels, but first, could you share about growing up with your dad?”
Mike Malone: “The thing is, I didn’t do much growing around him. When I was seven my mother and I had a huge shock: we thought my father died. One night he’s called into work and the next thing I know, my mom is weeping, and we had the police at our door… We had to live with it.”
Archer: “That must have been a horrible time.”
Mike Malone: “There’s an understatement. It felt like I lost my legs. I could say my father was my whole world, but that doesn‘t express how much he meant to me as a kid. Even today, I can’t think of a time on Earth when I felt more safe, secure or loved than those first seven years with the man we thought was Michael Sean Malone, Sr. Then, he was great.”
Archer: “And what happened when he showed up later in your life?”
(Mike sits back, a breath puffs from his lips, his shoulders fall. Not an event he enjoys recounting.)
Mike Malone: “My father made himself known to me just after my 21st birthday. He appeared to me as an angel in a park just down from my house. At first I couldn’t help it. This was the dad I missed all those years and I was glad to see him. We sat on a park bench and he told me he was a fallen angel and that I should now use his angelic name, Ahiel.
“After that, the rest is like a rocket sled ride…and here we are. I won’t lie. Ahiel put me through hell. But at the same time I have so much to be thankful for, I can’t believe it. I’ve seen and done things no one else gets to do. So I can’t say it hasn’t equaled out for me. I’m on my knees every night thanking God, good or bad. Because of what I’ve been though, I praise God either way.”
Archer: “If you could have your father back the way you remember him during those early years, would you?”
(For a moment there is a look in Mike’s eyes so wistful, I feel a little bad for posing the question.)
Mike Malone: “Um, that’s one of those questions where I don’t want the answer to be overheard. I hope you understand.”
Archer: “ I do. Let’s talk about angels. You know that angels are a big deal in America. You see the little images on everything from stationary to Christmas tree ornaments. I know a few Christian authors who use them as characters to create alternative stories to the Twilight series. Several magazine articles urge us to get in touch with them…I’ve even heard now that we should entertain strangers whenever possible because they could be angels. Do you see this as a problem?”
Mike Malone: “Wow! Well, first I wouldn’t entertain strangers whenever possible because you could get killed. A couple of thousand years ago, Biblical culture was different from America in 2012. Back in the day if you ate salted food with a total stranger you could trust that person with your life. So back then you could invite anyone off the street into your home. Share dinner with them and you were good. Today…not so much.
“As far as the interest in angels over-all: I understand, because it’s natural to be curious about these creatures. I can even see why writers would use them as characters. I mean, you did.”
Archer: “Got me there.”
Mike Malone: “To answer your question, just as I was being introduced to the world of fallen angels, Linda, who was dating me at the time, told me the only supernatural entities we should talk to are God and Jesus, and she had a point.
"Angels aren’t human. They can make themselves look like us, but they are not us. The mind-set is different, focused. They weren’t made to glorify themselves, but God. So when they see all of our cute little pictures and knick knacks of them, to them it’s idolatry and they don’t understand why we do that. Also, it helps cement the attitude of the Fallen that God acted like an idiot when He made man. Mankind is favored by God, and yet we look to angels? I don’t get it either. It’s a little stupid on our part.
“And besides, when they aren’t showing us a human form, they’re downright scary. Most of them are huge. I’m talking twenty, forty feet high. One time I met an actual seraphim. He stood twenty-feet tall, his eyes were like fire and he had a face like chiseled granite. When he looked at me I thought he wanted to bite off my leg. He had a voice so low and deep it sounded like an earthquake. When he unfurled his wings my jaw dropped. I’m talking about a forty-foot span of blazing white. He beat them once and took off so fast he caused a sonic boom.
“I’d say if you want to see an angel, ask God and at the right place, right time, you might get a peek. But even if you do…let me try and explain. Because I have angel blood in my veins, I tend to see them easier than others. So the other day I’m walking down Michigan Avenue and I see this huge angel marching back and forth in front of one of the buildings. I had no idea what he was up to, he didn’t acknowledge me or anyone else. I was fine with that and just went my way.
“When they come to earth, angels either have a message to deliver or a job to do. The best thing to do is stay out of their way. Don’t talk to them, don’t try and be their little friend, they don’t want to be friends. They do love us, but while you’re sitting in your room at night trying to speak to angels, they want to know why you aren’t talking to God. They’re touchy about idolatry that way. Don’t mess with them. Leave them alone. And that’s my advice for the good ones.”
Archer: “Now about the fallen ones. I’m sure people have a number of questions. Could you start by telling us the difference between fallen angels and demons? Are they the same?”
Mike Malone: “No, not at all. The Bible says that one third of all the angels were cast down to Earth. That’s true. But they did not morph into demons.
“Genesis six tells us about the advent of those creatures. The Fallen started to mate with Earth women and gave birth to the first nephilim. They were monsters. I’d be one, too, if Ahiel wasn’t so into tinkering with genes and starting the entire transhumanism thing. He wanted a nephilim that would appeal to the general culture. Like I said, I have many reasons to be thankful. But when the nephilim died their spirits degraded into the demons we have now. They have power but compared to the Fallen it’s like a fly trying to beat up an elephant. No contest.
“The Fallen have so much power that when you hear of nations collapsing or wonder why some places never developed, it’s because the Fallen have turned those places into their playground. But my point is that a demon can’t function on that sort of nation-wide scale. The Fallen can."
Archer: "So what kind of chance do we have?"
Mike Malone: “They’re tough. So much so that when I found out that Ahiel was one of them a Bible scholar told me I would never become born again because of my fallen blood. But it doesn’t matter where you came from or whose blood runs in your veins, or what's happening in the world because the King of Kings trumps it all.”
Archer: “I remember that conversation.”
Mike Malone: “That’s right, you were there.”
Archer: “Do the Fallen ever come after individuals?”
(Mike cringes as he considers the answer.)
Mike Malone: “Uh…yes. My father came after me. But the times they come after regular humans…I promised myself I didn’t want to freak people out, so I won’t talk too much about that. I do keep a close watch on my family, as you can imagine. But we don’t live in fear. If we did then they would win. Fortunately, a number of them are still worried about the damage my Linda did to Nimrod when they met. (He smiles.) That’s my girl!”
Archer: “Is the UFO phenomena the work of the Fallen?”
Mike Malone: “For the most part, yes, even though you do have things like weather balloons and hoaxes going on with it. And there are other entities that make themselves known in a similar manner.
But the Fallen do it to confuse, frighten and lay the ground work for other catastrophe’s they wish to cause. And they aren‘t above drugging people to make them think they‘ve had an abduction experience. They‘ll do anything. Anything that will captivate people and cause them to lose track of the true God.”
Archer: “Could you elaborate on the catastrophe part…?”
Mike Malone: “They’re a race that’s over 5,000 years old and the thing they hate the most is that humans breath. They have supernatural intellect and spent the centuries so far figuring out the most painful way to kill us all. And they are every bit as focused as the holy angels. It would scare you to know the technologies they’ve invented. With them the catastrophes can come from any direction at anytime. The more carnage, the better.”
