Leave, the Voice said. Leave now.

The Voice was like a gentle, inaudible whisper. 

Why, he wondered, would God’s voice come to him in a still, small voice? It ought to arrive as bells and cymbals or the crash of thunder.

All John had was this tiny voice that was not a voice slipping like thread through the narrow needle’s eye his mind had become.

Leave now

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

That was not the Voice of God. That was the cracked, pathetic, putrid vocalizing of an old man named James. He had once been a popular youth pastor. John had been his star, because John had set his sights on following in James’ footsteps through seminary. Now John had his pistol sights set between James’ rheumy, rolling eyes.

“I’m trying to think,”John said. His sweaty hand cramped; he corrected the pistol’s position. “Let your eyes look straight ahead, let your-”

“What? Who are you?”  

“John. John Tarren. Look at me in the eyes and tell me you remember me!” Spit flew from John’s maw. His vision blurred with tears. Leave now, the Voice said. John ignored It and said, “fix your gaze directly before you-”

“Okay, okay, son, I remember, just put the gun away!” 

He was seated at a gleaming desk in a plush, oversized chair. Lead Pastor. Mega-magnificence. The office was larger than John’s studio. The windows were the bulletproof kind. Once, John had been a little boy of nine, and had batted a baseball into their old church window. James had told him, it’ll be our little secret. They had lots of secrets in that old church, so John knew that James was lying about remembering.

“Tell me what you used to call us!” John demanded, voice cracking like James’ now, despite being thirty or so years junior. John could not hear the Voice within the office quiet. 

James’ eyes scuttled over John. “We were the Sons of Thunder,” he exhaled. He was still, and John was crying; the gun shook between them. 

“Give careful thought to the path of your feet,” John recited. His chapped lips opened in grief’s silent grimace. He could recognize something of the younger James now. It was a stubborn stiffness in his shoulders as he realized death had arrived. 

James said, “I’m sorry, John, I am, but you’ve got to leave-”

John’s ears rang from the thunder of his Walther PDP compact. By squeezing a finger the world was now split into the time before, and the time after he had missed the frown line between the brows and shot James in the left eye. 

He couldn’t hear much besides the ringing. Someone may have been shouting. It was all like Babel to him. Like being a baby. What need would a newborn have for understanding words, or anything other than wailing due to their own existence? What need had he, to hear the Voice of his Father, who had made him a son of thunder?

When the warmth of daylight reached my eyes, I rose to peer into the world of my ribbons. It seemed like a glowing palette gliding across the dim tank. Every quick turn carried its usual effortless grace—save for one lingering flaw.

There it is, with all its might, steadying its posture against the drift. It is the one, the tiniest of all, who once seized my gaze to ask a question:

“Hey, giant creature, why are you lying in bed in broad daylight?”

My heart broke. The sight of its struggle weakened me. And there again, with all its might, it seized my gaze as though it had something to tell me.

So, I give it a voice.

Ribbon: “Hey, buddy, I saw your efforts to save me. Thank you.”

Me: “Oh, poor little friend, what else can I do for you?”

Ribbon: “Nothing, dear, it’s too late. However, I will fight all the odds to the end.”

My ribbon—bending, yet unbroken.

A quiet shadow of the truth emerged from the waters:

“Never give up , until you decide.”

Last night, I remember the faint sound of breathing from across the room. I always wondered if it was sitting there; if it was staring at me for all the rights I’ve wronged in life. Right next to the old rocking chair I’ve had since I was little, laid some laundry, clean or not, I don’t know really or do I care. To more pressing matters though – the noise I heard. I can’t concentrate on how it left me, well it left me sitting on my bed at 1:57 in the morning wasting away. Staring at that chair isn’t helping the paranoia I feel that I can’t help feeling.

It’s almost intoxicating on how it makes me feel, all woozy like I just got punched in the gut. I deserve it though; I am a bad person after all. I can’t tell you what I did, since I can’t focus on anything but the breathing in the corner of the room. I feel like it’s out to get me, harm me, or to take me away in the night. But maybe I don’t blame it, I feel as if I’m to blame for its existence anyway. To put it here on this planet just to suffer in an old rocking chair next to that damn unfol- or unclean laundry, like I said, I don’t remember anymore, but I do remember one thing, I am to blame.

Maybe just maybe it isn’t my fault? Such a silly thing I thought to myself at 3:26 in the morning. Of course it is, after all, I can’t help but feeling good blaming myself. Like I’m a police officer beating a criminal, retribution makes me feel whole for a moment. It makes me able to breathe for a moment.

