Fried Chicken at the Monastery (a weird fiction story)

“Religion is a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden.” – Émile Durkheim

The monastery’s library was always the place to get the best-fried chicken. Father Julian felt terrible about eating there without a napkin, but he knew it was the only way to get to Heaven. All the monks and friars would show up in their swimming trunks on hot summer days, talking about the latest fashion trends in Catholicism.

Father Julian was tired of fashion. He wanted something more, like experiencing a religious vision or finally reading Moby Dick. But ever since the Russian invasion of outer space, the monastery had been very strict about what books he read. They knew their phones were tapped, and the Russians watched them constantly.

Living in a police state wasn’t bad for Father Julian until it made him itchy. He had no trouble praying to Putin in the morning; he liked it. The only problem he saw was that his roommate, Father Billy Bonzi, never washed his armpits. Billy Bonzi was a garbage man before joining the monastery, and the smell never left him for some reason.

It was almost Holy Week, and the monks knew what that meant: cleaning the bathrooms from top to bottom. The President would visit soon, along with the Pope and a limousine full of circus performers, and the place had to be spotless. Last year, when the President choked to death on a chicken bone, the monks were at the center of a global conspiracy.

After saying his last prayers, Father Julian finally got ready for bed around midnight. Billy Bonzi put his telescope away and cleaned his underwear while Julian got under his sheets. The moonlight peaked through the window, such a beautiful sight that Billy Bonzi cried and reminisced about the time he met Neil Armstrong. They knew everything would be all right as long as they kept their faith in nuclear science and kept exercising.

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Thomas Aquinas on a Horse (a weird fiction story)

“I can write no more. All that I have written seems like straw.” – Thomas Aquinas

It was so cold just a minute ago when Thomas stopped by the side of the road to vomit out his breakfast. But it is like that in this universe – the moon hangs in the sky, desolate and lonely, and then it peers down at Thomas and tells him everything will be all right.

Thomas is on a journey to get his dope. He has ten dollars in his pocket, the worn jeans that feature the face of God. There’s a stain in the center of his jacket that looks like a mandala, and he’s afraid to brush it out because if he does, it will mean certain death.

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God Is Neither This Nor That

God is a cosmic vending machine that dispenses whatever we want. He is a genie that grants us three chances to get revenge. He will not hold us from suffering. God will not hesitate to kill us if we do not listen to the frenzied singing of his various devils in our world.

Look around you. Do you see that red glint in the eyes of your lover? Do you see the steam rising from the hole in the ground? Do you hear the wolves howling at your front door? Do you think God is merciful? The last time I checked, God was eating away at my insides, and He whispered in my ear that he would tear my body to shreds and spit me out into the cosmic void.

God is part Rapture, a part Fiend. God is everything you don’t know, will never know, and can never know. The fear of the unknown, the churning disorder of your terror attacks. God is the most dreadful face you have ever seen. God is reading this right now and is planning his attack. God called me on the telephone and told me he hated me. God does not exist. God is everywhere. God is in the in-between spaces. God is a ball of fire. God is a murderous homeless man.

God is not this, nor is he that.

Thank God for this prayer. Thank God for the times you left home and didn’t go back. Praise God for the weeping of the saints. Let God know you love him every time he punishes you. Say a prayer for the meek that will inherit the alien planets, and then set fire to your house and dance on the ashes.

Images of Pain (Flash Fiction)

A cold ground and thunder rumbling outside. All darkness at first and no memory of how I’d gotten here. Chilly air and damp.

I called out into the darkness but got no response. I saw what looked to be an old Zippo lighter by my side. I used it to faintly illuminate the room.

I am in prison, but the cell door is wide open.

They say sometimes we have dreams like this, though they could be better called nightmares. Perhaps they are nightmares embedded within nightmares in the subconscious, sleeping world. I have no memory of my life; everything is a blank slate, pale and grayish. The only images playing in my mind are of shadowy figures like ghosts. Though I see no one in this prison, I hear echoes of voices. They’re whispers, so I follow them. They say, “You deserve this,” and “The time is now for your punishment.”

The prison is expansive, set up like a labyrinth. I walk through the corridors and rows of cells, lost. It feels as though I’m wandering in circles. I follow the echoes of the voices. “Come closer,” they whisper. The thunder continues to rumble outside, and brief flashes of lightning that illuminate the prison’s interior. The whispers turn to deeper voices like growling. Then, the barking of dogs, loud, deep barks from vicious chained-up dogs. I can tell they’re chained up because I hear the chains rattle in the nighttime air.