Archer: “Wow! In that case, maybe we should talk a little about the end times. How much stock do you put in the things being said?”
Mike Malone: “I’ve heard some wild stuff myself, but for those who follow Christianity it gets back to this: Yashuah told us what the signs will be concerning the end. And we’re seeing them happen. But no matter where we are on God’s timeline our faith isn’t supposed to be in the times, or predictions, but God. And we were told to hold down the fort until Christ returns, so that’s what we should do. So if you’re convinced the end is coming, then here’s my advice: answer the calling of the Great Commission. God doesn’t reward people for propping up mediocre Christianity. If you’ve warmed a church pew all your life get up, get out and talk to people. Let them know there is a God of love and forgiveness who welcomes them all. You be the messenger this time. No matter what happens, you have nothing to fear. If you’re a Christian, not even death is the end, it’s a homecoming.”
Archer: “One more thing: will there be a sequel to your story?”
Mike Malone (winks): “I’ll leave that up to you. Let me know when you want to come over and take notes.”
(Mike looks at me, then looks past me. He blinks and says…
Mike Malone: “I’ve enjoyed speaking with you, but I need to leave, right now. I have some business that needs attention.”
Archer: “Does this mean I get to see your armor?”
Mike Malone: “Sure.”
(He stands and the transformation is immediate. One second I’m looking at a young man with a mid-western, farm-boy face, the next second he appears in dazzling silver armor, obsidian trim, a bejeweled sword on his hip, helmet under his arm. I understood what he meant about seeing angels, my own jaw hangs and my eyes bulge. This transformed Mike smiles and in that smile you feel a new day dawn.)
Mike Malone (laughs): “If you think this is something, remember, you’re also wearing it. And I ought to add before I go that any Believer can be a portal guard, all you have to do is pray. My circumstances about it are just a little different is all.”
Archer (still catching my breath, checking my outfit) : “Well…wow…thank you for coming. And thank you for keeping watch, sir.”
Mike Malone: (He slips on his helmet) “Hey, it’s my planet, too! But thank you. If you want to do this again sometime, let me know. I hope your readers enjoy it!”
(In a heart beat, he vanishes. I’m left alone in the office, but then, after this interview…it looks like we only think we’re alone. Well, as Mike said, there’s much to be thankful for and right now I‘m thankful for Mike Malone.)
|Posted by Michele on January 15, 2012 at 6:25 PM||comments (0)|
From the Midnight Diner 2010. I said some stuff and at the end, I say some new stuff.
About The Calling of Mike Malone, published by MuseItUp publishers. This story grew from all the years I’d spent wondering about a certain prophet in the Bible named Enoch.
Come on, how do you not wonder about Enoch? I can recall being five years old, driving along in the family station wagon off to church and my sisters arguing about people dying and going to heaven. My mother added that there was at least one man who didn’t die at all, a man named Enoch.
I asked how he managed to skip that step and my mom said because he was translated.
I sat there staring into space, my five year old head thinking, ‘Translated? To French?’ I sat back and forgot about it for awhile.
But over time I noticed something about Enoch…the Bible doesn’t say much about him. From the KJV we know that he didn’t see death, that God was pleased with him, and, aside from a few blurbs in Jude, there isn’t much.
So then, one day, I read the book of Enoch. No, it’s not part of regular biblical canon. My view of extra-biblical works is that you might have to take them with a grain of salt, but you can also learn things. For instance, the book of Enoch deals with the days Enoch spent judging the fallen angels.
Yeah, think about that a second. This man called down God’s judgement on the angels. You know, destroy- a- city- with- the- wave- of- an- arm, smite- thousands- at- a- time, beings -of- blazing- light…angels. And yet this little human turned to them and spoke the words God gave to him say, “You’re going to hell.”
Not a message I’d want to deliver. Enoch had guts.
The book also introduces us to the concept that in over five thousand years the snarkiness of rebellion really hasn’t changed that much.
Here’s the fallen angels deciding to go to earth and get some strange.
1It happened after the sons of men had multiplied in those days, that daughters were born to them, elegant and beautiful.
2And when the angels, the sons of heaven, beheld them, they became enamoured of them, saying to each other, Come, let us select for ourselves wives from the progeny of men, and let us beget children.
3Then their leader Samyaza said to them; I fear that you may perhaps be indisposed to the performance of this enterprise;
4And that I alone shall suffer for so grievous a crime.
5But they answered him and said; We all swear;
6And bind ourselves by mutual execrations, that we will not change our intention, but execute our projected undertaking.
7Then they swore all together, and all bound themselves by mutual execrations. Their whole number was two hundred, who descended upon Ardis, which is the top of mount Armon.
8That mountain therefore was called Armon, because they had sworn upon it, and bound themselves by mutual execrations.
Unbelievable! Big bad angels about to disobey God. This section is like something out of middle school when me and a few other baddies would meet around the picnic table and talk about how we were going to steal answers from the teachers desk or something.
Samyaza is like, “I’ll go do it, but I’m not going to be the only one that gets in trouble. You guys do it too or I’m out.”
And like a bunch of dumb-ass punks, the fallen all agree that they’ll do it, too.
Now, even if you don’t believe the book of Enoch is biblical at all, it is still a very old book and in this example alone we learn that bad guys are most believable when they are a little bit stupid.
Go back and read the account again and listen for these other commonalities: They show no ability to put themselves in someone elses shoes. The ‘it’s all about me’ attitude has been embraced throughout the millennia. How else do you think Lady Gaga scraped up fans?
But the implications and possible ramifications of the events in the book of Enoch are still with us. Long debates are fought in the UFO community as to whether or not the fallen are still having babies down here and if they are behind the alien abductions we hear so much about. Some religious groups, like the Mormons, insist their God lives on his own planet and spends his time making babies. Sounds down right Enockian.
So coming up with a story in which a fallen angel decides to out do his brethren by creating his own personal anti-Christ and taking over not only our world, but the spiritual realm, well, it ends up sounding not so far-fetched.
But then Mike Malone has to deal with the fact that his father’s greatest dream for his life is to have Mike become own his anti-Christ. And Dad doesn’t like hearing ‘No.’ The ride Mike takes after making this clear to his father becomes- an extremely dark, but fascinating adventure. One that I hope the reader will enjoy.
I wrote the above in 2010 before Mike came out and I would like to add an adendum here. I've seen a few articles by other angel writers that made my jaw drop and caused me to question their intellect and sanity. A word of advice: Don't seek angels. One writer suggested that pursuing chats with them would be helpful. Are you kidding? Angels have been around over 5,000 years and you want them to behave like trained puppies? That doesn't even match the persona's of the good angels in the Bible, God forbid one of the fallen makes your 'loop.' And for the love of God, don't encourage people to always entertain strangers because they might be angels. You'll get someone killed.
In the Old Testament hospitality revolved around the possible meeting of angels and they treated people accordingly. What does modern hospitality revolve around? Do we even have any at all? Yes, we do, but these days so few got the 'be-nice-they-could-be-angels' memo that inviting the suspicious looking guy at the school yard to come home and babysit your kid because he might be an angel...Eh, no.
