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boltjacksonstories · 3 years

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The Potluck

Back when times were better than they are now, Andy was invited to a Friendsgiving potluck dinner. Unable to turn down an invitation from his co-worker Clarissa, Andy prepared the same broccoli casserole he always prepared for holiday get togethers. The old family recipe was cheesy, spicy, and rich with bacon. It was always a hit.

On the night of the potluck, Andy waited on a busy street corner to hail down a cab. He had been there for nearly twelve minutes, and his casserole was beginning to lose heat. With a glass lid steaming under his right arm in the winter rain, it was everything Andy could do to try and hail down a cabbie. Finally, after nearly a quarter hour of flailing, a gracious taxi driver pulled over.

But before Andy could get in, a much more confident man stepped in front of him. Andy never learned his name because Andy never said a word to him. The man, with his chest out, stepped in front of Andy and simply took the cab, no questions asked. All Andy could do was stare.

It was ten more minutes before Andy could wave down another taxi. This time, luckily for Andy, nobody was around to steal it. These were the circumstances that led to Andy being late to the Friendsgiving potluck. By the time he arrived, the festivities were in full swing. Andy knocked on the door and Clarissa quickly answered.

“Andy!” she screamed, “It’s so great to see you!” Clarissa was a practiced host and adept at making her guests feel welcome. Before Andy could react, she gave him a hug and pulled him in, lukewarm casserole and all.

“Welcome, welcome, please,” she went on, “make yourself comfortable. You’re too wet, darling, you’re too wet! How long have you been in the rain?!”

“Too long,” said Andy, “I’m really sorry for the delay. I hope my casserole isn’t too cold.”

“Nonsense,” she said, “Phooey! I’m sure what you made is perfect! Now, come along. It’s time to meet the others.”

Clarissa led Andy into a large and well-lit kitchen where two guests mingled. Clarissa was to introduce Andy, a stranger to this pair, to the conversation.

“Everyone, everyone, please,” she said, “I want you all to meet Andy. Andy, say hello.”

“Hello,” said Andy.

Clarissa introduced Joshua and Emma, both bearing friendly smiles.

“Pleased to meet ya,” said Josh.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” said Emma.

“Are you telling stories about me, Clarissa?” asked Andy.

“Just about how good your casserole is!” said Clarissa, “I had it last year at the company potluck, and it changed my life.”

Andy didn’t know how to react. He defaulted to nervous laughter.

“Oh, Clarissa…” his voice trailed off, but Clarissa would not allow for a lull in the conversation.

“We shall see if it’s as good as last year, won’t we?” she said, “Can I take it for you?”

“Please,” said Andy, and he gladly handed over his burden. Clarissa placed it on a long table in the center of the kitchen. All the other dishes were lined up along the table as well, buffet style. Andy allowed himself to take it all in.

“Our final guest should be here any moment now,” said Clarissa. Almost on cue, the kitchen doors swung open and in walked the final guest, international celebrity chef Tim Pora.

“Holy cow,” whispered Andy, “What’s he doing here?”

“Alright, chefs!” yelled Tim, “Time’s up, hands up! Cut the chop!”

Andy always made a point to do what he was told. Much to his surprise, the other guests jumped and threw their hands up as well. Even Clarissa suddenly seemed nervous. Then, accompanied by inexplicable music, a spotlight illuminated the buffet.

“Four of you stepped into this kitchen,” said Tim, not even speaking to the group, “but only one of you will chopping survive. Tonight, on: ‘You’re Going to Get Chopped Kitchen: Friendsgiving Potluck Edition!’”

Joshua, Clarissa, and Emma clapped like their lives depended on it. Andy wasn’t sure what to do, but under the pressure of Tim’s machismo, he feared he could not speak.

“First up, we have Clarissa. Chef Clarissa, tell us what the chop you’ve prepared.”

Clarissa presented her dish magnificently. It was poached veal with a cranberry compote gravy. Andy had never seen such craftsmanship before. Tim sank his teeth in to confirm the veal’s deliciousness.

“Incredible! Thank you, Chef Clarissa. Next chop, Chef Andy!” Tim continued.

Andy didn’t move. The spotlight lit a circle in front of him, but he did not step into it. Tim cleared his throat and tried again.

“Chef Andy!” he queried. Crickets. Finally, Clarissa nudged Andy forward. He cowered into the light.

“What… what’s going on?” Andy asked.

“Chef Andy!” Tim repeated, “What the chop is this?”

“Um… broccoli casserole? With bacon?”

“Are you telling me, Chef Andy, or are you asking me?”

“I don’t know?”

“Fair enough. If you can’t tell me what the chop is, I will!”

Tim took a heaping, selfish bite of the casserole. He nearly fell over.

“Magnificent,” he said, legs weakened, “The best casserole I’ve ever had. In my chopping life. Thank you, Chef Andy. We’ll see you in the next round.”

“Next round?”

Since his turn was over, Clarissa pulled Andy out of the spotlight.

“What is going on here?” he asked.

“Shh-!” cried Clarissa, “Let him get through the judgement!”

Andy, embarrassed to disrupt, hid his chin from his nose. Chef Emma and Chef Joshua did not fare well under Tim’s judgement.

“This stuffing is too chopping stuffy,” he complained to Joshua.

“This ham is absolute chop, too salty,” he whined of Emma’s pig.

Without much deliberation at all, Chef Tim was able to give his verdict on the round.

“Thank you all for your chops!” Tim said, “I have tried four dishes and two have chopped me away! Chef Andy and Chef Clarissa, please step forward.”

Clarissa stepped forward. Andy felt inclined to follow.

“Chef Clarissa, your cranberry compote gravy made me want to chop my grandmother. Chef Andy, your take on a classic made me actually do it. Please take a seat, you are both safe from ‘The Chopping Block’.”

Clarissa was as relieved as Andy was confused. She pulled him aside for a seat and the spotlight moved to Joshua and Emma.

“Chef Joshua, Chef Emma,” said Tim, “Tonight, in a ‘You’re Going to Get Chopped Kitchen’ first, I am putting you both in ‘The Chopping Block’. Chefs, you are both chopped. Take your chopping seat in ‘The Chopping Block’.”

Joshua’s eyes fell hollow and reticent. Emma was much more animated and began to wail immediately. Joshua tried his best to console her as he led them aside. They took their seat in a fenced-off area of the kitchen with signs that read “The Chopping Block”. Andy had not noticed this area before.

“Hate to see it happen,” whispered Clarissa, “They were such good friends of mine, too.”

“What’s going on?” asked Andy, “Why are we doing this? I thought this was just a potluck.”

“Yeah, I invited you over for potluck. I invited you over for ‘You’re Going to Get Chopped Kitchen: Friendsgiving Potluck Edition’. I told you that.”

“I thought you were just saying that as a joke or something,” said Andy.

“What kind of stupidly specific joke would that be?” said Clarissa, “You know what, Andy: that’s your problem. You don’t speak up enough. If you think something, you should say something. Don’t be so spineless.”

“Silence in my chopping kitchen!” Tim boomed. Andy and Clarissa snapped to attention. Tim continued.

