Here is a Story

The fire glowed in the dark and one could see the bodies sitting around it. The tall figure was an old man, a beard dropped to from his face. The small figures, surrounding him and the fire, were little boys, but to the old man they were not little boys anymore. Some of their faces were haggard, some had beards, others were balding, but most of all, what distinguished them from the usual little boys, were their worn, stretched and wrinkled faces, that looked like an old person. The children of today were deformed. One child had a mask because his face was too difficult to look at.

“Tell us a story Lord.”

Lord. They call me Lord now. Back when civilization still existed, they called me doctor or scientist. 

“Tell us a story Lord.”
“Tell us a story Lord.”
“Tell us a story Lord.”

They all began murmuring in together.

“Ok-ok.” The old man’s voice felt weak. He knew it was weak as the years had taken a tool in him.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let thoughts filter him by.

“Do you know how you are built?”

The small children shook their head.

“You are made of flesh, bone and blood, but it is more than just that. How does a cell in your body take the form of a bone, flesh, heart, hands and head? There is a being in your cell that is called DNA. Ha. You have not heard of this, have you? A DNA dictates the way your body has been built.

But, you children, you old men, the incident has forever corrupted your DNA. Whatever the human race was before, you are not. Your DNA has been… corrupted. That’s why you don’t look like children, you don’t sound like children.”

The old man reached inside his torn coat and removed a metal bottle. He unscrewed it and took a sip of precious water.

“All of you-all of you, all of your DNA, 99% of is the same of every human being, or at least it was. I don’t know what your DNA is now. Once upon a time, your DNA carried millennium of human data, how to eat, how to sleep, which colour to be, which mate, man or woman to like, your immortality was to pass on your DNA. And now look at you. All that data is gone. Vanished, in a blink of a year.”

“What are you doing girl? Don’t you shouldn’t play with fire!” The old man scolded the child who grabbed and shook a burning stick from the fire in the middle of the camp.

“If you had the same DNA as I had, maybe you would know.”

“We grow tired of you Lord. Perhaps, we will have you.”

“Wait, there is more yet. There is hope for the human raise. Up above, high up there, in the sky, far beyond what you can see, is the immortality drive. The best of human DNA remains, hidden and unspoiled.”

“We will have you. Your stories make our head hurt.”

Together the children got up and surrounded the old man.

“Now, now, now”, the old man’s voice grew weaker.

The girl opened her mouth wide, showcasing sharp teeth and she bit into the flesh of the old man.

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I didn’t become a priest

What do you do?

Do you look up at the stars and look wait for that classic shooting star?

Do you wait for an angel possibly disguised as a person to give you a sign?

Or, do you look for the ultimate sign, the burning bush and does a burning forest qualify as that?

Just what is this God’s sign that you are waiting for?

That’s the question I ask, each day, every day. And I wait for an answer.

No, I’m not kneeling in front of a cross and praying my heart out; desperately asking for a sign. That’s not my style. So what am I doing? Getting squeezed from all sides by a five ton pressure and both my hands are raised up. No, they’re not crucified up a cross. I wish they were. Both my fingers were holding onto the train handles as tightly as possible. People constantly pressed and pushed on me. The only resistance I could give was because of the train handles. And when my train station came, I rushed out with the crowd.

Where was I going? To work. Until I felt the call of God, I would live life like everyone else, which is basically go. to. work.

I follow the flood of people, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the streets, up the elevator, in the office sitting at my desk, clicking the mouse and tapping on the keyboard. Between all that time, there was no sign.

Fine, if there is no physical or visual sign, I should feel something. Like… how do I describe it.. That feeling when you see a girl walk into the room and you just know that she’s the one. Of course, I glance at the entrance of the pantry. People are entering and exiting at the room with their coffee and tea. There’s a bearded guy. No, he’s not Jesus. I don’t expect God or Jesus to walk through the door, and then my heart to flutter, my mouth to drool with dripping and frothy saliva and then I would just know - The calling.

The day ends, I leave. The same crushing by hundreds of people. Where’s the sign? I ignore that begging lady holding on to her child. It’s hard to say, but giving alms does not really change that person’s life. Giving alms to an organisation is better.

I am at home. There is still no sign. All my life I am told there would be a sign, a calling… a knowing. But it never came, so I didn’t become a priest. 

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Jittery Lights

I walk in and out.

I walk in and out.

I walk in and then out, and every time I have to switch the light off. Because, for some reason, it keeps switching back in.

“Click.” There, the light is now off. I walk out.

The home I live in is an unconventionally big one in the city. It occupies the whole floor, the elevator opens directly into the living room. This is a home left away from some childless grand-aunt. It is a pretty large home. The living room is a massive open area, the flatscreen television is on. I’m sitting on the couch. The sounds from tv are comforting. I’m sitting on the couch, but I’m not really looking at the tv.

There it is again. I can’t believe it. The lights, the goddamn lights are on again. I jump out from the couch, and spend the next five minutes walking to the room. The tubelight pretty much blared out light. The bedroom was filled with dead flowers and the table next to lamp had a picture of my late grand-aunt. This room was where she breathed her last.

This time I just down switch the light off, I slam the switch with the palm of my hand. The sound of the television from outside was comforting. I hated leaving the lights on. It is a waste of electricity, I barely manage to keep up to the bills of this place.

I stomp back to the living room and sit down on the couch. This place had about five bedrooms scattered about. And there it was again. The damn light was on again. What do I do? What do I do to fix this damn problem? I grab the hammer, walk to the room, raise the hammer and bring it down. Plastic is weak and pathetic. The plastic switch was crushed. There we go, this won’t be troubling me again.

This time I really feel it, nothing is going to come between the tv and me. And nothing does, except something flickering from my peripheral vision. I look and there it is. The light. on. again.

First I think of tearing off my hair, then I decide against it and then I picked up the hammer again and go back to the room. I really don’t care if this room was the one where my grand-aunt breathed her last.

I stretch my hand out as much as I can and then I just break the damn tubelight.

I’m sitting back on the couch. Of course, I don’t feel the ghost's hand throttling me. I only see my grand-aunt when I leave my body. Weird right? Damn that light.

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Waiting for a Mother

I watched her. There is without a doubt that she is the most beautiful person in the world. I wasn’t one for pick up lines, but looks like God lost one of his angels. She was dressed in a white gown, it was a simple one, not like those exquisite ones, just a simple one, and you know what, simple is good.

She looked even beautiful when she was nervous. She was the love of my life and we were getting married. A little perspiration on her forehead, the biting of her lip and those deep furrows. “Where is she?” My angel asked with a tinge of anger in her voice.

“I don’t know sis.” Her sister replied.

I looked around. It would be stupid to say that I was not nervous or angry. How can her mother do this on our wedding day? The clock on my watch ticked closer to 8:30. People have been sitting for the last hour. Waiting. Waiting for the wedding to start. We can’t start the wedding march without her mother.

“How can she do this to me! Call her!” My angel yelped out.

“I tried”, the sister waved the phone in the air, “She’s not picking up the call. She was with me in the church, I don’t know why she would do this.”

My angel tried to maintain her composure. People were looking, people were waiting.

“She’ll be here”, I tried to interject into the sister-sister conversation.

“Really, really! Where is she? How can she do this me TODAY!”

I inch closer and take her hand in mind and then I just squeeze lightly. She squeezes back.

Then, we just wait.

“She’ll be here. She’ll be here. She won’t miss your day. Don’t worry about the people, they can wait.” I whisper in her ear.

She nods. A grim kind of nod.

We waited. My angel’s mother never did come for our wedding reception.

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