by Patrick Kill
“Come here, Solomon. I have something to show you.”
Solomon stopped petting the tiny mouse he had found in a rotted limb which had fallen during the last storm. He placed the mouse back into its burrow and met Jonas at the center of the field.
Jonas slipped off his sandals and motioned for Solomon to follow him. They ran, chasing fireflies, laughing and dancing to the sound of the wind through the trees.
After tiring they sat next to a large rock in the tall grass and stared at the darkening sky.
“Do you want to see something neat?” Jonas asked.
Solomon shook his head, noticing the palm of Jonas’ hand illuminated by a single firefly. The insect climbed atop Jonas’ knuckle, preparing to take flight until Jonas cupped his other hand over its body.
“Let it go,” Solomon said.
A dark glare washed over Jonas’ face as he pinched the bug between his thumb and index finger. A white bead of liquid bubbled from behind the insect’s wing.
“You’re killing it,” Solomon yelled, “Stop it!”
“No,” Jonas returned.
Solomon grabbed at his palm as Jonas squeezed harder.
“Watch,” Jonas said as he raked the bug’s body over the face of the rock. A trail of yellow light fell behind the insect’s deteriorating body. Jonas hooked the illuminated trail until a “J” appeared on the rock.
“Only four more to complete my name.”
Little Solomon felt like smacking Jonas, but instead turned and walked away.
Suddenly the wind gusted and howled and Jonas screamed.
Solomon whirled to see Jonas’ feet taken out from under him as his body was lifted into the air. Solomon focused on the expression of fear on Jonas’ face. His thin, wiry body rose then suddenly stopped. His head snapped back. His eyes bulged from some unseen force of pressure
The invisible force lowered him, scraping his head across the earth next to the rock. Face down, Jonas’ neck went limp, his mouth gaped until streaks of blood and brains steadily spewed atop the grass, like permanent ink from a marker. The trail of blood twisted and looped until it spelled something.
Solomon watched as Jonas’ lifeless body was then discarded into the tall grass as the wind settled to a slight breeze.
Solomon looked to the sky, but saw nothing but moon and stars.
* * * * * *
A little boy looked down at Solomon from beyond the clouds as a booming voice suddenly interrupted his amusement.
“Are you playing with humans again?”
The boy tucked his chin against his chest and shied away from the unseen voice overhead.
“What did I tell you about that?”
The boy looked up, cringing. “I’m sorry, Father. It won’t happen again.”
“How would you like it if I sent you down there as one of them?”
The little boy’s eyes widened as he lowered his head. “Oh no, Father. I wouldn’t.”
The voice returned, echoing around him. “Next time you disobey me, Jesus, I’m sending you down there as an infant. And then you’ll see how it is to be a mere human.”
Jesus glanced down to earth and saw the trail of blood scrawling the letters: ESUS. Disappointed that the J on the rock had lost its glow, Jesus glanced up in search of his father. He whispered his name, but no reply came.
Jesus smiled and set his sights on the field where Solomon was looking down at the body of Jonas. He pulled Solomon’s body off the ground and, with one swoop, Jesus painted the rock with a J and quickly disposed of the human’s body.
Jesus stared down at his drawing as his father’s voice yelled at him from above. “I warned you, little one! Now you will have to face the consequences.”
Before Jesus could beg or argue, he found himself lodged in a warm place of fluids and darkness. He felt his features in the darkness, noticing the solid wall of human flesh now covering his entire body. He wiggled blindly amongst the fluid and pushed against the elastic edges of his confinement, but found himself trapped, awaiting his release.
CHOCOLATE JESUS
Sunday school was no place to be on a gorgeous summer day. Ms. Larson would rattle on about how Jesus did this and Jesus did that and how everybody was going to burn in hell if they didn’t live their lives like snobby little pricks who judge everyone else.