“Chefs, for tonight’s final round, your challenge will be a simple one: you will prepare one another’s chops BUT you have to use the same chops that you used in your original chops and NONE of the chops from your challenger’s chops, got it?!”

“Yes, chef!” cried Clarissa, a little too eagerly.

There was silence in chef’s kitchen. Andy stepped forward.

“No, chef.” Said Andy.

“What?” asked Tim.

“I said no, chef,” repeated Andy, “I do not ‘got it’. I don’t ‘got’ any of the ‘chop’ that’s going on here. I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t know why you’re here, I don’t know what you expect me to cook, I don’t know why Josh and Emma are sitting down over there. I have no fucking clue what is going on and I am so fucking tired of feeling like I can’t say it. There: I’m saying it! I have no fucking clue, Tim! I have no fucking clue why anything is happening and therefore I quit! I don’t even know what you expect me to do but I quit!”

Andy, like a long-shaken cola, had finally exploded. Tim allowed him to catch his breath before offering his rebuttal.

“So, you refuse to participate in the final round then, Chef Andy?”

“Yes, Chef Tim,” said Andy, “I’m standing up for myself, and I refuse.”

“Fair enough,” said Tim, “Then I have no choice but to send you to ‘The Chopping Block’ and to declare Chef Clarissa the Top Chop!”

“Whatever,” said Andy. Clarissa, thrilled by her victory, celebrated alone. Andy made his way to “The Chopping Block”.

“This is so stupid,” he said as he took his seat next to Joshua and Emma, who had not stopped crying. “When is this thing over?”

“Soon,” said Joshua, staring into the distance. He repeated the word, this time in a whisper, “Soon.”

Tim approached “The Chopping Block” with a sinister look in his eyes.

“I suppose you know, chops, what happens next?”

Emma began to sob even louder, and a tear fell from Joshua’s eye.

“We get to go home?” asked Andy. Tim cackled in response.

“Home? You think you get to go home?!” Tim was turning maniacal, “You don’t chopping get to go home!”

The kitchen doors flung open once again and a masked man rolled a large and wooden object out on wheels. The tall contraption had some sort of shining surface near its head and solid wood block base.

“Who’s that? What’s that?” asked Andy. By now, Emma was wailing. The pain in her voice nearly made Andy’s heart stop. Joshua was on his knees apparently in prayer.

“That, my dear chop,” cried Tim, “Is your executioner!”

“What?!”

The masked man settled his guillotine in the center of the kitchen, exactly where Andy’s casserole used to sit.

“You can’t be serious!” begged Andy.

“Take the mouthy one first!” demanded Tim, “He chops too much!” The executioner lumbered toward Andy. By now, everyone was crying.

“Please, no!”

“Why do you think it’s called ‘You’re Going to Get Chopped Kitchen: Friendsgiving Potluck Edition’, Chef Andy, if there aren’t any chopping consequences?!”

Kicking and screaming, Andy was dragged to his death. The executioner’s swift chop both ended Andy’s suffering and proved Clarissa to be wrong: there had been a spine in Andy all along.

#chopped #potluck #friendsgiving

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boltjacksonstories · 4 years

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Jesús

It's difficult to understand exactly how much space there is in this world if you grew up anywhere outside of Arizona. Few regions rival its spaciousness. Kansas may be, and the Sahara, sure – but who would want to live in Kansas or the Sahara? Jesús thought he might. Anywhere outside of Arizona sounded good to him. He didn't know much about Kansas or the Sahara, and I wouldn't say that he cared to either. All he knew was this: those places were not Arizona. As such, they sounded alright to Jesús. Like most boys his age, Jesús did not know much about life. All he knew was that his life was exceptionally difficult.

“The other boys will bully me all the way home, mama.” Jesús would plead with his mother, busy in the kitchen. She was busy, always busy, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in their living space, and sometimes in their shared bedroom. It was only Jesús and María in their cramped apartment, so far removed from the space outside of it. She was getting ready for work and while she did want to console her son, she did not have the time to do it.

“I’m sorry the other boys are being hard on you, my love,” said María, “but I’m sure they are just trying to get to know you. Boys can be like that, you know. I remember how the boys used to tease me.” For a moment, she did remember. María, now and in her younger days, was a beauty queen. The boys did pick on her because they liked her, but Jesús was not as pretty as she was. She continued, “Now come on – we’ve got to get going, hijo.”

Jesús, except for a sigh, offered no more protest. María had taken a second job and was running late for her shift. It was time to go. He rushed into the living room and grabbed his backpack, lighter than it should be.

“Where’s my Jesus?” he wondered. There weren’t many places it could be in here. Jesús looked around the living room to no avail. It wasn’t under the coffee table or even in the cracks of their old couch. Jesús was becoming frantic.

“Come on, honey. Let’s go!” Jesús could hear the exclamation point in her tone and knew she meant business.

“I’m coming! Hold on!” Jesús zoomed past his mother and into their bedroom. There he was, hiding under Jesús’s pillow. Jesús grabbed his Jesus, rushed back to his mama’s side, and they were out the door. She pushed little Jesús onto the stoop, locked the door behind her, and gave him a little kiss.

“Just remember,” she said, “Those boys probably like you and don’t know how to make friends with you. That’s the way it always was for me.”

“Mama,” Jesús whined, “That’s different!”

“Run along, hijo,” she said, “Or we’ll both going to be late.”

They parted ways with a hug and then Jesús was alone. He began his flat, hot, and dry trek to school once again. The only thing that could break up the monotony of his daily walk past the same cacti and tumbleweeds was his favorite toy Action Hero Jesus.

Action Hero Jesus was fully robed and stood at twelve inches tall with dark sunglasses, a confident grin, and fully opposable thumbs. His body language seemed to scream an ironic “You Betcha!”. No sober-minded adult would take this seriously as an action figure for a child. Jesús’s father, far from being sober-minded, bought the toy from the bargain bin of a pharmacy while he was running late for his son’s birthday. When asked why he would buy a little boy something so sacrilegious, all he could say was “What? It’s Jesus.” Action Hero Jesus was Jesús’s last tangible line to his father who left soon after that birthday.

Jesús felt a connection with this toy that he did not understand. It was his constant companion. As he walked to school, he wouldn’t see the tumbleweeds and the cacti. He would only see his Jesus. He would sit in class and not hear a single word. He only thought of his Jesus and their adventures. At recess that day, he sat alone on the bleachers, unaware of his surroundings. He thought about what might happen if he lost his Jesus and began to cry.

“Jesus Freak is fucking crying! Holy shit!” Dylan, Jesús’s near-constant bully, had snuck upon him. Tray, Dylan’s usual accomplice, followed.

“Oh, shit Dyl! Do you think he just found out that Jesus dies at the end?” Tray joked. Jesús came back to reality and defended himself.

“I am not crying!” Jesús said, with a sniff, “It is so dry outside that my eyes just look wet by comparison!”

“Really? If that were true, then how come your pussy looks so dry?”

“Oh, shit Dyl! You don’t have to crucify him!”

Jesús did not enjoy this treatment, but he had come to expect it. He knew that Dylan wouldn’t hurt him on school grounds. He knew it was all talk, for now. Still, the talk continued.

