Who made god?
Buzzing noises fill my head.... sparks go flying. Blank screen with one word: Error. Shit. My computer broke. Suddenly I hear a voice. Clear and unwavering. Indescribable. “He did not come from anywhere. He had no beginning, and will have no end. He is the eternal, self- existing Being.” Yeahhhhh....uhhhhhh.... “Wait, what did you say, Siri?”
It’s a slow and painful road, my friend. Time is the healer to your open wounds, and your memories are a distant reminder of what used to be. You’ll cry for the first month, maybe year. But soon you will smile fondly at the memories. You will remember the person who was alive, not the dead capsule of their soul. And then, once your heart has mended, you’ll be free.
The tears flowed Steadily as she bowed her head in mourning. No longer was her mother calling her in for supper, Telling her stories Of the glory days.
No longer was her mother walking along the path, Wheelbarrow in hand as the hawk soared above.
She was born from a family of farmers, Hard working; back-breaking; sweat soaked farmers. Simple lives, changed.
Like birds in winter she migrated away from her mother, for a better life and a family.
The times were changing yet her mother remained unchanged- Hard-working back breaking strong sun-tanned farmer. Natural. Lonely. Sad.
Her mother bore the heartbreak of a lost son; his widowed wife.
Spring came and went, her mother still alone. Yet soon her mother’s calloused hands would embrace the separated strands of her family- her grandchildren once again.
Her mother’s tears dripped,
Ripped too quickly away from her family.
Yet they dried when she cried once again
In joy.
This time, her mother’s great-grandchildren visited.
Just two.
Her grandchildren.
Innocent.
Smiling.
The next visit bore a third child. This was the last visit. Her mother’s heart ached; there were still five children. Part of her mother’s flesh, blood and bone. Great-grandchildren she would yearn to but never see.
Her mother’s breath grew shallow, eyes blurred and hands shaking. Peacefully, her mother passed in the night.
There her mother flew a glorious hawk, soaring above her loved ones. Watchful and protecting. Free.
Her mother was found with a slip of paper. The words written in her native tongue. Not just words but the names of the loved ones she still had yet to meet.
R.I.P
The Van wasn’t nearly as glorious as she had imagined, and couldn’t help a wave of disappointment consume the thrill of a chase. She would have preferred no trouble at all but... it was all the same anyway, right?
She had already packed a small bag of devious belongings, because, unlike all the other amateur rebels who thought they could assume they were criminals, they were all the same.
But not Xalta. She was something else. And since she’d been watching shows of Scooby Doo for her whole miserable childhood, they team was going to have to try a little harder than that.
Nonchalant, she waltzed through the back door, humming the intoxicating theme song. She laughed as she imitated the same one liner and an accusatory finger from all those pathetic perpetrators, ‘I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for YOU!’ Bah. As if. She didn’t want to try get away with it because she was going to walk right into their arms. And surprise them she would when they realised she had more in stock for them than they had bargained for. This was going to be fun.
Don’t go into the empty train compartment, the voices whisper in your ear. “There’s a pineapple in there!” They scream hysterically. Squealing, laughing... at you. Your breath hitches and your heart thumps defiantly in your chest. ‘You’ll never get out!’ they assure you. Goosebumps tickle your neck as you look behind you. They’re everywhere now. Crawling, wriggling. You won’t escape.
It’s all just a dream... just a dream. You tell yourself this, over and over. Oh, how ironic the reassurance!
There’s laughing, but it’s not from you. You finally will your legs to run, and so now you’re running.... the tunnel is damp, black. At least it should be. But all you see are pineapples, spiked and fresh. Breakfast? Ha!
You think not. There’s no escape but oddly, you still run. Numb, desperate. Afraid. All the better, I say.
You’re sobbing like a scolded child now, pleading for god to save you, to have mercy on your soul. As if that ever works.
Your stumbling, your body flinging itself to no exit. You fall. Obviously.
You’re in a fetal position now, crying. Again. You’re quickly starting to irritate me. Stop it. Of course you won’t.
You try to get up as I walk, closer. Step by step. You’ve wet yourself. Gross.
Too bad. I’ve reached you now, and there’s nothing you can do. I reach into my pocket as you stare, frozen, at the smiling mask concealing my identity. Mmm, where is it? Ah, there it is!
I whisk a yellow flower from my pocket. Slightly wilted, but still beautiful. I reach out, offering you a gift.
You pass out. ——————— Xena had just watched this kid-Max, according to his papers- wet himself. She crossed him off the list. The simulation had lasted 3 minutes. This kid was afraid of yellow, pineapples, dark tunnels and Halloween masks. 4 fears.
4 fears too many. Max exited the simulation, blushing in embarrassment as he realised not everything was just a figment of the imagination. “Sorry kiddo. Can’t take candidates who can’t control their bladder. But you can do exposure therapy. Trust me, it’ll help. Should we book another session for next year?”
Max gulped, nodding, then quickly rushed out. Guess that’s it, she supposed. Sighing as she began cleaning the mess, she wondered which fearful child dared play next.
They repeated their false assurances until the words had blurred into each other. Until the rain stopped beating against the windows and the shattering of glass stirred the ruckus. Until they were found in the cellar. I was in a hidden compartment. Now, as I heard their screams and pleas for mercy, the words rushed back. We love you. Everything will be fine. Parents lie.