Alex hated church. His mother forked over five bucks each Sunday for him to put in the collection plate, but, instead, he’d hike on over to Louie’s candy store and buy himself an assortment of candies and chocolates.
His mother never knew. She was always wrapped up with Nick. Though the guy was half her age, she hung all over him like he was the last guy on earth. She stopped going to church altogether and started getting on her knees for other things instead.
Alex kicked up a cloud of dirt down the alleyway as he stared back at his house. The shingles on the roof whistled in the wind and the gutters were filled with plant life. Things had gone from bad to worse since his father had been killed in a car wreck almost two years ago.
And that’s why he hated church so much. If Jesus really existed, then his father would never have died so young. How could someone so powerful and good let something so bad happen? Preacher Roberts had said that everything happens for a reason and when Alex asked why, the preacher simply shrugged his shoulders and patted him on the head.
That was the last time he attended.
As always, Alex arrived at the candy store and purchased a chocolate bar with the collection money his mom had sent with him. He sat on a park bench outside the store and watched Sunday-goers pass along the street. He leaned back on the bench and let the warm sun cascade down his arms and face. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
By the time he awoke, the sun had melted his chocolate to the park bench. Alex noticed its shape had distorted in the heat in a strange way. And Alex almost pissed his pants as he looked upon a tiny figure of Jesus staring back with chocolate eyes.
Alex rubbed his eyes and shook his head, as if the motion might knock him from a deep slumber and a fitful dream. But the chocolate figure only crossed his arms and waited silently.
The figure’s face was sculpted almost perfectly as in the various portraits his mom had hung across her bedroom walls. With the same beard and pleading, gentle eyes, this figure sported a wavy robe and sandals just like Alex would have pictured Him wearing.
“Tell me your troubles, my son,” the figure spoke clearly, as if the sound had been transported from some insane puppet master, channeling the speech solely into Alex’s ears.
Alex stuttered, then shifted to the other side of the park bench, trying to ignore the strange little man made of pure chocolate.
“Don’t be afraid, Alex. I am the light of the world, remember?”
Alex glanced around, afraid that someone might walk by and see him talking to a half-foot chocolate fudge chunk that resembled the Lord. “Go away…leave me alone!”
“Your soul must go on, Alex. You mustn’t skip church and indulge yourself with pleasure over obedience,” Jesus said. “The key to unlocking heaven’s gate is discipline and sacrifice.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Your father wants you to go to church and live a life that’s righteous.”
Alex perked up, feeling saddened, but yet aware of the newfound possibility. “I want to talk to him. I miss him!”
The chocolate Jesus smiled and held out his tiny hands, palms up. The chocolate slowly melted and bubbled, shifting and coalescing into a broad-shouldered man with a mustache and glasses.
“Dad!”
His father lifted his chocolate hand and waved. “Hi son!”
Alex pouted. “You’re not really my dad.”
The chocolate figure crossed his arms and said, “It’s me, Alexander. I’m in heaven now.”
Alex felt a wave of disappointment, considering his father was once warm flesh that could be hugged or able to play catch with in the back yard. Now, after his deat
h, he was reduced to appearing as a chocolate chunk, only because Jesus had allowed him to. What kind of a deal was that?
The figure responded to Alex’s disinterest by morphing back into the Jesus figure. “I know you’re mad and don’t understand. You’re young and you have to learn that all things happen for a reason, but in the end, you’ll be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.”
Alex felt his lip quiver. He thought about the last day he had seen his father and how much his life had changed since he had died. He thought about his mom and how she had changed too. She never cooked meals and hardly spent time with Alex. It was as if Alex only reminded her of his father, and she couldn’t stand the pain of being alone, to where she had picked up Nick to fill the space. And Nick, in turn, lived off his mother and when the walls were quiet in their room, he’d secretly sneak over to Alex’s and talk to him softly while slipping his hands under the sheets, touching Alex in a way that no one else ever had. And Alex felt bad, like he had lost his place in the world. At age ten, he felt as if he didn’t belong. He trusted no one, not even the tiny figure which stared back with pleading, gentle eyes.
