The monks say that without an absolute zeal for God, religion becomes just another opiate. This is referring to Marx’s famous statement, that religion is “the opiate of the people.” Who’s correct – Marx or the monks?
One of these monks, a gangly man with a smirk plastered on his pasty face, likes to wander the city’s streets at night. He walks for miles, leaving at midnight and not returning until the sky has changed from a dreadful black to a bruised gray.
This monk sees those things that hide in alleyway shadows with hungry, yellow eyes and grunt like the monsters under your childhood bed.
The monsters you saw for certain, the ones that are still there and visit you in twilight hours. The demons that resemble the old women from the insane asylums you’ve been in, the ones with their faces contorted in agony.
This monk finishes his walk. He smiles. He smiles at the monsters.
Note: I wrote this very short piece based on a prompt, “Write a story or poem based on the last sentence of the nearest book to you.”
It’s a good prompt! Give it a shot and let me know how it goes.