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Heavenly Son

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Old 07-24-2009, 09:29 PM
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Default Heavenly Son

Just wanted to post a short story and hear some people's thoughts. Enjoy!

Heavenly Son
by Michal Pietrasz

God is dead.

The cross around my neck is gold. Not at all like that cornstalk crutch where Jesus’ blood is a slow dripping food falling to the ground.

And God didn’t smite me.

My mind remembers His strong dirty hands that looked like He washed them in ashes, touching my shoulder. It wasn’t a human touch. At least, I felt less human.

Papa would call every Saturday night and ask if I wanted to come with him to church the next day. Then he’d put on Mama and she’d tell me I should go with my father; that I should feel ashamed I hadn’t gone in ten years. I wanted to say that this is why everyone hates their parents, why people move two miles away and never visit, but I had already hung up.

Sometimes He took me out to dinner, and sometimes I saw Him around and He waved to me. He had long brown hair, His skin was tanned, and His hands were calloused; He was my own personal Jesus. He was friendly, smiled like Papa smiled and the only time Papa smiled was when he was drunk.

Like all memories, I don’t know if it ever happened or I just saw it on TV.

Mama gave me this cross. She put it around my neck, told me it would protect me, and I’ve never taken it off since.

Back then life meant getting up in the morning and driving to school late. He would be waiting by the back door to let me in. He was the one standing beside the mop, drinking from his thermos filled with beer. On weekends, He would buy me bottles of Majorska vodka or Bacardi rum, whatever I desired. When I couldn’t reach Him, I would walk around town asking homeless people.

God was there back then, He was alive. Scientists say we’re made up of atoms, molecules, energy, all things I never understood. I understood God; God was easy. God made the world like Papa and Mama made me. God didn’t see everything, but he punished those sins he saw just like Mama and Papa.

I still have a bible in my desk, a small brown Bible. I never read it because Papa told me it would be the greatest book I would ever read. There’s pressure in a statement like that. I always thought of it as a great tale of fiction like the books I loved. Papa would have thrown me out if I ever told him that.

Sometimes He would drink with me. We had to walk downstairs to get to his door which was light green like the walls of a madhouse. It opened and closed like a regular door but the inside was Hell.

Mama always said that God was a woman when Papa wasn’t around. Mama said she talked to God when she was in labor with me, God had held her hand. Mama told me that she became God then, they had joined together, become one, and God had never left her. That’s what she said when she gave me the cross; that she was God and this necklace would protect me. With it, God would never leave me.

He would put on the church channel that played porn after ten pm. We would watch and laugh and His hand would touch my shoulder like God would touch his greatest angel. The eighth shot of vodka tasted like water going down, down, down. The hand, down, down, down.

Papa always said God gave life and he took life away, that was the sin he suffered. I asked him why we need God if we can give and take life away. Papa threw his beer bottle and I had twelve stitches put in above my eyebrow.

They called me the altar boy. Twelve years of service toward God. Not God but his priests and the heads in the pews. Twelve years, every weekend, and still, the only thing I want to do in a church is masturbate.

I had no other friends, only His vodka and God. And God never watched the unholy things He did. I waited for God to smite Him but God wasn’t there. I was always drunk, so it wouldn’t burn like fire, or I could excuse it somehow. Sometimes he even smelled nice, like the mist when the ocean hits the rocks and it carries to the pier.

Papa would cleanse the sin out of me and Papa turned the bathwater from clear to red and God didn’t smite Papa.

His hands were the disciples of God. My body, the bread. My body, the blood.

Everything that happens is God’s will, my will, Mama said.

The cross I bear is made of fourteen karat gold.

But God is dead to me.

Never Stop Writing!

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Last edited by MichalPietrasz; 07-24-2009 at 09:33 PM..
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Old 07-28-2009, 12:58 AM
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Whoa. I really enjoyed that. You did a really great job of staying in your characters perspective, and portraying Mama and Papa and the characters "personal Jesus." Not much else I can say, just good job. Awesomeness.
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