Shifting perspectives pt. 2

I live about ten blocks from the temple, so it would be simple to just walk the streets to my flat. But I have always been of the opinion that you should enjoy little freedoms, so I always take back alleys and fire escapes to my 16th floor window. Besides, it keeps me out of the way of the monks, which is always good. 

Because of my habits, I know this part of the city like the back of my hand. My mind wanders absently as I climb metal stairs bolted to brick buildings. The smog is thin tonight, I swear I can almost see stars. Off to the west it thickens and the sky glows burnt orange from the fires of the factories. East is a pale blue from the lights of the Citadel, home of the gods. 

I jump across another alley, skidding on the loose gravel and tar of the rooftop. No one ever comes up here because it's so hard to breathe, but my lungs are used to it. The gap between the next two buildings is too wide so I walk toward the fire escape, when a voice stops me cold. 

"Stop, please."

The words are innocent enough, but the voice sends shivers through me. Deep, distorted, crackling warbles, like a demon from an old radio. I turn to see those red eyes burning into me from a dark corner. I immediately avert my eyes, feeling afraid, as if I've done something wrong. I don't think it's illegal to climb on the roofs, but I'm sure it's suspicious. 

"Come closer."

I obey wordlessly. Everyone knows resistance is a joke to the gods. I hesitatefor a moment as I see the monk up close. He is sitting on the roof, supporting himself against the side of an air vent. He seems extraordinarily small, no bigger than a child. 

The monk's breathing is ragged, it sounds like static in an electrical storm. 

"I am injured. Please help me." The words make no sense. "But you're a god..." The monk laughed, thunder barking off the sides of buildings. "And I am injured." He says again, holding a small, pale hand out to me. The hand is covered in red, wet blood. This is impossible. Gods are invincible, immortal. This is not possible. 

"Please," he speaks again, breaking me out of my trance. "I'm sorry my lord, I will find the other monks at once." I turn to run. "No, wait!" I stop. "Please don't get the others." I am so confused at this point that I cannot do anything. I just stare at the form in front of me. "Where do you live?" The monk rasps at me between breaths. My obedient citizen brain kicks back in, and I rattle off my address. "Take me there, I can care for my wounds there."

I stare dumbly for a moment. Should I touch him, that seems like a bad idea, but he doesn't look like he is in any shape to walk on his own. Then of course there is the matter of bringing a GOD into my one room efficiency flat. 

From this cloud of convoluted thoughts I manage to stammer out one syllable;

"How?"

"Carry me, fool!"

Well, that settles that. I gingerly approach and put my hands underneath him, curling him to my chest, expecting death to come for me any second. I gasp in shock as I lift. He is as light as a feather, and small. 

"Hurry, please. I need to close my wounds soon or I will pass out."

I mutter some unintelligible affirmation and start running down the fire escape stairs. At this point I am pretty much on auto-pilot. The shock has shut down significant portions of my brain. The chill inducing voice directs me to be quick, quiet, and to stay out of sight. I just obey now, not even bothering to question why a god seems to be hiding. The idea is too ridiculous to fathom. I do, however take a moment to consider how difficult it would be to explain why I am carrying a wounded monk to my flat. 

I climb the fire escape on my building the sixteen stories to my room, and crawl through the window with my cargo. I lay him on the sofa bed, and sit on my knees on the floor. The god removes his hood and I jerk reflexively away. His mask is a grotesque rubber and metal contraption, with polarized red lenses for eyes.

"Help me undress." He says, shifting on the sofa. Now I know I am going to die. I turn my face away. "My lord I could never exp--"

"Please!" The shrill voice startles me, and I jerk my head back to look at the monk. My eyes widen in shock. 

"Ican'tverywelldothisonmyownandIhavetotakecareofmywoundorI'llbleedoutpleasejusthelpmegetthisstupidrobeoff!!"

Sitting on my couch, holding the mask in her hand, is a very fast talking seven year old girl. 

Shifting priorities

I am posting a short story here, don't know how it will turn out, but feel free to critique in the comments. 

Shifting perspectives pt. 1

Screw the gods. They bleed us dry, literally and figuratively, all in the name of protection. These are my thoughts as I crouch in the alley, waiting for the dust to settle from the monk's passing. They've been around since long before I was born, but they always give me the creeps. The thick black robes, the hyper, twitchy movements, the crackling, distorted voices leaking from the folds of their hood. 

I heard the church used to help people. Used to feed the hungry, take care of the homeless. I don't put any stock in those stories, though. Nostalgia makes everything seem better, so my mom always said. Besides, those were the old gods, those big invisible eyes in the sky, promising damnation or salvation in the next life. Story goes, humans used to be clergy, and no one ever even saw the gods. That's probably just another fairy tail though, they're always too good to be true. Never see the gods? Sign me up!

But then the new gods came, and everything went to hell, including, presumably, the old gods. 

Not that these gods even teach a hell. I think that was the old gods schtick. The new gods are a bit more... tactile in their dogma. Obey their laws, pay your taxes, accept the sacrifices, and you have a small chance to be less than miserable before you eventually die. Fail to follow the rules, and death was not so eventual. Or they put you in the mines. Personally, I'd prefer the death route. 

I check my watch. I've got thirty minutes until mass, just enough time to grab a falafel for dinner. I'd gotten lucky, my boss gave us bonuses after we met a deadline at the mill. Of course, taxes will eat it right up, but for now, I'm hungry. 