“Speaking of pussies, what you doing later, pussy?” Dylan asked.

“Nothing,” said Jesús.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we have something planned?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure we had something planned.”

“No, we did not.”

Tray, unsure of if he had missed out on potential plans or not, felt anxious.

“Oh, now I remember,” said Dylan, quite pleased with himself, “That’s right. After school today, I’m gonna kick your dick so hard that it becomes a pussy. That’s the thing we had planned.”

“You didn’t… invite me?” asked Tray.

“It’s a joke, man. Come on.” Even Dylan was tired of Tray.

“Okay,” said Tray. There was an uncomfortable pause before Tray continued, “Just to be clear though, I am invited?”

“Shut-up!”

Jesús, unsure if they had forgotten about him or not, thought it best to just slip away. He knew Dylan wouldn’t follow him. At least not for now.

“That’s right, just turn the other pussy cheek, you pussy! I’ve had this planned out for weeks! After school, Jesus Freak. I’m gonna kick you a new pussy.”

Jesús heard the threats but didn’t think anything of them. Dylan was all talk, and besides, Jesús had Jesus on his side. For whom shall he fear? For Dylan, apparently.

III

True to his word, Dylan had, in fact, planned for this dick-kicking several weeks in advance. Dylan may not have been a lot of things, but he was organized.

Dylan, as it turned out, had his own daddy issues. Whereas Jesús wondered where his father was and why he left, Dylan feared where his father was and wished he would leave. Dylan’s father was a volatile character prone to emotional and physical outbursts. Dylan learned to avoid these moments by planning out his time out well. All the pressure, all the walking on eggshells, all the fears of his old man; it all made Dylan a real asshole. Dylan thought he was doing the best he could, but he was still being an asshole, even for a fifth-grader. Jesús knew this, on some level, but couldn’t fully comprehend it at his young age. So, when threatened with physical violence by Dylan for the umpteenth time, Jesús did not take the threat seriously and took the same path home that day that he always took. Dylan would be waiting for him on that path, as promised, eager to make good on his planning.

For now, Jesús returned to his day and continued to let it pass by him as before. By the final bell’s ring, Jesús had forgotten Dylan’s threats. He walked home lost in fantasy with his Jesus. He imagined the forces of Satan were attacking them from every side. Action Hero Jesus would turn five loaves into five thousand, thus over-satisfying the demon of gluttony. He would raise a young saint from the dead, thereby thwarting a scheming incubus. He would use his heat vision to blast Satan into the third dimension of hell, ending the battle.

At this point in the story, it’s worth noting that Jesús never read the Bible. María was too busy for church and the toy was way more fun than a book. All he knew about Jesus was the toy. That, combined with a few too many superhero movies, made Jesús’s Jesus incredibly powerful. Unfortunately for Jesús, Jesus was only powerful in his imagination, where Jesús spent too much time.

When Jesús turned the corner by the post office, one of the final turns before he reached his street, he didn’t see the foot aimed directly at his groin. Attached to that foot was a leg, and to that leg a torso, and to that torso a satisfied Dylan. With the timing of a dancer, Dylan swung clear through Jesús’s crotch, forever damaging his confidence. Tray laughed close behind.

Jesús awoke on the ground with his armed sprawled out to his side and heat emanating from where his dick used to be.

“Did you kick my dick off?” Jesús asked, to no one in particular.

“In. I kicked your dick in, Jesus Freak.” Dylan laughed at his own remark. “Now you’re who you’re supposed to be, a pussy with a pussy.”

“Where’s… Where’s my Jesus?” Jesús looked to his right, to his left… nothing.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got him,” this was Tray’s time to shine, as he showed Jesús his Jesus, “Barbie Jesus here ain’t got no nuts to kick. We’ll just draw a little pussy on him instead.”

“No!”

Laughing, Tray proceeded to draw one small, singular, straight line on Jesus’s groin, which resembled that of a Ken doll. One small, perhaps half an inch little line from a permanent pen was all it took to emasculate Jesus forever. But Tray wasn’t finished yet.

“See?! Now he’s got a little pussy, just like you. Here ya go, boss.” Tray handed the Jesus to Dylan.

“Don’t call me boss.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not okay with sir either.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Give me back my Jesus!” said Jesús, beginning to stand.

“But we’re not done with him yet!” said Dylan, “It’s not fair that you’re the only one who gets his little pussy kicked. We have to kick Jesus’s pussy, too!”

“Stop!”

But it was too late. Dylan dropped Jesus to the ground and proceeded to stomp on him until he was a mangled and unrecognizable plastic corpse. Jesús, on his knees, watched the scene unfold in slow motion. With the hot Arizona beating down on him, he was helpless as Dylan continued to stomp on his Jesus, over and over again. When he finally stopped, Jesús wanted to cry. Dylan burped.

“Okay, this is done,” he turned to Tray, who still didn’t know how to address him, “Let’s go, Sailor Moon starts in ten minutes,” Dylan turned back to Jesús, “Laters, pussy.”

Jesús could barely hear Dylan anymore, anyhow. His life, his love, his connection to his father, his Jesus… it lay before him broken, unable to resurrect itself. In other eras of human history, young Jesús would have torn his cloth or gnashed his teeth, but in modern times, there was nothing like that for Jesús to do. He just stared in silence.

The rest of the day drifted by him in a gray haze. The next thing he knew, he was home. And then after that, so was María. Soon after, there was food in his mouth. Soon after that, he was lying in bed, huddled under the covers. María, exhausted from her own day, knew that something was not quite right but felt relieved to have a quiet evening. She, too, soon found herself under her covers, and, even sooner than Jesús, found herself asleep. Jesús finally fell asleep as well, still holding his broken toy. As he drifted into a sad and lonely sleep, one tear fell from the cheek of Jesús to land on the cheek of Jesus.

Lucid dreaming will only interest those seeking to escape mundanity. It appears a superpower, this ability to control everything around you and do whatever you want. It reveals a desire for control. Who needs to do whatever you want in a dream when you can do whatever you want when you’re awake? Jesús had never heard of lucid dreaming, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a fan.

Jesús was so in control of his dreams that he even created the illusion that he wasn’t. He dreamt that night like he always did, expecting nothing out of the ordinary. That’s why it was a complete shock when Jesus appeared to him.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Jesus rose before his eyes. Jesús could not recall where he was, why he was there, or what he was doing beforehand. None of that mattered now. It all paled in comparison to the fact that a twelve-foot tall, living, breathing, and fully plastic Action Hero Jesus stood before him, too bright to look in the face. Awed, Jesús fell to his knees before his Jesus.

“My Lord! I am not worthy!” Jesús would not have known if he was terrified, excited, or both. With his face to the ground, he began to tremble. Jesus spoke.

“Hey, little dude! No worries! You can stand, my man. It’s cool!”

Jesus’s cavalier “You Betcha!” smirk matched his tone. Even in this form, Jesus remained true to his plastic anatomy. Only his jaw could move, and even that movement was in a limited range; up and down, nothing more. The same awkward movements applied to the rest of his body. He was only jointed at the hip, jaw, elbows, and thumbs. Every movement had to pass through these physiological gatekeepers. Truly, we are all slaves to our bodies. Jesus continued.