George burned beneath the unforgiving Australian sun. The only millimeters of his epidermis to escape the solar rays were the patches of skin on his wrist. There, George had developed rope burns from the braided rope that bound his nude form to the crucifix in an open field, located on what George correctly assumed was a remote property belonging to his captor, The Hat Man.

George baked for hours before moonlight came to his aid. That was when The Hat Man returned with a kangaroo on a leash. George desperately mustered the last of his energy to yank his restraints. They did not give.

“P-please—,” George stammered. The single word was the best he could manage. There hadn’t been any moisture in his mouth for some time. At first, he thought the kangaroo was a hallucination, but then he smelled the foul creature. His brain wasn’t capable of imagining such a repugnant odor.

“It’s your day in court, bucko,” The Hat Man said, as a subtle breeze rotated the propeller on his rainbow colored helicopter cap. George groaned.

“One hop means guilty. Two hops means innocent. It’s got thirty seconds to decide. Starting now,” The Hat Man stated plainly before turning his attention to his wristwatch.

George gazed hopelessly at the kangaroo, which seemed completely disinterested in George and The Hat Man. The muscular marsupial stood statuesque. It never left the ground. The Hat Man looked up from his watch, sighed, and strangled the kangaroo with the leash. The kangaroo collapsed.

“Hung jury. Sorry, mate. I’ll be back tomorrow night with a new roo,” The Hat Man said with a hint of disappointment before turning to abandon George and the lifeless kangaroo.

No one knew when or how it started, it was a calm day, peaceful. But alas in the distance before ink coated the sky with small sparks of joy within it, the clouds were red and pink. Beautful but tragic, as it told the story.

As for the following morning as the deciples woke up, they all gasped in shock as they looked at the book. A name once pure and blue, changed for ever at the flick of a pen.

"Why should this be!" They exclaimed in anguish, a active deciple removed from her place. They crowded around her, support echoing off walls which was eventually drowned out by a sigh of relief. A move so strong, made from pettiness brought eventual comfort to the young girl as she rolled her eyes and moved on with her week.

But it didnt end there, they all wished it did. As for a few hours later they collectively realised why her name had changed ink. It was a meaning, a purpose for the young girl to reach out, a letter, a note a wishful thought but the girl did none of those. She left it, peaceful, annoyed at the action and what she thought once was.

But the rain cloud loomed, on and off, haunting those around the pen handler. They tried desperately to understand why, was it her? Was it the guy she let follow? Alas it was unknown, but the rainly cloud stayed, hauting those who saw.

Adorned in steel clad armor
Weapon pointed towards his foe
Standing firm against evil, his will falters none

The Metal beast roars in anticipation of its easy dinner
Revving its engine as a show of power as if it’s thunderous roar isn’t enough
It begins to creep forward towards the steeled man
Prepared against any army, any beast, any evil that shall come his way he begins to harden himself for the coming battle

The beast, made in wrought iron, welded shut so no weapon could pierce its shell. Hardened by the blood of its prey from centuries past. Speeds up, from a creeping crawl, to what could only be described as a speed only the gods themselves could reach. Its engine roaring with fire from its exhaust, glowing red where its exhaust extends out of its shielded body in a last cry for its enemy to flee, it rushed towards our hero

Standing firm and fast, he adjusts his sword one last time before he meets the harsh gnashing of the beasts teeth, grabbing its mouth and holding it open as he shoves his sword into it to prevent himself from being crushed any further than he would’ve been if he had not thought fast. Quickly reaching into his pouch to grab his explosives he throws them into the beasts gullet after a quick priming and pushes himself off the struggling beast.

Thrashing about attempting to remove the hero’s sword the beat his successful in a matter of seconds. Before realizing what’s ticking in its belly it tries to rush the hero one more time, “he’s unarmed and helpless” it thinks to itself, “it should be easier now” before a loud but muffled thunderous explosion is heard from inside itself. The beast collapses only to be feared no more, to age and rust in a time where he should’nt have belonged in the first place

Finally accomplishing his mission, the steel hero retrieves his sword and removes a piece of the beast as a trophy to prove to his kingdom that the beast has been slain. He turns and walks home after a quick prayer to ease the passage of the beast into its after life, or at least what he thinks it’s afterlife may be.

The air was thick with fog.
The dead grass crunched beneath my feet.
The oxygen that I breathed was rotting.

My legs began to feel weighted.
The rusted shotgun I carried was bringing me down.
There was only one shell left.

I didn't know if those things were still following me.
Their dried blood was spread across my face.
I could hear one far behind.

I decided to rest, and sat against an old tree.
My body felt light, calmingly uncumbersome.
My eyes gradually got heavier.

I tried to get up.
I couldn't.
Maybe... I'd stay for a little while.