“Please listen—”
“No!” Alex shouted, leaping from the park bench. “You listen, for a change. Every night I talk to you and you don’t listen. You don’t protect me from Nick. But you allowed my father to die and leave me here alone.”
“But nothing matters down here…”
“Bullshit!” Alex knelt closer to the tiny chocolate deity. “Everything matters. The world is bad and everyone down here is losing hope. No one can see heaven from down here anymore.”
“But it’s the people who have tainted this world,” Chocolate Jesus explained.
“But it was God who created this world in the beginning. And when He did, He created the bad as well. He created things that made Dad leave me and He made things like Nick.”
“But I’ve finally come to help you, Alex.”
Alex felt rage. He felt how his swollen rectum still burned from Nick’s last visit. He felt loneliness and distrust. “Well, you’ve come too late.”
Alex picked up the chocolate Jesus and shoved him into his mouth.
He clamped his jaws shut over a tiny scream and chewed with delight. He felt movement in his mouth slowly dwindle to an oozing layer he licked off his teeth and gums. The chocolate tasted so…divine.
* * * * * *
Alex returned home to find Nick snoring on the couch and a note from his mother that read: Alex—went to the grocery. Fix Nick something to eat when you get home.
Alex felt his stomach cramp from eating the whole chocolate chunk on an empty stomach. He ran to the bathroom, pulled down his pants, and released his bowels into the toilet. Sweat trickled on his forehead as he strained.
Before he could reach for the toilet paper, Alex felt something splashing in the toilet, clinging to his butt. An echo of a gurgle erupted as he leaned forward.
Peering at his behind, Alex gasped, seeing a tiny lumpy figure still sprouting from his excrement. The oblong turd shifted as arms molded onto each side followed by legs. The tapered point of the mass fell off into the water as a horned head suddenly formed with a face that smiled. The pointed tail was the last thing that developed.
The figure used its newly formed hands to spread apart Alex’s butt cheeks. In a gravelly voice, the figure muttered, “Damn, kid, he sure did a number on you, huh?”
Alex felt his face flush at the embarrassing fact. He felt weak and worthless.
The figure slowly left the area, climbing up his back and onto his shoulder, leaving a wet trail of footprints in its path. “How about we make your world a little brighter today?” the devil asked.
Alex shrugged his shoulder by mistake, smashing the turd-figure into his neck. “How can we do that?”
He felt the figure slowly regenerate into its natural (or unnatural) shape and, for the first time, he noticed the unpleasant aroma that emanated from the creature. He glanced to the side and noticed that the devil had two pieces of corn for eyes and chunks of sunflower seeds for ears.
“We’re going to have some fun, kid,” the devil stated, speaking from the depths of a cavity comprised of a hollowed popcorn kernel.
“How’s that?”
“Let’s play three wishes,” the devil said, “What’s your first?”
“I want my dad back,” Alex blurted out.
The dark lump of a head shifted back and forth, sadly. “Nope, sorry kid. Jesus already killed your dad off. Next wish.”
Alex’s frown suddenly turned into a slight smile. “My second wish is to watch Nick suffer and my third is to watch him die.”
“Now that I can do!” the lopsided mass of excrement grinned. “We’re going to make ol’ Nick a sandwich. My favorite is bologna, with Miracle Whip, pickles and razor blades. Add a dash of Draino here and there and you got a power lunch.”
Alex’s smile widened, feeling his loneliness suddenly fading. “I think I’m going to like you.”
“I thought you would.”
RAISE THE LORD
It was on the sixth day of October that God was finally pronounced dead. Suddenly the entire world was watching the news. On a ski resort, somewhere in Colorado, God’s carcass slammed into the mountainside, killing hundreds of cross-country skiers.