I finish my dinner as I round the corner to the temple. Tossing my wrapper on the ground, I join the line of worshippers. I nod to a few people I recognize, but we say nothing. You do not talk at temple. The line moves slowly into the gargantuan stone building. It is a confusing hodge podge of architectural styles, with graceful white marble arches suspending a gigantic black granite cube above our heads. I always wondered if that was a metaphor, or a thinly veiled threat. Maybe the gods just have poor taste. 

The monks check us in, scanning retinas as we file into the great hall. I shiver as I pass them, their red eyes staring unblinkingly at everything. Acolytes, with their black metal masks and white robes, wait in the great hall, a vast empty granite floor, wordlessly directing us to where we are to stand and wait for the faith exercise. We stand for a few minutes while the last of the worshippers check in, then watch as a priest walks through the archway at the end of the hall. He is dressed in the attire of all priests, a glittering golden robe trimmed in black velvet. His mask is brightly polished silver, with holes for his mouth and nose, but none for his eyes. "Welcome, children, to the nightly worship. Seat yourselves in faith." 

Everyone in the hall leans back at once, falling backwards at the stone floor. The acolytes kneel and touch the granite at the end of each row of worshippers. In the split second we fall, the floor ripples and leaps to meet our bodies. Before our weight can come to bear, our rears are resting on wooden pews. The gods sure do like to show off. Still it is pretty incredible, even as many times as I have seen it. 

The priest walks toward the center of the room, the stone molding itself into a golden staircase beneath his feet, lifting him up to address the crowd. 

He lectures in a booming voice about the importance of obedience and faith, blah, blah, blah. You hear enough of it, and it ceases to make an impact. I just zone and try to look fervent. The law says we have to show, doesn't say we have to care, but acting a little never hurts. 

At the end of service we file out back into the street. Four hours til curfew. I look up in surprise. I can actually see the moon tonight! I'm just going home, but a night this nice calls for a walk. 

Entoncé

The catharsis of these entries has been, as of late, both overestimated and undervalued. My mediocre life has suffered quite a few twists and turns in the past... However long since my first post. For example, the woman that I barely knew? Turns out that in fact I barely knew her. If only I could see your face, I am sure that the shock of that last sentence would be written all over it. Fortunately, that particular unknown is no longer my unknown. Instead, my life is filled with a plethora of small unknowns and half- certainties while I look on with a woman who has become my best friend and sole confidant. I had the good fortune to know her platonically before, and our companionship runs far deeper than most as a result. 

Not to harp on it, but it is quite lovely to have such a stalwart and beautiful companion.  She is an anchor in stormy seas, and a billowing mainsail when I am dead in the water.  

I shall attempt, however, to restrain from gushing over my, admittedly worthy, love interest. My life has had other developments, lest ye think me rather one dimensional. For instance, I have embarked on an ancient career path, aligning myself rather decidedly with a particular country and their military. I did this with strong misgivings, I admit. I have never been interested in fighting someone else's war, and I seldom take up wars as my own, so it is a bit strange that I would 'take up the sword', as it were. Suffice to say, the government, like the dons of the last century, gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. Due to previously mentioned failings on my part, I remain only partially educated, lacking rather substantially in my knowledge of things I find fascinating. More to the point, I'm lacking in a piece of paper that assures future employers that I am worth a damn.  My current venture should do quite a lot to remedy that degree-shaped absence, while allowing me to generally pursue fields that I have an interest in. My acquaintances tend to chuckle when I tell them of my plans, because, as per usual, my intentions and interests run ambitious and slightly less than pragmatic. 

I am however confident that degrees in Psychology, Philosophy, Latin and Arabic are certain to make me a more interesting and fulfilled citizen, if not a financially stable one. Besides, I have a career path set for myself, and only need leave it should I choose. My interests are mine and no one else's, and thus are subject to no one's criticism, however well intentioned. 

I intend to make better use of this forum, but as I have demonstrated, that is not always a guarantee. Until the next trauma, 

Good day

bienvenidos

welcome all to the most recent of a line of highly cathartic, and highly forgettable, memoirs that i have participated in.  do not worry, i am much less intelligent than i once was, so you should have no trouble keeping up.  i expect that i will use this site sporadically for a few months before forgetting my password and moving on to the newer, shinier digital me.  but for now, i will wallow in the revelry that is an imaginary audience to my inner psychoses.  i am a post-renaissance man, in that i am well educated and good at nothing, so expect to see a plethora of nonsensical poems, novellas, philosophical meanderings, and half truths designed to make me look either more or less pathetic than i really am.  the truth is i am afraid of myself, because i am utterly unremarkable. 
highly intelligent, overly ambitious teenager gets his heart broken and allows his distress to ruin his life.  drops out of college, starts shit minimum wage job, and gets stuck there because he is too afraid to take risks.  along the way he finds true feeling and in a love crazed year he marries a woman he barely knows.  now he lives with her and their cat, and worries about bills, friends, whether he really makes her happy, and when exactly the new season of walking dead starts.
great story, right?  i mean, sure, it's a little sad, but we've all heard fifteen just like it.  that is my life, nothing awful, nothing great, just mine.  if you're interested, feel free to ride along and bask in my... mediocrity.  who knows, maybe we will discover something not quite so mediocre after all.
until then,
good day.