You know who really tries to connect with angelic beings? Occultists, Luciferians. There is a whole branch of black magik called Enokian magik, where the practicioner calls out the names of the fallen to summon them and receive power. Even with good intentions please don't encourage connecting with these spirits, minstering ones or otherwise.
Want to say something helpful to the angelically curious? Urge them to seek God above all else, then ask HIm to one day reveal an angel to you. If you need to see one, He'll show you, like 2 Kings 6 --
"Therefore he sent horses and chariots and a great army there, and they came by night and surrounded the city. And when the servant of the man of God arose early and went out, there was an army, surrounding the city with horses and chariots. And his servant said to him, “Alas, my master! What shall we do?” So he answered, “Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.” And Elisha prayed, and said, “LORD, I pray, open his eyes that he may see.” Then the LORD opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw. And behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha."
Leave it up to God, then at the right place, at the right time the Lord will show you things that will blow your mind and...He'll keep you safe when He does it.
|Posted by Michele on December 29, 2011 at 11:10 PM||comments (11)|
This is for the ChristianWriters.com blog chain...
I've been asked to recount this story many times, but haven't until now because, well, frankly, I figured no one would believe it. But, here it is:
Okay, on this day before New Year's Eve, here's the sword fight story.....
I was in a cult...Yeah, can you believe it? I was in the Way Corps leadership training program. Part of that program involved leading a group of missionaries to a town for a year to set up fellowships and teach the Bible. Not as crazy as most cults go. I mean Romans 10:9 still formed the basis of the salvation message, it was later when the leadership began acting as if confessing THEM as Lord was the way to heaven...well...it was downhill from there.
But, the first day I'm sitting in the town square with my three other missionaries and we're talking about what to do. Our instructions were that we could only impose on the local fellowship for housing two weeks, then we were expected to all have jobs and a place to live. We made it with four days to spare.
But there we were... forming our game plan. And then I looked up. A girl walked down the sidewalk. A tall girl, she must have weighed 300 pounds. She wore a forest green, gothic cape that came to her ankles, purple shorts, a bright orange, long sleeved, silk shirt and she was walking a ferret. All I could think was, 'Why there's my new best friend.'
I called her over, just a, "Hey, c'mere!' And she joined us on the park benches. I told her we were new and asked what was up with this town. She was a very nice girl. Her name was Sherrie. She'd come here to attend to school, didn't make good grades, so instead of going home to her parents dairy farm, she stayed in town and lived with her boy friend, Steve. Later I found Steve was the epitome of an 80's nerd. Black glasses, maybe 5'6", 100 lbs soaking wet, voice flipped an octave when he lost at Dungeons and Dragons or missed watching Dr. Who. (I have never watched an episode of Dr. Who and I think Steve is probably why.)
We talked. She asked what we were doing there, told her we came to teach the Bible. She had attended church before, but only because her parents made her. And anyway, as a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism, (a medieval re-enactment group)Steve and her friends in the group had formed a coven, so she was 'spiritually fulfilled' that way. I nodded, and told her, "I have noticed that a lot of people don't even realize how much power is available out there, isn't that weird?"
She was taken aback and said, "You mean there's power in the church?"
I shrugged. "Not necessarily, but there is power in God and His word. And that's what we're here to show people."
She said she wanted to hear more so she became our first deliverance case. By the end of the year, (our ‘year’ began and ended in September)Sherrie was 70 lbs lighter, found different clothes to wear and ended up dumping her boyfriend for a real savior, Jesus Christ.
But before the happy ending....
Sherrie really wanted me to visit one of her SCA meetings. It was, "I just want to know all of my friends can get along..." I could almost see the flowers and daisies circling her head. I thought it was kind of a dumb idea, but still felt like Sherrie needed to see me make the effort...so there I went.
The group met in a school gym for that particular meeting. Seems the 'Shire' was about to throw a feast and all the 'Guilds' needed to share their 'pithy bounty.' (Yeah, try not to laugh.) Then this one tiny girl who had stared daggers at me stood up and lead them in a Wiccan prayer. I have no problem with people who want to go join witch-churches or whatever. If someone is called to be a Christian, they’ll become one, I don’t have to hit them over the head. But this girl came across a little more extreme than the average Wiccan. She described herself as the earths high -priestess and said her familiar told her tonight the warriors were to have fighter practice.
And Sherrie, bless her heart, starts waving and says, "Oooh! My friend is a warrior!"
I was like, "Wh-what?"
I knew she wasn't trying to trick me into something, she was just so, so...earnest, I could have smacked her.
"You're a spiritual warrior! Your sword can be the sword of the spirit!"
Tiny girl gazed at me as if I had two heads and said, "Come stranger. Come join me on the floor."
I kind of smiled at Sherrie and said, "What the heck, it'll be fun!"
Tiny Girl waited. She had straight, shoulder-length black hair. Heavy black eye-liner, ruby lips and wore something that looked like Sherwood Forest. She handed me a mask and a broad sword. "Don't worry, they're dull."
I didn't know that SCA doesn't really handle 'battle practice' that way. Everyone acted like it was fine and Sherrie said, later, she thought it was evidence that because they knew I was a warrior that they had me fight with a broad sword. So no one said anything helpful like, "Hey, you can get killed doing that!"
I put on the mask, but lifted the visor. "I might not be very good at this..."
Tiny Girl cut me off. "I want you to know...I smell a Christian..." Her eyes looked past me as if seeing a whole other world. Her voice became hushed, low, as she said something very creepy, "From the depth of my soul, my god told me to tell you that he hates you with all that is in him. All of you deserve to die."
I was 21, but I didn't need an engraved invitation to know I was not speaking to a person anymore. I grabbed a sword, stuck my face in hers, and in a whisper, said the first thing that popped into my head, "Yeah? Well, I want you to know that my God is going to make your god...cry."
I brought my sword around, knocked the sword out of her hand and sent it flying across the gym. She ran over, retrieved it and it was on.
The first thing to go in sword fighting are your arm muscles. Holy crud! That thing gets heavy and...talk about feel the burn! Everytime the swords connected the vibration was overwhelming. Soon I swore I could feel my teeth rattle with every strike.
And this witch kept saying weird crap to me that same low voice. Things she had no way of knowing. She knew I was afraid of big spiders, that someone had stolen Max, when I never mentioned my violin once in that town to anyone. But it had come this far and I wasn't about to fold. I told her something like, "Sticks and stones, witch..." (Well, it was something real close to that...) And that made her face flame. Like lightning she pulled back her sword. I didn't even think I could lift mine one more time, but I knew she wasn't playing. If I didn't move, that sword was going to go through my brain. At the last second, I managed to haul it up in defense and I knew it was going to be rough.
I've never been a Tiny Girl. At the time I probably weighed about 140. I'm sure I had at least 50 pounds on her. But when our swords made that last connect, my feet left the ground and I went flying into the gym wall. Fortunately, the wall had a mat hanging from it or it would have been worse. Anyway, I ended up on my butt and heard someone shout, "Hey, what the hell are you dong?" One of the school administrators had burst in and put an end to 'battle practice.'