No moon in the sky outside through the windows. My eyes adjust to the darkness so I can see better, but there’s not much to see. Despite the sounds, there still appears to be no one here.

My stomach twists with anxiety. Goosebumps on my arms. The clanging of steel now sounds in the distance. Memories are coming back, not like a flood of them, but little pieces here and there. Memories of a physical struggle, of looking down into the ashen face of a pale man on the concrete. His eyes are the purest light blue, and his smile is devious. He says, “Kill me, you bastard.” Memories of me holding a handgun and the steel’s coldness in my hands.

But it’s all mixed up. The man is on the ground, and his face has changed. The skin is green now, and the tongue is reptilian. The eyes are a deep yellow, and the teeth are sharp like fangs. There’s a crowd encircled around us, watching, cheering. There’s my mother crying, my dead father sleeping and levitating.

I am still walking the prison corridors, listening to noises. When I hit a dead end, the walls start closing in. Just when it appears as if there’s nowhere to go, a heavy door opens and hits me with a blinding red light.

Standing there behind the door is GOD.

But it is now how I imagined GOD would look.

He is a black, nebulous creature with wings. He has no face to speak of, and his body is not humanoid. It is more like a reptilian bird. I know this is GOD, though, for some reason. Something tells me it is.

I wait for the thing to speak while it flaps its wings. Then, the creature, GOD, opens its terrible, cavernous mouth and lets out the most horrible sound I could ever imagine. It blows me backward and pierces my bleeding eardrums until it makes me deaf and mute. The sound continues unabated, and the pressure in my brain keeps getting worse until it suddenly stops.

Everything is in complete darkness again. A garden has formed in this small room, filled with radiant blue flowers. A garden of the night within the prison walls. I fall asleep, I think, but I awake in the garden again.

There is no escaping this place. This is my home now, for eternity. Whatever punishment must come, it doesn’t matter. Whether I am cursed or blessed, I do not know. I know nothing anymore. Nothing but pain.

The End

Check out my science fiction novella, Mother Portia, on Amazon Kindle

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The Storm Winds in Hell (microfiction)

The sky was a deep, dark red, and the clouds were thick and black. Lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder roared like a demon. The wind was strong and fierce, the rain was heavy and unrelenting. The ground shook and trembled, and the darkness was intense as night had fallen. The air was filled with howling and the smell of sulfur and ash.

I am reminded of my sins and the wrath of my deadness. The burning of dreams and the infernal existence of going astray. My counterparts here have crooked smiles and welcome me. “What is it you’re looking for in this place?” the fiendishly ugly man yells. “I don’t know.” Remove your face and listen to the storm winds of Hell. Remove your innocence and relent.

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Voices in the Attic (Flash Fiction)

We hadn’t been in the new house long before I suspected something was very strange. It was the noises at first. Initially, they were soft echoes that repeated the words me and my wife would say. Only in the bedroom, though. And this was awkward, as well, because it would repeat us during noisy sex. Each moan and groan would play out on a three or five-second delay, inevitably distracting us and making us stop. The echoes repeated the noises our dog made, too.

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Mountains of Hope (a poem)

Invoke whatever demons you like
Stick the spike in my eye and draw out the intellect, slowly, carefully, tenderly, and tell me what it tastes like
When I left home as a young man
I never imagined the wonders of the golden-terror metropolis
With the diamond-studded prostitutes and the back-alley fantasies
Witches and black sabbaths and a home for every nightmare and love god
The crystal meth shined like galaxies
And my nose hurt from all the noxious cocaine
My taste buds are dulled from swallowing lead and fire
And I am the foulest creature to ever come to these lands
Look in my dead eye and tell me, what do you see?
I can tell the primeval past better than the future
And the present day is nothing compared to the unseen cities I traveled to in the sky so many eons ago, those sweet-smelling places with naked beasts and acres upon acres of melted flowers and falling suns
I will finally rest now – I have not slept in many days
Lay me down to sleep
Don’t mind the dimness of my chambers
And stay away from the chieftains and deputies of doom
Nuclear war will happen soon; we all know this
We are mere days away from World War III and the extermination we deserve
But the final moments before death are always simple
And what waits for us afterward is an eternity of staring into God’s judgment and following Jesus into the mountains of hope