Christians mourned, Satanists cheered, while agnostics and atheists just scratched their heads and muttered, “What the fuck?”
Religions clashed over the event. While some ignored the event as tabloid fiction, other religions claimed Buddha had fallen from the sky or that Jesus had taken a nose-dive during his second coming.
The final proof was announced. Miracles suddenly ceased. Holy statues stopped weeping. Strange sightings such as pictures of Jehovah were seen no more. And then the most convincing of all: the Chicago Cubs won the World Series.
Christians all over the world wept for their fallen messiah. Churches were abandoned. Chaos crept into the streets.
Everything changed except that, somehow, Catholic priests still found altar boys to molest.
People came together for one last question: how could this happen? How could an almighty, omnipotent Creator just die?
“I’ll tell you one thing’s for sure,” said an old man on the street, “The fucker sure was old. Probably just bit the dust like my friend Bill in the nursing home.” The old man cleared his raspy throat. “Yeah Bill got up one day, took a piss, then bang! Head-first into the toilet bowl. Drown in his own damn piss. What a way to go.”
I just smiled.
“What the hell do you think happened, mister?” the old man asked.
I looked up to the sky. “Well, I would guess He just finally took a look at the world and realized what a terrible, worthless piece of shit He created. If I were Him, I’d feel so distraught that I’d probably just jump.”
The old man’s nose crinkled. “The Lord was a jumper, you think?”
“Yeah, if I made something this wretched–something that was actually worse than the abyss it was created from–hell yeah, I’d be so damn depressed, I wouldn’t think twice about it.”
“You sure are a sick fucker,” the old man commented.
“I was made that way.”
As the world fell apart in the months after, the Pope visited the mountainside in homage to the Great One. Ironically enough, the Pope looked older than God himself, but kept on living. He was escorted up the mountain by his posse of altar boys, blessing every inch where God’s protoplasm splattered the earth.
As luck would have it, the impact of God did little damage to the earth. Months before, astronomers spotted a strange mass headed toward earth. They feared the worst: that a meteorite would break the earth’s atmosphere, causing catastrophic tidal waves and a crater that would stir enough dust to block out the sun for months. Closer to the earth, the mass appeared, looking like a giant human body. It changed shapes and positions and disintegrated much faster that a meteorite. Only about one-hundredth of h
is original size ended up coating the mountainside with a congealing gelatinous mass that oozed like lava, but smelled more like burnt chicken.
I still thought God was lucky to go that way. It could have been worse. What if he didn’t break the earth’s atmosphere and was pulled into a gravitational stream between space, the way some comets orbit certain planets? I could picture parents teaching kids with telescopes how to tell the difference between Haley’s Comet and God’s Carcass.
Although the aforementioned ski resort God crashed into was put out of business, they quickly recovered, charging one hundred times the amount to “Ski on top of God’s corpse.” The owners were kind enough to allow the world to place a memorial on their land, since no one could find a way to properly bury the Creator as He was strung across three miles of private property and the ski season was in full swing.
But wars soon broke out between the different religions on what symbols and what sort of memorial should be placed at the scene. Some sects wanted a football stadium-sized mausoleum built for the Master, others argued that it would take too many tax dollars away from building the proposed Homeland Security Branch of the government. In the end, the debate was mute, since the ski resort owners insisted that the memorial be no more than 7-foot square.
A simple wooden cross was inserted in the mountainside.
An official place of memorial was set at the Sansdorf Cemetery, a privately-owned graveyard that collected some of the world’s most notable figures.
I had traveled days to visit the spot of God’s headstone. I ran my hand across the cold marble, careful not to touch the used condom that someone had flung atop the marker. I traced the lettering with my finger:
GOD
BORN: At the beginning of time
DIED: October 6
The current year was eclipsed by the words EAT ME spray painted in red.
I looked across the yard and saw an elderly couple. The old man stared down at a grave marker with the name Jack Kevorkian on it. The couple wept out loud.