My arms felt like over cooked noodles. Sherrie rushed over. I told her, "I'd hand you my sword, but I don't think I can."
She started crying about how she didn't mean for that to happen, how Tiny Girl looked like she wanted to kill me. "And you guys would never treat any of them like that in your house." She shook her head. "I don't like this. I don't want to be friends with them anymore."
Still catching my breath, I said, "O...good."
So that's the story of the witch sword fight. And yep, happened just like that. I know, it sounds like a page from Mike Malone and I knew you wouldn't believe me. But, hey, that stuff comes from somewhere. Sometimes it even comes from experience.
And I guess I lost the battle, but God won the war. That night, just a few days shy of Christmas, Sherrie turned her life over to Jesus Christ. And I like to think that that conversion made Tiny Girl’s god sob for days.
What else can I say except, yup, sure makes a great story!
|Posted by Michele on December 16, 2011 at 11:50 PM||comments (0)|
Death to the Lizards
In the smoky back room of a Bay City coffee house Tim Marks peered out at the crowd. His turn. Into his fifties he knew he was way too old for this shit. But the back alley was the perfect set-up for what he needed. The prep; simple, effective.
Young punks, teens and twenties, sat in the audience amidst masses of self generated fog from the cigarettes they puffed. They lifted coffee mugs to their lips to sip substances far more stimulating than coffee. This was an underground club, a place where children of the wealthy gathered to be bad. Some could wake up, but not all.
He spotted them. The offspring of the elite. Deja Monique, daughter of movie star Vu Monique sat next to Sunset Diamond, son of music mogul, Dave Diamond. Dressed in chic black and stylish, bored expressions, they sat, eyes peering.
Time to see if they’d fall from the tree.
As he stepped on stage, his back-up band hit and sustained a C-five triad. Tim felt the sounds waves wash over him like a clean, mountain stream. The sound of the chord made Deja and Sunset twitch. The rest of his audience raised their voices in approval.
But inside he knew they still craved blood.
He picked up the mic and over the din of cheers asked, “Got your lizard stomping shoes on?”
Expressions changed to amused, half-drunk raucous cries of, “Yeah!” and “Death to the lizards!” filled the room.
Yeah, just a roomful of spoiled, dumb kids, programmed to the hilt. But Tim knew if he kept pulling back the layers and layers of implanted ideas and actions, a few of them had a chance.
Can't tell the whole story anymore...It's going in the collection!
|Posted by Michele on November 19, 2011 at 11:40 PM||comments (4)|
These stories about my life in cult land are dedicated to the memory of my old friend, "Fast" Eddie Davila.
I met Donna Davila the second day of Bible college and we became instant friends. I mean, this was the early eighties. How could you not like someone who had memorized every episode of Star Trek and showed no interest in being one of the ‘cool people.’
We had the same goal: we both wanted a knowledge of scripture. Wanted to know it like the backs of our hands. And while other Bible colleges promised to introduce students to the workings of a concordance by the end of the first year, at The Way College of Emporia, you were expected to enter already up to speed on such things and be ready for bigger to fish to fry.
And maybe that’s what happened. When making the Word of God understandable and teaching it to others becomes the heartfelt, honest goal of a group things happen like what happened at my school. You attract some of the most wonderful, decent hearted people on the planet and you attract a host of demons with the simple stated goal of steal, kill and destroy. Most of the time they manifested themselves in mind numbing religiosity.
That first day we were hanging out on the library steps waiting for her husband, Eddie, to finish some paperwork. We were in an ‘official’ leadership program called The Way Corps. Sort of like the spiritual marines. Semper fi, first over the wall, fearless…Way Corps. And sure, cool. I could live with that.
But there we sat. This girl approaches. Tall blonde. We said, ‘Hi.” She turned and stared as if deciding whether or not to acknowledge us, then took a breath and straightened herself. “You know,” she said, “we are women of God and as such, idleness just isn’t becoming. I wouldn’t be a good sister in Christ if I didn’t share that with you.”
Shocked, I said the phrase known these days by the letters, WTF, then, “You have no idea, what we’re doing. You just decided you knew.”
Now uncertain, she said, “Well, what are you doing?”
I pointed at Donna. “I don’t know what she’s doing, but I wanted to meet someone really judgmental today.”
Blondie’s mouth dropped open. She spun and walked away. In a three count Donna burst out laughing. “When it comes to some people, you just don’t care if they don’t like you. That was one.”
“Bet she makes it into an incident.”
She did. At that school there was a posted time of sharing after each of the Sunday night services. Sure enough, blondie stood up and shared about the two girls she tried so hard to encourage away from idleness, and how, despite being in the Way Corps, they swore at her and mocked.
The Dean spoke up after she had taken her seat and said, “Well, it’s the first week so some of us are still leaving ‘the world’ behind. But it’s great how you took the initiative to try and help…”
When they announced leadership within the student body, Blondie was at the top of the list.
Donna and I looked at each other. “You know,” she said, “when they let the crazies run things, we’re looking at a real problem.”
She was right….
To be continued
|Posted by Michele on October 31, 2011 at 9:50 AM||comments (15)|
This is for the CW blog chain. Topic: Harvest.
What does Halloween have to do with Harvest?
At first glance the two don't mesh at all. After all, what does Halloween commemorate? Has nothing to do with 'All Saints Day' or anything vaguely Christian. Let me explain...
Some five thousand years ago earth was a very different place. I mean, even today scientists find fossils of giant ferns on Antarctica. Sea shells can be found on top of Mount Everest. How'd that happen? Well, the obvious, and true answer is what we just said: earth was different. We had a single land-mass known as Pangea. The weather was pleasant. Some say an ice canopy surrounded our planet blocking out massive amounts of radiation, so plants grew huge and people lived for hundreds of years. Thankfully those massive creatures we call dinosaurs were still common. They were needed just to keep the trees trimmed, y'know?
So what happened?
According to the Bible there were angels living on earth. Which makes sense, since God would want to help mankind, why not send His ministering spirits? They were told NOT to marry any of the human women but...well, you know the story. They did. They gave birth to monstorus spawn called the nephilim and it was not good.
This period of time gives us the origin of the Halloween witch, and why that witch is female. The book of Enoch tells us the fallen taught THEIR wives divination of the stars, how to make potions of herbs, crystals, how to use 'secret words,' all of the occult arts. Even though God has Enoch tell the fallen, 'Your secrets are worthless secrets...'
The fallen gave humanity many things, everything from the knowlege of weapons to kill people with, to make-up, so the women would more easily arouse the men. We could have turned it all down at any time., but we didn't. Mankind sucked up every bit of technology and wicked knowlege we could get. And it made us continually evil.