“Everybody is always like ‘Lord!’ this, or ‘I’m not worthy!’ that… It’s truly enbeedee, my dude. I’m a man!, just like you. Thumbs up!”

Jesus, confident as ever, gave a thumbs up and smiled, as he was wont to do. Jesús, not used to being addressed in this way, looked up. “Jesus has no clue how cool he looks from here,” he thought.

“I know, I know. I look super extra cool like this. If there is one thing these toymakers got right, it is that I am a super relaxed guy. Hang ten!”

Jesús finally understood why Jesus had those bitching shades on, for he could see it now: a bright glow followed the Savior’s face wherever he looked. Nearly blinded by the glow himself, Jesús returned his gaze downward.

“You are too luminous, My Lord!” Jesús didn’t even know that he knew that word. “This must be what speaking in tongues is,” he thought.

“Oh, right! Let me turn that down, right quick. There, is thaat better?”

Jesús looked up again. Indeed, it was better. Jesus smiled down at him.

“Mahalo, my child. Now rise.”

Jesus indicated an upward motion with his thumbs and elbows. Jesús, as if possessed, followed.

“Great job! Now listen here, tiny J: change is a-coming.”

Jesús was not listening. He was so wound up with guilt that could not contain himself any longer.

“I am sorry I let them beat you up, Jesus! Dylan was too strong! I promise I will avenge you!”

“Avenge me? That’s not my thing… at all! Here, have a Capri-Sun. Capri-Suns are more of my thing than avenging.”

To his amazement, a Capri-Sun appeared in Jesús’s hand. What’s more, it was the rarest of flavors, Pacific Cooler.

“Pacific Cooler?! Holy shit!,” Jesús caught himself and apologized, “Oh. I am sorry, Jesus.”

“For what? Pacific Cooler is tits! That’s why I created it.”

“So… you don’t care if we curse?”

“It’s no biggie, my dude! Words are just words. It’s all about the intent behind them. Now chill on that pri-pri for a moe, we gots to chat.” Before he knew it, a thin, yellow straw was in his mouth. Jesus continued.

“Here’s the deal, little J: people forget this, but my whole deal is actually all about love. There’s not enough of it in this world, there’s not enough of it in this country, there’s not enough of it in this town, and there’s not enough of it in your heart. I know you’ve had it hard, young J, and I know that you’ve been hurt. You need to learn that the only way to respond is with love.”

Jesús continued to gulp down his Pacific Cooler, extra crisp in the presence of the Lord. The straw never seemed to end. Jesús looked down to find his suspicions confirmed: the straw went on for an eternity or more.

“I’m gonna let you borrow a few miracles, and you are going to use them to start spreading the love we want to see in this world, capiche? Not only that, but you’re also going to look hella cool doing it!”

As Jesús listened and enjoyed this rare beverage, a pair of dark sunglasses, seemingly carried by angel doves, landed softly on his ears and nose.

“Looking sharp! Let’s see, what else… what else…,” Jesus, free to fully spin at the hip, spun while he thought. “Nope! Nothing else, little dude. Just remember that it is all about love. Act out of love, and the world will respond accordingly.”

Jesús repeated the maxim through garbled sugar water.

“Actrouttatrove…”

“That’s right. And the world will respond. With love.”

“Wittrove.”

“Correctomundo, mini J. I hate to ditch the sitch but it’s almost moe-moe for ya, bud! Namaste, my dude. Act out of love, and the world will respond…” Jesus began yet another ascension.

“But... but!” But it was too late. Much faster than expected, Jesus, his everlasting light, and the Capri-Sun were all gone. Only the holy shades remained.

Suddenly, the floor beneath Jesús disappeared. He tried to scream but nothing would come out as he felt himself rushing back to earth. He was definitely not in control of this. He felt sure he would not hit the ground, but it continued to rush towards him. Right before he hit, POOF, Jesús woke up.

Jesús arose in heavenly spirits. He didn’t even notice his Jesus had disappeared.

“Holy me,” Jesús thought, “It feels like I’ve slept for three days.”

Jesús felt different but was not sure how. He was still contemplating what had changed when he entered the kitchen. María had no issue seeing what was different and alerted young Jesús to the changes immediately. She nearly dropped her glass of grape juice when she saw him.

“Ay Dios Mio!”, she said, “Hijo, how are you floating?!”

Indeed, Jesús was floating twelve inches above the ground. Not only that, but he also wore a white robe with dark sunglasses. “Ah,” thought Jesús, “so that’s why it feels like I am floating.” He wasn’t sure before she said something, but now he knew without a doubt: Jesús was Jesus.

María passed out. Young Jesús, being the good boy that he was, caught her before she hit the linoleum and brought her back to life. She told him she needed water, so he changed her grape juice to dihydrogen monoxide right before her eyes. She nearly passed out again, but he stopped her.

“What, my son,” she asked, “Has happened to you?” She could not look him directly in the face because the light behind him shone too bright.

“I do not know, mama,” Jesús said, “but I was visited by Jesus in a strange dream. I thought it was just a dream, mama!”

María, unable to believe her ears, again exited consciousness. This time, Jesús let her rest. He guided her to bed, tucked her in, and gave his mama a kiss on the forehead. It was almost time for school.

“But what about her work?” Jesús thought, “She will surely be fired if she does not show up.” Jesús laid it upon the heart of María’s manager to allow her to skip her shift without consequence. Jesús willed it, and it was so.

Jesús arrived at school that day ready to receive his followers. Everyone could sense his presence before they could see him. When he passed, some trembled in fear while others bowed and wept. A path was cleared for young Jesús wherever he moved. Children scampered up palm tree to pull branches (an Arizonan’s only source of shade!) and lay them down as a path for Jesús to walk on. When he reached the playground, a wailing sister, with her injured brother in tow, threw herself to the feet of Jesús to beg.

“Oh, great healer!” she cried, “You must help my brother, you must! He has fallen off the monkey bars and broken his arm. He is in great pain, great healer! But I have faith in you!”

The holy spirit was strong in this young sister. She was able to recognize a deity when she saw one. One look at her little brother would confirm her prognosis – his wrist was bent at a rather acute angle and he was not able to move it. What’s more, he appeared to be in great pain. His cheeks were flush with blood and soaked in tears. Jesús felt for him.

“I will heal your brother, kind sister,” Jesús said. Without much of a show about it, he cusped the whimpering boy’s wrist. He smiled at the boy and soon the boy smiled back. When Jesús released his wrist, it was healed. Even those who saw it had a hard time believing it, but it was true. The boy thanked Jesús, who humbly could not accept.

“Go now, have fun. As for you, sister,” Jesús now turned to the crowd so that they may hear, “Let this be a lesson to all of you: with a little love, and an even smaller amount of faith, all things can be accomplished. Look to this sister as an example of love and kindness.” He now turned back to the sister, “You have done well. Go now and be blessed.”

