“It Says Here…”
A Short Story
I found myself in a holding area. I had done nothing wrong, at least nothing wrong from the perspective of good and evil that originated in the heavens and was set forth on Earth thousands upon thousands of years ago.
The glob of a human being who would be handing down my sentence was nearly a perfectly formed mound of excrement. He appeared to be proud of it.
Pond scum of humans were about all that were left on Earth. One contingent of non-humans overlords replaced the previous. It was a succession of shit.
“It says here,” was how it always began.
A story of lies with no human to either corroborate, or not. It was the official narrative of dung that you were charged with, and there was no escape from the process.
The non-humans were there for one purpose and one purpose only…to extinguish all freedom’s. Freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of music, of art…freedom of expression…and when the appropriate time came, the extinguishing of life.
The appropriate time had come…for me.
I had done the unthinkable. I said aloud, “I do not consent”, as the authorities arrived on my doorstep, seeking to inject the government’s chip into my hand.
I was the last of the misfits, as they called us.
Misfits were the last of the humans who resisted.
“It says here,” the glob intoned, “that you have committed crimes against the State…crimes of dissent against the State, to be more precise.”
I had done nothing of the sort. I had merely stood for truth, for health, for life…for love.
I looked upon the piece of filth of a human or non-human before me. I knew there wasn’t a chance on Earth or beyond, where I would be ‘forgiven’ my misdeeds. And so, I just stared at the ground before me.
“It says here that you shall absorbed.”
I didn’t cast my gaze from the ground before me, for I was already dead. I knew that being dead was just the beginning. The glob of human excrement before me, casting an insignificant sentence upon me, was nothing more than a composite of filth from previous and current slabs of the shit of humanity that the gods had quizzically allowed to proliferate.
And so, I chose to cast my glance above the ground before me, and asked simply…
“Do you believe in the afterlife?”
The befuddled glob who would sentence me to absorption, smiled and said, “no…not on your life.”
I returned his smile and said, “that’s too bad, but you will.
You’ve noticed my red hair, haven’t you? You’ve also noticed the abundance of freckles on my face, haven’t you? I’m what many would call a fiery, red-headed bitch. Many shits of humanity such as yourself that all of us misfits have had to endure since the Great Purge began, have had to do the unimaginable to get around the filth you enforce. And too many have allowed deposits of complete perversion, such as yourself, to turn love, truth and all that is good, into total darkness.
My promise to you is that I will haunt you…I will haunt you, your family, your friends and every soul likened to you, with a torment of anguish, a torment of unease…a torment of the truths you kept from the innocents. And I shall not rest in the afterlife, until I have complete satisfaction that you have personally felt the sting, the jibe, the jolt, the pain in the side, the slice of shit to your head – every quiver of insanity possible to feel, every bolt of depravity you heaped upon innocents – until you feel what you have dealt to all the innocents, and are taken to your knees, begging the gods to end your perversion forever, casting your wretched soul into Gehenna…until then, I will not rest.”
Tonight’s musical offering
“Bethlehem Down” – King’s College Cambridge
Bethlehem Down is a choral anthem or carol composed in 1927 by Anglo-Welsh composer Peter Warlock (1894–1930) (the pseudonym of Philip Arnold Heseltine) and set to a poem written by journalist and poet Bruce Blunt (1899–1957). It is a popular anthem used in the Anglican church during the liturgical seasons of Christmastide and Epiphany. Warlock wrote it to finance an “immortal carouse” (a heavy bout of drinking) on Christmas Eve 1927 for himself and Blunt, who were experiencing financial difficulty. The pair submitted the carol to the Daily Telegraph‘s annual Christmas carol contest and won. – via wikipedia.org
Indeed…God does work in mysterious ways, and with a great sense of irony…thankfully.
“When He is King we will give Him a King’s gifts
Myrrh for its sweetness, and gold for a crown
Beautiful robes”, said the young girl to Joseph
Fair with her first-born on Bethlehem Down
Bethlehem Down is full of the starlight
Winds for the spices, and stars for the gold
Mary for sleep, and for lullaby music
Songs of a shepherd by Bethlehem fold
When He is King they will clothe Him in grave-sheets
Myrrh for embalming, and wood for a crown
He that lies now in the white arms of Mary
Sleeping so lightly on Bethlehem Down
Here He has peace and a short while for dreaming
Close-huddled oxen to keep him from cold
Mary for love, and for lullaby music
Songs of a shepherd by Bethlehem fold