In the end, there was so little impetus for mankind to choose what was right, the leaders of the fallen were able to plan their vengeance agaisnt God by destroying His creation. It took time, but they caused the vast underground oceans to push harder and harder against the earth's crust. Tremendous pressure. One final thrust and the earth cracked like an over-ripe melon. This was not a small volcanic eruption. This was like having atomic bombs go off around the globe, all at the same time. Imagine huge mountains heaving up out of the ground shooting tons of water thousands of miles high. A scenario played out all around the globe. The single continent rips apart. The water canopy collpases. In very little time anything that lives and breaths on planet earth is DEAD!
On the 17th day of the second month, a time that coincides with our Halloween, the day the Great Flood began, a man named Noah had already listened to God. When God said to prepare, he prepared. When He said to build a boat for his family and all the animals, he did.
God had blessed animals with instinct. When they sensed danger coming, they also sensed where to go. And so they started walking. Maybe the original polar bears who began the trek didn't make it, but their grand-cubs did. Noah could even take dinosaurs with him...little baby dinosaurs wouldn't weigh down the ship. Neither would baby elephants or giraffes. When the animals were in and God closed the door, the animals found themselves in darkness and they did what most animals would do: they hibernated.
The storm came and lifted the ark away. Noah's sons carried the tale of of the fallen angels with them. Even after the flood they told it. And perhaps it was out of grief for all who lost their lives, but it wouldn't be too strange to think they remembered that day. Around the world, it is still considered a day of the dead. And perhaps it's a wound that will never heal. Because to have so many die at once all within the same time frame...well, Death attaches itself to those dates.
But God harvested a handful of souls. You might say it was a small harvest, but it was good seed and mankind started over. And that's what Halloween and harvest have to do with each other.
They say this is the end times, 'as in the days of Noah...' so who knows what's to come? Well, we KNOW the harvest time is coming. We have to be like Noah...and get ready. The door is still open, the sun is still shining, come on board...and bring your friends.
|Posted by Michele on September 30, 2011 at 5:40 PM||comments (0)|
Times of Death
By M. L Archer
JeremyBardineaux shivered as he stepped through the door of his uncle’s home.
He recalled coming here as a child, when the mansion bustled with the comings and going of patients, slaves, and the sort of traffic one might expect in the home of a respected New Orleans doctor. Still, this was a place he didn’t care for.
Now the home sat deserted. Why?
He closed the door behind him as a gust of wind picked up, and the house itself seemed to sigh.
“Uncle Pierre?” he called, hiswords returned to him muffled, absorbed by the heavy curtains and tapestries on the wall The broad, once lush foyer smelled musty withdust and neglect. An underlying stink like bad meat further decayed the air.
“Jeremy, we’ve received word from Martha,” his mother told him back at their farm. “You’re uncle has been doing the strangest things. He released his slaves, and now,no one has seen him for a month and his horse and wagon are missing.He may be off helping some poor soul, but, please, son, please go seeif you can find what has become of my brother.”
His gazed up the sweeping stairwayto the second floor landing and called again. “Uncle Pierre! Answer me! Please!”
From the back of the house, he heard movement and instinctively reached for his pistol, suspicious of whom or whatmight be lurking.
“Momma! Momma!” he could almost hear himself calling out remembering the very first night he visited his uncle. He was all of six years old. “I’m so scared, please don’tmake me stay here!”
The feeling never left.
“If someone is here, come out now!” he stepped carefully to the hallwayand peered around the corner. Woven rugs comforted the way to his uncle’s examination rooms. All of the doors were open, save one.The movement came from behind that door. “I said come out! Comeout, now!”
He pulled out his pistol, heart racing, and heldit ready. The noise in the examination room continued. He took a deepbreath and quietly, crept down the hall. He stretched out his arm,gripped the door knob, and threw it open, only to jump at the sightof a family of mice that scampered away. He placed a hand on his chest and held it until his heart stopped pounding.
“Oh,dear sweet mother of God!” he cried in relief as he slumped against the door jam.
He holstered his pistol. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. Jeremy looked about. This was the room.
“Jeremy,you are welcome everywhere in my home but here…” he could see hisuncle’s piercing, blue eyes bore through him as he pointed to the door.
“What is in there, sir?”
His uncle lifted afinger to his lips and whispered, “Secrets.”
Curious,he peered about. This place that was kept off limits to him for solong, and now he found himself disappointed. A high window allowedlight to pour down onto a simple examination room. There stood anexamination table, a cabinet, chairs, another small table…to oneside a door less closet stood open and he caught a shadowy glimpse ofshelves full of containers.
“Mon dieu, Jeremy,” he muttered out loud. “What on earth did you expect to find?”
Pictureframes displaying what Jeremy knew were but a few of his uncle’scertificates and honors hung on the wall. Uncle Pierre was well knownfor his contributions to understanding the human body and what a truly, powerful machine God had made in which to house the humansoul. He frowned. Then why so secret
Eyebrow raised, hedecided to look in the cabinet.
“What are you doing?” hemuttered, trying to keep himself calm, as he opened the cabinet’stop drawer. He had the half-amused, half-disturbed thought thatperhaps his uncle made sketches of his unclothed female patients, andof course he would lock those away. Ah, the man should havemarried.
But any sense of amusement or, half-formed plans of tormenting his uncle with his uncovered foibles, lifted when he saw a medical folder labeled ‘times of death.’
He pressed hislips together and nodded. His uncle was no wicked rogue; this must bethe place where he did those terrible things called the ‘autopsy.’He read about it in one of Uncle Pierre’s medical books. He learned there were times when a doctor, to understand the way in which person died, needed to take a dead body and cut it open. Even as an adult the thought sent a chill racing down his spine. But it made sense. If this was the room where he performed such a barbaric service, of course he would keep a child away.
‘Times of Death.’ The title alone filled him with an ungodly desire to peer into these personal tragedies. A mere glance. That’s all he would do. Part of him knew it surely had to contain needed legal information, nothing more. Still, he gulped as he lifted the folder from its resting placeand opened it.
It was a list. He read:
Subject one- 35 minutes
Subject two- 5days
Subject three- 2 minutes…
On it read.Seventy-five creatures died in all.
He quickly closed the folder and put it back. Obviously, recorded from his uncle’s experiments, he had to admire Uncle Pierre’s resolve. It would be difficult to preside over the death of so many creatures, but he knew such information, though obtained in grizzly fashion, aided mankind.
“Stop spying and find your uncle!”
He strode outof the room, glad to be away from it.
Check the upstairs.
Perhaps the man was hurt or lying sick in bed. Before seeking out the Constable concerning his whereabouts, he would search the place.
“Uncle? Are you up here?”
Through the windows, he could see where the sun stood in the sky. It was already late afternoon. Jeremy began to hurry. This was not a place he wanted to be alone in after dark. Not even at the best of times.
He opened every upstairs door, called for his Uncle many times, bu tfound no one. Oddly relieved by this, he headed back down thesteps.
He paused. His breathquickened, his heart raced, he whispered, “Hello?”
Atfirst he muttered, “Now I am hearing my own name. This is ridiculous …”
But the very stillness of the house stirred a childhood memory …
He is a small boy, lying in bed,eyes huge, heart throbbing, and thinks, ‘Did it call me? Did itstep out of my dream?’
That is what bothers him about thisplace. At night he dreams of voices and figures whispering through the halls. And one night, a woman calls to him.