With tears in her eyes, she nodded and chased after her brother. The entire crowd was moved by the poignant scene. Some hugged, others cried, I saw one couple making out, although I’m pretty sure they were doing that before Jesús came to the playground. Not that it mattered to Jesús. He’s always been strictly pro-love, both in the making and giving.

A hush fell over the crowd as Dylan approached Jesús. His demeanor, too, was different than before. Dylan now looked up to Jesús with reverence and even a smidge of fear. Jesús, on the other hand, looked at Dylan with only love. Given Dylan’s home life, he was not prepared to receive love so freely given to him. It seemed to him something that he did not want. He imagined the feeling of love to be a gooey and messy feeling that would be sticky and get all over the place. He was half-right about that last part, and Jesús was okay with that too.

“Jesús,” Dylan began, still not able to look Jesús in the eye, “I’m sorry for stomping on your doll and shit. And all the pussy stuff. Please forgive me.” Dylan threw himself before the Lord. Jesús, kind as ever, lifted him up softly from the chin.

“It is okay, Dylan. I forgive you. Now go, spread the good word.”

“But I don’t want to go!” Dylan protested, “I know I said some awful shit, but… I want to follow you.”

“I do too!” said Tray, never far behind Dylan.

“And me!” cried Susie.

“And I as well!” cried John.

John’s friend Matthew followed as well. Saul couldn’t be convinced, but Paul followed willingly. Six more made it known that they intended to follow. Jesús shrugged his holy shoulders. There was nothing he could do to stop them.

“I cannot stop you from following me,” Jesús said, “But I will not change my path. I love you all.”

Jesús continued his journeys now followed by a group of his peers, other children. They were fiercely devoted to their new Lord, although they weren’t quite sure why. They were caught up in the air of Jesus, or Jesús, as they saw him. The line between the two could no longer be distinguished. It cannot be helped that Jesus, the man, is a star, or else why would we still be talking about him? With being a star comes certain star qualities, one of those being that people follow you wherever you go. It cannot be helped. Jesús, endowed with Jesus’s star qualities, went on his way and his apostles followed. Jesús was unaware of the inevitable pitfalls of being Jesus because he had never read the Bible. He was unaware that there was a Judas in his midst, plotting to sell him to the highest bidder.

Tray’s Chapter

The next part of our story is best told by the young man who experienced it. It will be dictated by none other than Tray, an unwitting pawn in a grand game of spiritual chess.

This is Tray talking now, pleased to meet ya.

We don’t know much about the gospels in my house. Churchgoing ain’t the type of thing that we’re likely to do. I remember going once when I was younger, but we didn’t go again. It was a bad time for us. The other churchgoers looked down on us. My sister said it was because our clothes weren’t as nice and clean as theirs were, but I thought that I looked just fine. That’s the last time I remember going, and that was a long time ago, like three or four years now. None of that matters, anyhow, because what I saw last night couldn’t be helped by no churchgoing. What I saw last night was stronger than that.

I had one of those dreams that I couldn’t escape. I kept waking up in a sweat, but every time I fell back asleep, I’d land back in hell. There was something dark down there that kept pulling me back in. I can’t quite explain it because it wasn’t no monster or nothing. It was just a bad feeling, I don’t know. But like a real bad feeling. It scared me shitless – I thought it wanted to hurt me. But it said it didn’t want to hurt me. It wanted me to hurt someone else.

Without speaking, it told me that I would meet Jesus tomorrow. It just put the ideas in my mind… like one of them aliens on the tv. It told me to gain Jesus’s trust and lead him to a spot in the desert, where it would be waiting. I am absolutely sure that is what it was trying to tell me, because every time I fell back into the dream, it would repeat the same message. I must have heard those instructions six- or seven-times last night! It just repeated them, over and over. I’m no stranger to nightmares but not like these. They felt too real. I didn’t feel right this morning, neither.

When I got to school and saw Jesus standing in the playground. I fell to my knees. I knew what I had to do.

VIII

At lunch, Jesús performed the miracle of feeding his entire school with only two loaves of bread and five fish. The following is a true account of how this came to be:

Jesús entered the cafeteria followed by his disciples. A lunch man, totally distraught, threw himself before the feet of the Lord. He was in desperate need of help.

“Young Jesus,” he said, “I do not know how or why you have come, but I am honored by your presence. Please, I beg of you: we need your help.”

“What is it that you need of me, my elder?” Jesús was eager to help. There is a misconception of Jesus that he was able to predict the future, like a cheap psychic or any Jamaican person. Jesus was both god and the son of god, with emphasis on the word son. He was a man, and as such, experienced time in the same way we all do. Even though his spirit encompasses all moments and is free of time and space, Jesus as a man was restricted to the same bodily constraints that you and I are today. Jesus himself had less than ideal eyesight. It doesn’t really change anything, it’s just an interesting historical side note. That all goes to say, when Jesús asked a question of someone, he was genuinely curious.

“A horrible mistake has been made and if we can’t fix it, the children will go hungry!”

“We can’t have that,” said Jesús.

All Jesús’s followers agreed as followers are wont to do.

“We cannot, my Lord!,” continued the lunch man, “Instead of ordering two-thousand loaves of bread, someone accidentally left three zeroes off the order sheet and only ordered two loaves of bread. Then, instead of ordering five-hundred fish for Fish Sandwich Thursday, that same bozo only ordered five fish! Now we only have two loaves of bread and five fish to feed five-thousand children at Arizona’s largest elementary school! And you know what else? It was me! I was the bozo who ordered the numbers wrong! It was me! I confess!” The desperate lunch man presented Jesús with one fish and one loaf of bread, apparent evidence of his plea. He began to cry.

Jesús (the boy) wasn’t sure what to do with this information. He took the fish in one hand and the loaf of bread in the other, looking at the two as if they were variables in some complex algebra equation where “x” is a fish and “y” is some bread. Jesús the boy didn’t know how to solve this equation, but he did know how to follow his heart. This is a true skill that is often overlooked: the ability to quiet noise and follow one’s instinct. Young Jesús possessed this skill and was prepared to use it.

“Thank you for your faith, elder. I will see to it that all the children are fed,” said Jesús.

“Incredible!” cried Matthew.

“But how?” questioned Paul.

“Do you have any gluten-free options?” asked Susie.

“No!” responded the lunch man, “Fish Sandwich Thursday is a privilege, not a right! Now come, young savior, and we’ll get you dressed.”

“As you wish.” Jesús followed the lunch man to the kitchen, where he was fitted for an apron and toque posthaste. Class by class, grade by grade, child by child – one by one, the school children lined up for lunch. Every single child received a fried fish sandwich that was out of this world. Susie even got her gluten-free option, which wasn’t Jesús’s best work, but he did the best he could given her dietary restraints. Sometimes there exists a trade-off between nutrition and flavor.

All were in awe of this miracle. The apostle Tray told of Jesús’s miracles louder than anyone, encouraging all who could hear him to drop what they were doing and to follow.

“You have witnessed his miracles! You have eaten his cooking! You have felt his love! Now follow him! He will lead us to a better life. I will follow him wherever he goes, even into the desert! Especially into the desert!”