In his dream, he rises and steps into the hall. Down the stairs he hearsthe voice calling and he cautiously slips down the steps. The soundis coming from the parlor. He tiptoes toward it, and suddenly hehears it…finger nails scraping beneath the floor boards. The sound is not frantic, but in long steady, swipes…
He awakes frightened, tears stinging his eyes.
“Enough,” he whispered and started down the stairs. “I’m getting out of here.”
As the words left his lips, a voice spoke, high and thin, as if shredded by unseen wind, “Jeremy...” it said.
The strength in his knees evaporated and he gripped the railing to keep from stumbling in shock. From out of his nightmare,the woman voice finally found him. Jeremy didn’t bother to answer.Teeth-chattering, chest heaving, he half-ran, half-stumbled down the stairs and crashed headlong on the foyer floor.
“No, no!”he cried as terrified tears dripped down his face. “Get up! Run,run!”
Willing his legs under him, he rose and ran for thedoor. One, two steps away, he heard it lock.
“NO!” hescreamed, fists balled, he pounded on the door. “This can’t be!Please! Please!”
Over and over, he tried the knob, but itwas like trying to twist solid iron. “This isimpossible!”
Panicked, he gazed about. A window. He would break a window. He raced to the dining room, grabbed a chair and slammed it against the large bay windows with all his might. Muscles straining, he pounded until he could only stand winded and shaking.
“God there is nothing in here! Please, say I am alone!”
Body tense as piano string,he shrieked and spun around. Standing in the hallway entrance was a woman. With an unexpected glimmer of hope, he thought she might be a house slave. But his heart recognized something else.
On the woman’s head she wore a molding, gingham kerchief; her skin was the color of old clay, her skirt, gray and tattered. She began to glide towards him.
Heart in his throat, he dropped to his knees and cried, “Oh, Spirit, I beg of you! Forgive me if I have disturbed your rest. I swear to you, I will leave and never,ever return! I swear!”
The ghostly figure continued forward and Jeremy scrambled back. “No! No!”
She paused. Jeremy trembled from head to toe, praying for mercy. In the same unworldly voice he knew so well, the woman peered down at him and posed a single question, “How long will it take you to die?”
Jeremy’s jaw struggled to answer, but the Spirit lunged. He shrieked as a coldwave washed over him and then she was gone.
Jeremy glanced athis hands, his body, and gasped his thankfulness to God. He was stillalive.
He leaped to his feet and ran for the back door, but ittoo was locked. Jeremy felt his frustration and fear quicken.Slamming his fist against the kitchen table, face hot with rage, he screamed, “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!”
He gasped as a new spirit appeared. An old black man stood in the doorway. But this spirit did not seem as cold as the woman. He had a grizzled head and the sort of broad, pleasant face that gave the impression that, in life, he would have found this man friendly. The spirit silently beckoned with his left hand and turned down the hall. Shaking, butpraying that this spirit meant him no ill, he followed.
“Father Spirit,” he stammeredat the old man’s back, “you know I mean no harm here. I-I wouldnever disrespect the dead…”
The spirit made no response,but continued to waft down the hall. It paused at the examination room and entered. More afraid of being left alone than anything, he rushed to keep up. The spirit drifted into the open closet and vanished.
A mad hope welled in him. He didn’t know this room. Maybe, there was a secret door. “A-a-a w-way out?”he asked, through trembling lips. “Is-is it, Father Spirit?”Tears dripped down his face and he blubbered aloud, “Please!”
But the house remained silent as the grave. There was nothing to do but look. Jeremy felt his legs wobble at every step as he walked forward, trying to cheer himself on with stories he’d heard of escape passages built into many mansions. Especially in NewOrleans, where masters liked to slip out for a rendezvous,undetected by wife or family.
Except his uncle had no wife,and he was nearly the last of his family.
Jeremy straightened his shoulders and stepped into the closet.
The old man stared back at him. At least, for the first second, that was his impression,because the reality was so appalling. It took several moments for itto soak in. In horrified wonder, he realized it was the old man’shead. His jaw dropped open as he surveyed the scene, unable to fullyaccept what he was seeing. The old man’s head sat in a jar full ofyellow liquid on a shelf in the back of his uncle’s closet. His eyes open and set in a blind eternal stare, the mouth twisted in a perpetual grimace.
But there were many jars in the closet.Containers displaying hands, eyes, gray and meaty colored organs sat on every shelf.
“no…” he gasped, backing away. “…it can not be…oh Lord…” He sobbed in anguish as the truth dawned,he screamed, “OH, GOD!”
“Don’t worry, boy,” his uncle soothed him during a slave auction. “England’s finest scientific minds assure us of two things: there is no God and these are only animals. It’s just like buying a cow….”
He stared at the honors hung on the wall, honors given for torturing human beings. Hundred of images rattled through his mind, each of his uncle, waiting, watching,carefully noting the greatest amount of agony each slave could handle before death overtook them, then recording how much time each passing took.
Agony wrenched through his body and he half ran, half threw himself out the door, into the wall outside, weeping, barely able to stand.
He tossed his head back and cried, “Ahhhh! Dear God! Forgive him! Please…” he sobbed. “I will confess to the world of our shame. I am sorry! Dear God, I am so sorry!”
Upon hearing his name, his head snapped up.
“Uncle Pierre!” he cried. Butcher or not, it was a voice he recognized. “Where are you?”
Nearly mad with relief, he staggered back down the hall in the direction ofthe voice.
The foyer was deserted.
“U-uncle?” tears welled up in his eyes again as hope faded. Then, a sound he felt in every inch of his body came unbidden from the parlor. In the stillness of the house he heard fingernails scrape across the parlorfloor.
“Jeremy…” his uncle’s voice groaned from beneath the floor boards. “Help me…”
Crying out, he stumbled and fell to the ground. Crawling on his hands and knees into the room, sanity ebbing away, he shouted, pounding the once-polished boards, “Murderer! Mad man! Damn you!” Weeping, he gasped,“You-you are dead…why must I pay for your sins?”
He saw spirit after spirit rise from beneath the floor, rising from the anonymous grave his uncle condemned them to. Jeremy rose to his feet and laughed like a madman, as he pointed at them. “You were all here!” he cried, stepping backwards toward the fireplace. “I felt you, you know?” Men, women, children, all drifted up through thewood. “I-I knew there was something…I knew…something…” His legs felt like they no longer held any blood, his head began to swim.The spirits moved closer.
“Please,” he wailed. “I am innocent!”
His own heart rejected his words.
He took a step back and stumbled. His legs gave out and he fell backwards until his head crashed against the sharp, stone edge of the hearth.His body jerked and somewhere far away, he heard a woman’s voicewhisper, “1 second…2 seconds…3 seconds…”
Jeremy’sworld went black.
|Posted by Michele on September 30, 2011 at 5:05 PM||comments (0)|
Sound Byte from the end of the World Appeared in The Bohemian Alien Feb. 2008
The new moon had already risen seven days earlier when a fist pounded on my door. I cursed as I opened it and saw not only Ahmet, but his worthless pig of a son, Tomis. Together they are as attractive as half a cow, but they do not smell as good. Black mustaches drip off their lips like rancid oil.
I sneered in their filthy faces and spat, “What do you want?”
Ahmet folded his great slabs he had for arms and grunted, “The crowds are heading toward the circus. My son and I wish to join them, so I want my rent, Marye. NOW!”
I threw my hands in the air. “What? I go out and get stiffed by your miserable friends and so now you expect me to have money! What am I? A magician to pluck it out of the air? To hell with your circus! I don’t have the money. That’s all!” I reached to slam the door in his face, but his fat hand lurched forward so swift and hard, I was knocked back onto the floor.
Nodding to his son he muttered, “The daughter is in back.” And Tomis lumbered off.
Horrified, I bolted upright, “You can’t! My daughter is with child!”
Ahmet shoved me back with his boot and I swore at him with greater fervor.
“Shut-up” He growled. “Why would he hurt her? Next month we may have to take her in trade for your rent once again.” Then raising his arms, indicating I was to undo his sash, he hissed, “Get busy.”
Despite my daughter’s cries, it went very well. I know she was uncomfortable, but what can either of us do? It is how we are forced to live in this pig sty of a town.
In an hour we had paid the rent in full. Relieved to have that behind me, I changed my dress, combed my hair, told my daughter to grow up and went into town.
In back of the café where I often find employment, people were gathering to peer out the rear window. A couple of gray-haired old men began taking bets on whatever activity was going on.
Two traders were shouting in the alley way. One was Joseph. Tall, powerfully built, his long wavy hair tied back, he looked like he had to but step on his opponent to win this battle. The other was Samekh, a small, dark, greasy, weasel of a man. I did not see much of the fight because while they were at each other, I went from pocket to pocket, lightening the patrons of their burdens. Ha! Gold and silver are so heavy after all!
From the alley came such loud cries of pain from Joseph I craned to look out of sheer surprise. Samekh, the cheat, the weasel, had several of his friends in tow and they were doing…things to Joseph. Ah, it was a business dispute, and if I sought help for him or tried to step in, it would only cost me my life and they would have continued on with Joseph, so what should I do? It was not my affair. It kept the café entertained long enough for me to fly out the front door. I intended to head for the dress makers. It had been a hard day already, I deserved something for myself. But I was interrupted once again.
“Marye! You evil whore!” the screams of Ahna, the baker’s wife followed me down the street. “You stay away from my husband or I will slice you!”
I screwed up my lip and sneered, “Oh, you want to slice me like bread? Perhaps you should stop your screaming and take care of your man. It is not MY fault you do not please him. You are ugly, I am not.”
Ahna is a hefty woman, very strong from carrying babies on her hips and kneading bread. She snatched up the large, wooden bread paddle they use as if it were a feather and came charging after me like a great, angry, she-bear. Panicked, I pulled out the dagger I keep strapped to my thigh and held it out. “I will slice you, Ahna! You know I will!”
She stopped, but still held the paddle like a weapon and we stood circling each other in the street, one waiting for the other to drop her guard.
“I HATE YOU!” shouted Ahna. “You are poison, you are cow dung. You are everything wrong and then more.”
“Oh? And you are so pure? Who cheats their customer’s, a loaf here, a copper there? You are so good? Go join the circus, you buffalo!”
Ahna’s answer was to lunge forward with a great roar. She swung and struck the side of my face. The earth spun and I staggered, in the mean time, she struck me again and again…
“STOP!” A man’s voice cried out and with some relief I saw it was Ben-Wazzeem, one of the herb traders in town. “Ladies! Ladies! I’m sure none of us want the Law to come,” he said reasonably. “Now Ahna, everyone knows your husband goes to this harlot and now you’ve made your point to her, so stop worrying about it.” He put a companionable arm over her shoulder trying to cheer her. “Look at it this way, it could be worse,” he said a grin splitting his face. “He could be visiting a goat!” They both laughed at my expense.
He took her hand and patted it gently, “Your husband still provides, still takes care of you, so he is a good man at least, no?”
Ahna thought about it and nodded, “You are wise. And you are right: Marye is at least better than a goat.”
“That’s it. Now back to your babies.” She spat at my feet and walked away like a pacified elephant.
I was still panting from the encounter, still enraged by their exchange. Wazeem looked me over and cocked his head. “I am surprised you are still here in town.”
I gasped, “Why?”
“‘Why?’” he echoed, incredulous. “The circus! There is something happening out there. I was on my way before running into this cat-fight! She would have beaten you to death; you know that, don’t you?”
I felt my bruised sides and nodded.
“Well, then,” he clucked. “I think you have at least a couple of minutes for the man who saved your life. My alley is empty.”
I followed him, still desperately gripping my dagger. In the alley, he turned, put his hands on my shoulders and lightly pushed down, but instead of going to my knees, I rammed the dagger into his belly and yanked it up toward his breast bone.
I have killed men before, and as they die, they all look the same. Eyes wide and amazed that I would dare hurt them and words of ‘why’ on their lips. Wazeem was no different. Before the light died in his eyes, I told him, “You compared me to a goat.”
My revenge satisfied, I headed for The Circus.
It is not really a circus. We have all called it that for many months since the carpenter began bringing creatures in to populate it. But it is so odd and so many strange things happen there, it is something to see.
I took the walk over the first, then second hills outside of town and though I have seen the circus many times, the site of it still made me gasp. It is the largest, single structure I have ever seen. The sons built it at the bequest of their mad father. Yes, he must be mad. This building is larger than the king’s palace. It is long, and made from lumber treated to become gopher wood. Yes! You may ask why a building is made with gopher wood. Why would it need so much protection from moisture and dampness? That is the true madness here! The carpenter, a fool named Noah, calls it a boat! And who but a mad man spends a hundred years building a boat so huge, so far from the sea?
Then the animals began to come. Creatures the likes few have seen. Even great long neck dragons came here, laid their eggs and the young clambered on board. Beautiful birds, young, snowy white bears, baby elephants . . . they all came to Noah’s boat. His huge gangplank lays open and he constantly calls for us to join him, but then, he is mad and there is enough madness about.
I ran where much of the town had gathered. It was a carnival as men drank their wine and cavorted, singing songs about Noah and his lunacy. Two men began to dance naked and called out, “Noah! This is what we think of your God!” One of them urinated and cried, “Oh, look! The rain came!” The crowd, including my self, laughed.
But there was silence when Dhalet the High Priest of the Sun joined us. He wore a dazzling, white robe, his headdress was lined in pure gold, on the end of staff was the golden image of the fish god. Flanked by his priests, he stood before Noah’s boat and cried out, “Noah! You will speak with us! Speak with us, now!”
I waited, suddenly forgetting all that had happened today. Noah . . . I had not seen him in years. Some said that now lightning flew from his eyes, some said he spoke to spirits. Not for the first time since coming to this place, fear pierced my heart.
Above us all, striding out onto the fruit of his insanity, Noah stood on the deck of this boat, this ark he calls it. He was very old, but he is still a man’s man and I felt my body ache with desire for him.