When every child and lunch lady was fed, Jesús joined his disciples for a fried fish sandwich. He looked around the table and saw that his followers were satisfied, but still had room for more. He distributed his own sandwich amongst them, divided equally, and felt led to speak.

“Take my fried fish sandwich, for it is my body,” Jesús did not know what he was saying, or why, but continued, “Eat my body. Eat my body.”

Weary of the repeated phrase, his followers ate his body. Seemingly from thin air, a Capri-Sun Pacific Cooler appeared next to each follower. They were instructed to drink it.

“Drink this Capri-Sun, for it is my blood. Drink my blood. Drink my blood.”

“Tastes like Jesús has diabetes,” cracked John, under his straw. He was promptly hushed by Susie. The followers ate Jesús’s crispy fried body and drank his sugary cold blood as he watched, apparently fasting. Nobody understood what was happening, but Tray and Jesús both felt that everything was going according to plan.

The school day concluded much like it started, with everyone in awe of Jesús. Of course, not everyone agreed with his message. Some were sad to see Jesús preach love because they themselves felt so much hate – these children became known as the “Sad-to-sees”, named such by none other than the Disciple Dylan, now using his name-calling powers for good. Some wanted to be fair to Jesús even though they didn’t agree with his message. They were dubbed the “Fair-a-sees” by a local dad who was keen on the joke.

When Jesús left school, his followers followed. He felt a sense of unease about his path, but he was sure that he must continue. He hadn’t spoken since his final lunch, much to the alarm of his disciples. Tray, who by then had proven to be the most vocal of the bunch, walked alongside Jesús.

“What’s wrong, great healer?” Tray asked, “You haven’t spoken since we ate you.”

“I feel… a presence,” Jesús answered. Tray already felt that he knew this presence was the same one he felt the night before. Jesús continued, “I can’t quite explain it, but I am sure of two things: I am being lured towards this presence and that I should continue on my path.”

“You’re being lured towards it… how do you know? Does it want to capture you?”

“Yes, and… it wants to hurt me. It is waiting for me.”

Tray had felt these feelings as well. Something shocked his heart, like an electric bee stinging his chest. He could not fathom the feeling then, but he felt bad for what he had done.

“Well, you can still turn around,” Tray said, surprising himself. He continued, “If you feel like something is going to hurt you up ahead, we can just turn around. Wherever you lead, we will follow you. And if we gotta fight for ya, then we’ll fight.”

“Thank you, my dear friend,” Jesús said, “But that won’t be necessary. This is what I must do. I do not know how I know it, but I am sure. Whatever challenges lie ahead of me, I am sure that, through love, I will overcome them.” Jesús’s sunglasses were particularly useful this afternoon, as the Arizona sun was relentless. Tray and Jesús then walked in silence with the rest of the disciples in tow.

What happened next is difficult to explain. It was the same path that they always took home, but different. Susie noticed it first. Did they just pass the post office again? But how? Then John felt the heat. How long have they been out here? Isn’t this taking too long? Then even Paul started to doubt. “I am sure we’ve passed this corner before,” he thought, “this is probably the fourth time!”

Indeed, Jesús had led them into a world that was not entirely their own. Without aging a moment, they walked through that stretch of desert for forty-days and forty-nights, passing the same landmarks over and over again. Tray continued to tempt Jesús into giving up his quest, but Jesús would not give in. He did not know how or why, but he was sure that he was where he was supposed to be.

They had stepped into the Dimension of the Damned, a parallel reality spun by an angry demon as a death trap for Jesus. They walked, unable to stop, for a month and a half, until finally, they reached the end. It was like every other piece of Arizona real estate they’d ever seen before – dry, sandy, and vast. Yet it was completely unfamiliar to them all. The angry demon lay in wait just over the hills, ready to take advantage of a weakened Jesús.

DIMENSION OF THE DAMNED

The angry demon revealed himself from behind the hill. He was darkness incarnate and took on whatever form the viewer feared the most. He was like a fear electron in that he had no definite state until you looked at him. In this way, he was able to be anything you have ever feared. It was a truly terrifying experience for the children, except for the Jesús, who had learned to control his fears.

“Well, well, well,” began the demon, “What do we have-”

“Cut the shit, Casper.”

Everyone was stunned. What followed was an immaculately pregnant silence.

“Is he not afraid?” Susie thought.

“Can Jesus cuss?” wondered Dylan.

“Who the fuck?” supposed the demon, and then said out loud, “Who the fuck do you think you are, twerp? I am Deimos, God of Fear! Now fear me!-” He was shocked to be cut off yet again.

“Sup, D-bag? Are we gonna do this or what?”

“Who taught you to speak like… I thought you couldn’t say those things!”

“Fuck your mother, demon.”

“Hail Satan, Jesus! Take it down a notch!”

“I’m gonna take it up a notch. Up your mother’s butt.”

“That’s it, Jesus! You have crossed the line! You wanna dance? Let’s dance!”

Deimos charged Jesús and his disciples, who were paralyzed with fear. Only Tray was able to speak, but just barely. As Deimos began his wrathful charge, Tray managed to squeak out a question.

“Aren’t… you…. Scared, my Lord?” he begged.

Deimos, by then, was only a few precious moments away from destroying the Lord. Still, Jesús spoke with the confidence of a man under no pressure at all.

“Why worry, my dude?” Jesús asked, “I’ve got fucking heat vision, baby.”

“Nani?,” now even Tray was speaking in tongues.

Jesús turned to Deimos and removed his sunglasses. A blast of holy energy more radiant and powerful than any nuclear bomb ever conceived by man burst forth like a heavenly cannon from the eye sockets of the one true living god. Deimos’s body, now taking on all forms of fear at all times, was launched like a small toy placed over an exploding fire hydrant. Deimos, who had no answer for this, was caught totally off guard and blown back through the panes of reality that separated the Dimension of the Damned from the real world. Jesús led his followers through the break in realities back to their home dimension, where the demon lay defeated. In his final form, the demon was small, ugly, and rodent-like. He didn’t look like something to fear, but rather something to pity. Something that was misunderstood. Jesús put his sunglasses back on.

“You’ve got fucking heat vision,” said Tray.

“Do you know where that heat comes from?” Jesus queried, “Does anyone know where that heat came from?”

The disciples did not in fact know and murmured amongst themselves. Jesús quieted them again.

“It comes from here,” he pointed to his chest, “It came from my heart. That heat was the power of love. Let that be a lesson to you all.”

Without further explanation, Jesús turned and continued walking. Somehow, the disciples understood that they were not to continue following him, and none of them did. The demon disintegrated right before their very eyes and the hole between realities sewed itself shut. They stood in silence for quite some time before Dylan spoke.

“So we’ve been able to cuss this whole fucking time?” asked Dylan.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” quoth Susie.

Jesús arrived home that evening to find his mother María still resting where he had left her, sleeping like an angel. Jesús looked back on his day and sighed. He wondered if he had made Jesus proud. More than anything, he wanted to make Jesus proud. He performed many miracles. He taught his followers to love. He defeated fear incarnate with a love blast. He was sure Jesus would be proud. How could he not be?

With that thought, Jesús finally, once and for all, felt at peace. A weight was lifted and Jesús fell into a deep, dark, and incredibly restful sleep.