I could easily picture him out cutting and carrying lumber alongside of his sons. His beard was long and white, but even from this distance, you could tell that here was a man with fire in his soul.
“My neighbors!” He cried. “The Lord has spoken to me! He will send the rains in one week. I beg you! Please do not be left! There is room! Come! Anyone!”
There were chuckles and snickers, but not a soul moved toward the plank.
“Noah!” cried Dhalet. “In the name of our holy gods, I ask that you listen to reason and come out of there! You must see the insanity here! Let us use this lumber to build homes for your neighbors! We will slay the animals for offerings and feast for many weeks! You will be a hero! Revered and loved! It is I that implore you! Come out! Come out now.”
“There is ONE GOD!” Noah bellowed in a voice that seemed to shake the hills. “It is His will that I do! His alone! Repent of your evil and come with us before it’s too late!”
“Enough!” Dhalet cried. “All of you! Tear that ark apart! His lumber is our lumber!”
Like many of the men, Orzet, another carpenter from town, cried, “About time!” He joined the throng of men heading for the gangplank.
Then, that is when the Great Thing happened. This gangplank, this creation of wood and sweat, so thick I have seen several heavy animals walk up its path with scarcely a creak; this large, heavy door lifted from the ground. Not a single man touched it. Not one rope was tied to it. The men ran back in fear as the door lifted to close of its own accord. Slowly, it rose, closing, closing . . . a resounding ‘thud’ haunted the air as it shut with a finality that made me afraid. Not even Dhalet could make anyone raise a hand against the ark after that. They were too fearful.
We left The Circus a much quieter group that day.
I have watched the faces of people this week and part of me has felt like I am watching the walking dead. But the sun still shines, the breezes are still cool and sweet, and I remind myself Noah is a religious madman, nothing more.
But it has been seven days and now the rains have started. And it is not a mere shower; the water is falling in torrents. Even still, this should not be a surprise. The autumn rains are often heavy, except the rains aren’t stopping. The storm should be slowing, but this one grows stronger. Right now it is night and my daughter sleeps in back as always. The rains aren’t stopping and I know what I must do. While there is no one to stop or ridicule me, I will make my way to the ark. I would take my daughter, but in her state, she would not make it and waking her would only cause her pain and fear. To leave her is merciful.
I will go to the ark and pound on the door. I will scream, claw if I have to. I will promise anything, as long as he allows me in. And he will let down the gang plank for me. He has to. I will MAKE him.
I must hurry. The water is seeping under my door.
|Posted by Michele on September 29, 2011 at 8:05 PM||comments (3)|
PensacolaHarbor: Circa 1962
Appeared in Perpetual Magazine3/2008
…not that it matters, but thisstory is based on an actual event…
You’d have thought everything in the world was going to go right. A crystal clear sky, the waters in the Gulf of Mexico shimmered emerald green and a light fresh sea breeze kept us all just cool enough.
Yeah,were we fooled.
The year was 1962. Me and three of myfriends, Vick, Jack and Marty were bored with summer jobs and girls that said, ‘no’ too much. We decided to spend a day out snorkeling in the waters off Pensacola’s beach.
We packedup the cooler with as much beer and water as it would hold, stuck itin Jack’s big, inflatable army raft and headed out for the MeyerMancel, one of the oldest wrecked ships in the bay. I think it went down around the time of the not- so- Civil- War and a good chunk ofthe hull still breaks the water’s surface. Amazing, you wouldn’tthink it would still be there.
Didn't have too bad a time,lot’s of talking and drinking, laughing about who was and wasn’t making it to college in the fall; who’d got laid and who was lying about it. You know, the usual crap.
But this was before thedays of Doppler Radar and the weather man was some guy who relied onaches in his big toe to make a prediction. So there we were, yuckingit up and this storm comes out of no where and hauls us out to sea.We wound up way closer to the wreck than the shore. But then, as thestorm ended, the fog rolled in and that’s what gave us pause. Wecouldn’t hear the water on shore from where we were and couldn’tmake out any land marks. Worse yet, it was getting dark and weworried about paddling the wrong way.
“Shhh!” I can stillsee Vick standing there, waving for us all to hush up, just like we were going to be rescued. “I hear something!”
Silence. Thewater lapped against the raft and splashed out in the gulf, but that was all.
“What was it?” I asked.
Vick shook hishead. “I don’t know. I thought maybe…”
And then we allheard it: a long low hiss out somewhere in the fog. It chilled myheart. I heard it and thought, I’m going to die.
Jack’seyes were the size of dinner plates. “What thehell?”
I froze, petrified.The sound was big and close and like nothing I had ever heard beforeor since.
My mouth fell open, my heart raced, cold sweatbeaded on my brow.
“Guys,” Vick whispered. “Grab apaddle and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Good idea, buttoo late. From out of the fog I saw a creature straight out of hell.Its neck rose a full eight feet out of the water, its head was like ablunt triangle. I remember seeing a dark ridge on the top of itsskull. I couldn’t scream, I could barely move. All I could do waswatch this creature glide towards us. In its last few feet, greatflippers rose out of the water and the beast gave itself an enormous push forward. It never stopped; there was no mercy, no compassion.The monster opened a gaping mouth and with a deafening roar dove onto the raft.
I shrieked, “Jump!” and leaped into the water. Iswam as far away from the thing as I could until my nerves backedoff. I stopped. The guys were gone. I didn’t want to lose them, notlike this.
“Vick? Jack?” I called into the fog, “Marty?You guys out there?”
“Here!” I thanked God. I didn’twant to be out there alone. “I got Marty with me, Steve! I…I…Idon’t see Jack.”
My stomach churned. “From-from where Iam,” it was hard to talk all of a sudden, “I can see the wreck.Follow my voice and we’ll swim for it.”
Vick’s choked response was, “Yeah, yeah…”
I heard them swim towards meand rejoiced for a second when I saw their faces. But it was only asecond. The monstrous head split the surface and suddenly Marty wasgone.
Vick screamed. I grabbed him and shouted, “Swimdammit!” I shoved him forward, but it did no good. The long neck came up again and crashed down on Vick.
I made it to the wreck, and managed to find a little space in the bow where I wedged myself in and waited.
You know what it’s like to be hunted by a big animal; something that would rip your insides out while you’re still screaming for help?
I prayed a lot beforemorning, I begged, I pleaded and I guess God heard because the thingfinally went away.
The Coast Guard got me the next morning,shivering and jabbering and took me home. I spent six nights in jailbecause no one believed my story and they thought I killed myfriends. But they couldn’t keep me forever. No bodies.
Besides,they all thought I was crazy once I told them what ate everyone. Itwas a dinosaur. Yeah, go on and laugh. But that’s what it was. I know they’re not supposed to be around anymore, but that one didn’tget the message. Tell me different all you want, but I know what I saw that night.
Man, I need another drink.
|Posted by Michele on September 9, 2011 at 1:00 PM||comments (0)|
I did an interview on the Write Chris blog last week and it can be seen here....