XII

When Jesús awoke the next day, no dreams had disturbed his sleep. When he stepped out of bed, his feet actually touched the ground. He checked his face in the mirror and was satisfied to find only his eyes looking back at him, no shades in between. María made him his normal breakfast and went to work, unsure of why she felt so refreshed. Jesús took his normal route to school and nobody recognized him. Only Jesús could remember the day before. He was okay with that.

He didn’t see Dylan at school at all that day and had lunch with Susie, John, and Paul. Normally, they all sat alone. For whatever reason, they felt compelled to eat with one another that day. They had a nice time and agreed to do it again.

The final bell rung and Jesús walked home. Before turning the final turn home, under the hot Arizona sun, Jesús ran into Dylan.

“Hey, Jesús”, Dylan said. He spoke like they were old friends.

“What you doing?” asked Tray.

“Just walking,” said Jesús.

“Cool, cool,” said Dylan, “Mind if we walk with you?”

Jesús smiled.

“Sure.”

Tray, Dylan, and Jesús walked into the sunset like a holy trinity of friendship. For once, Arizona felt a little smaller.

#fiction #shortfiction #jesus

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boltjacksonstories · 4 years

Text

The Thing in the Mountains

She walked by the river every day.

She was once asked what she would miss most about the earth once she was gone. Her response was unequivocally the rivers. She loved her old family, she’d miss her old friends, and maybe even shed a tear for her pets, old and new- but it was the rivers, she knew, that she would miss most.

And why shouldn’t she? Do you not see the beauty in the ceaseless pounding of endless water on a log? Do you not hear the music of a rushing current slowly eroding the stones of time? Do you not feel the chill awaken your bones as soon as your feet break the water? Break the flow. Become part of what has always been. Try and connect with what you’ll never be. She did. She did all of these things every chance that she got.

“Where only voices spring For speakers fear they fall To find the warmth of spring Still looking like the fall.”

That was her place, her spot. She wrote that poem for it, or rather, that poem came to her because of that spot. Her place was a boulder overlooking the river bend. Overlooking? About fifty yards overlooking. For speakers feared they fall. And that’s where she found her peace.

It was her piece of land. It was her slice of heaven. It was her domain and under her dominion and as long as she was there she knew it could never be taken away. Not from her. She was it’s mother.

Her nature was that of a quiet type. Her mousey face came with a voice to match. Quiet, unassuming, unwanting, contented. The material world was for Madonnas. The Madonnas of the world were for material. Her countenance never could find the comfort in that type of life. She preferred her long blond hair to lay out on a rock to rocking it back and forth at some show. She loved the quiet of nature.

She floated through her forest like a spirit. She was still bounded by the physical world, just not the material one. She still lived in the world as it is today, but she didn’t care much for it. No care for the world, but only for the earth.

She lived alone in a cabin that she built from the earth she loved so much. The roof over her head was more like a canopy. Her walls changed with the seasons and reflected what was available in the surrounding woods. Her door was always open though she never had any visitors. She had only one friend in the world to speak of: an eastern chipmunk with an agouti coat whom she had lovingly named Alvin.

Alvin was her only hold on to mammalian affections. He seemed to visit her every day, especially when prompted by the dried berries she’d leave on the windowsill. Windowsill. She only had a windowsill in the months that afforded one. When the weather would necessitate it, all windowsills were sealed up. Those were the days that Alvin would come inside, for the warmth and the shelter. She liked to pretend he liked her company.

This was the life she had chosen for herself. This was her unbeaten path to happiness. And every day that she could, she walked the whole thing.

She owned few books and even fewer mirrors as her only prized possessions. The books provided an escape. The blank books provided a means of expression. The mirrors provided some relief from the seriousness of her survival. Funhouse mirrors, made to bend and distort realities. The four she brought with her into the woods were from her grandmother, whom she had loved a very long time ago. For hours on end, she would sit in the dirt with a mirror directly in front of her. She may laugh, she may stare blankly, she may call upon the powers of her blank book and pencil to try and give the mirror’s image some permanence. Her favorite mirror was the one that elongated her face, her body, or whatever stood in front of it. It amused her because she had always been petite- she was born that way, seven pounds under weight. The miracle child, her grandmother had called her. How happy her mother would have been, she used to say, to have seen her make it.

And make it, she did. She lived her dream out here in the woods, what with her rivers and books and mirrors and freedom. She lived the dream of every wilderness princess she had imagined as a girl. And now she was a woman. It had been several weeks since she had last seen Alvin. This was not highly unusual, as he was a feral rodent. Still, his absence was disheartening. The season was as dry as the berries she left sitting in the windowsill, but still no Alvin. She imagined he had better things to do, perhaps even a family to attend to.

“Alvin, where have you been? The children have missed you terribly.”

“Oh hon, you know, I’ve been on a business trip. Hey there kiddos, look what I brought back for ya- dried berries.”

She imagined Alvin’s life in her hut was that of a double life; that she was the other woman he kept secret from his first love. So she understood why he couldn’t always come back and, in that same vein, anticipated his return. She was heading out to the trail for a leisurely walk when she noticed something strange with her favorite mirror. The image it reflected back looked exactly like her, not distorted at all.

Unperturbed, she moved forward with her day. Out the door. Down the winding trail. She had become so familiar with her trails that she could follow their twists and turns step for step in her mind. On stormy days when it was unsafe to go out she would close her eyes and just picture herself walking anyway. Turn for turn and twist for twist. She knew to conserve her energy around the first three bends that took her to a lower elevation, for what goes down must also come up. She knew where to stop and turn around to see the prettiest views. She knew where to step off the trail to touch her favorite tree- a skyscraping oak so wide that her hug couldn’t cover even half of it’s circumference. She knew exactly the points that marked a quarter, half, and three-quarters of the way. She saw things that no one else could have possibly seen on their first few walkthroughs. So imagine her surprise on that day when she saw, glimmering off in the distance, something else in her spot.

She was approaching her overlook on the river when she saw it about fifty yards off in the distance. She froze instantly with fear. She had never encountered anyone out here. Somehow, in her seven years in the woods, she had never encountered another soul. Not even a park ranger, or a lost runaway looking for escape. Not a single soul, excluding that of Alvin’s, whom she loved dearly. The sight of something else so human in the distance, in her spot, stole her breath away.

Who could that be? She regained her thought and instinctively moved to investigate. The sun’s blinding reflection made direct eye contact with it’s bald head nearly impossible. She moved closer with a cautioned curiosity.

She crept towards the vision on the toes of a ballerina. She moved behind her trees and brush in desperate hopes of remaining undetected. After all, she was only a small woman miles away from civilization. Who knows what kind of things other people this far out in the woods could be up to? She had two advantages on this thing in the distance. The first was her familiarity with the territory. The second was her camouflage. No, she did not dress in hunting gear or cheap patterned fabric. Her camouflage was natural, the same you may expect out of a squirrel or a deer. Her camouflage was the result of living in her environment. She was a part of the earth there, and the earth was a part of her. Her body was coated in a thin layer of dirt accumulated from her daily scavengings. She only cleaned her skin, hair, and nails when she played in the river. To the outside world, her hygiene would have been seen as appalling. Perhaps this was a result of her distorted reflections. Perhaps this was a result of her isolation.

Whatever was in her spot did not belong like she did. It possessed none of the camouflage she had spent years building in. Like a mechanical ant in a beehive, this figure stood out as a stranger. A chrome mechanical ant. It stood with an eerie and natural confidence while remaining completely unnatural in it’s surroundings. The sun’s dimmed reflection off it’s exterior only illuminated her fears as she snuck within twenty yards of it. She inched closer and closer; each step more difficult than the last. With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she finally made a mistake.

Maybe it was the gravity of the situation. Maybe it was the allure of something new. Maybe, and just maybe, she deeply wanted to be heard. Maybe she had a secret desire to reconnect with something so human after all these years. Whatever the reason, she broke the silence of the hills with the loud crack of a branch being snapped in two under the weight of her foot. The thing responded by snapping its neck to focus in her direction. For a moment, there was a silence heavier than any stone she had ever stood on or seen. A silence so heavy as to muddle the air between them like the communication of something horrible. Even more strange was the comfort she felt in being noticed. Her comfort evaporated with the breaching of that silence.

It located her in the brush. She found it’s eyes meet her own. It’s eyes. Were those eyes? They looked empty, metallic, and cold. The black of its pupils hid no soul; its iris’ were as silver as hers were blue. As soon as their eyes met, the thing snapped its shoulders and torso around to face her and unhinged its mouth. It produced a screech reminiscent of a train braking before it reaches the light at the end of the tunnel. The volume and the pitch of it’s howl was nothing she had ever heard before. It was so loud that it produced in it’s wake a sort of silence of its own. She was surrounded by its roar and could hear nothing at all. The endless river seemed to stop flowing. Birds vacated their trees. Those trees that she loved seemed to cower in fear as their leaves and branches were blown back by the pure power of vibrations emanating from the thing’s mouth. Her instinct left her no other option but to run. And run she did. Sprint, in fact. She moved faster than she had moved during her days as a track star in high school. Her legs were propelled forward by the adrenaline of unadulterated fear pumping through her veins. Her heart expanded to accommodate the unexpected influx of blood. Her lungs reached deeper into her torso than ever before to capture all the oxygen from the trees and their fear. Her calves filled with lactic acid for more and more energy that was doomed to build up upon itself and slow her down but she didn’t care because she was numb numb with the terror of the unknown that shrieked behind her still even though she had now ran half a mile away from where their eyes met. Half a mile. She checked her surroundings and began calculating. That’s the tree around the third bend behind the fourth hill. If I’m at the third tree coming from the other way then that means there’s three more hills. Three more hills? Two more hills. Count backwards. Average pace? Two to three miles an hour. I’m at eight to ten now. My heart is hurting. Push on. Three quarters of a mile left. About seven minutes. I’m seven minutes from home. Keep running. She bounded through the woods like a gazelle tailed by cheetahs. A pool of sweat began to mix with the dirt and get into her eyes. She didn’t care. She had no time to care. As her home came into view, she could still hear the screeching far off in the distance, though it did not seem to be getting any closer. Did it? She realized she couldn’t tell.

She ran through her open door and fell to her knees. She heaved violently to catch her breath. The screeching had finally stopped. Sweat poured from her neck and forehead as she gasped for breath. She looked up to her windowsill and saw that the dried berries were gone. She started to laugh, almost maniacally. Finally, she thought, Finally, he’s come back. Her breath regained and her heart rate slowed. Her tunnel vision widened and her blinders faded away. She stopped laughing as she started to notice what else was missing. With her knees in the dirt, she took a slow inventory of her one room hut- everything was gone. Everything was gone. The canopy over her head began to rattle. The wind outside shook the forest. The shriek of the thing was replaced by a more natural yell. It was the screaming of the clouds; the winds of shifting pressure. She looked back up to her windowsill. Alvin sat in the center of it. He stared back at her, motionless. He stood erect on the windowsill without moving. She stared at him, he stared back at her, they stared at eachother. Half a minute passed and she thought she saw him shake his head. He turned to run and she thought she heard him saying good-bye forever. The wind outside grew louder and stronger. The fearful woods bent in response. Her canopy was completely removed. Hard rain began to mix with her sweat and dirt. Lightning struck and thunder roared in the near distance. A storm was brewing more powerful than this season was known for. From her knees, she looked up to the sky. Torrential downpour provided her with the first shower she’d had in years. With her knees in the mud, she was washed clean by the fall of the sky’s tears. The sky was crying for her. It was all over now.

The unnatural screeching returned even louder than before. She looked to her open door only to see the thing staring right back at her. Right in her eyes. This was her best look at it yet. It stood seven feet tall with the build of an Olympic swimmer. Its bald head glimmered with a completeness that the rest of it’s body did not share. Its eyes burned a hole right through her chest like an acid eroding her soul. Sparking wires were exposed from its abdomen and sculpted arms. It began to move towards her, screeching still. She noticed the pistons turning in response to shifting pressures from its legs, propelling the thing’s movement like an engine. Each step shook the earth beneath her knees. She began to cry harder than the rain. The thing now stood directly in front of her. Its cry was ceaseless. Sobbing, she looked up at the thing to take one final inventory of it’s build. It looked stronger than anything she had ever seen in the forest or in her former life as a civilized person. She looked back down at herself to notice her natural skin tone, unaffected by dirt and grime. She had forgotten about what fair skin she had. Her grandmother used to say she had a complexion that most women would kill for. As a teenager, she was the envy of her classmates with her fair skin that never harbored any blemish. She had forgotten how beautiful she was. She looked back to the thing which had now stopped screeching. The rain over them turned to a sprinkle and her sobs returned to a few sniffles. Once again, and for only a moment, there was an eerily comfortable silence between the two. It almost felt like an understanding. In her confusion, she began to smile. The thing reached out to her with both hands. Its cold, hard palms cusped both sides of her head and gently turned her face towards its own. She began to bawl again. Somehow, she knew this was the end. Their eyes met. The thing seemed to oblige her deepest fears. At the realization of what was happening, her weeping became uncontrollable. She wailed like a baby. She cried like she did when her grandma died. Oh, her grandma’s death. Her final straw before abandoning civilization. Her great loss that had defined everything else in her life. In that moment, she missed her grandmother’s smile more than she ever had before. Her heart ached to hold her strong, kind hands again. And even though she had broken down beyond all repair, she still managed a prayer: To see you again, Granny. To hold you again soon.

The thing slammed her soft skull into it’s unbreakable kneecap. In an instant, she was dead. It released her lifeless body back to the earth from whence she came. Blood from her ears and mouth mixed with the mud and sweat below. The thing looked around the empty hut, searching for anything useful that it had not already taken. Finding nothing of utility, it turned and marched off onto the trail again, heading back to the overlook it had found by the river. Seven minutes later it had returned to that overlook, where it scanned its environment for anything of use. Perceiving nothing of value, it moved forward through the trail and into the future; always ready for progress waiting around the next bend.

#shortstory

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