CRASHiC
Smash Hero
I wrote this story sophmore year, and I was wondering how good I did. Please excuse the rather piss poor attempt at Biblical writing on the first paragraph. This is just a rough copy.
Lord, what is man? Thou art too kind to share Your grace with him, for it was man who forsake Your only son, and it is man whose morality hails from the ever burning inferno of Your hate. Lost is man Lord, in Your time of absence. Unable to forgive You for all the pain of modern days he is, and no one dare ask forgiveness from the unforgiven. Speaking through Your mirrors, the fathers of your house, offers him little succor. The good word he has abandoned, its all embedding compass left astray in the clutter of desperation. Lost in his way, man has forged a new god with in his mind, one of ration, a seeable god. Scary a sight, when the world acts to reason, for man is not one who can handle knowledge without guidance. I fear the worse in these times, when the apple seed does again takes root, infesting us with thoughts of progression to heights higher then the kingdom of Babel.
House of New Hope in Maine is my church, and I its father. This is a small town, so much so that Your blueprints can still be seen within this land, Your hands shaping the rolling hills, and Your with your knife carved trees which have yet to be cut down by the manufactures of city roads. No composer can compare to what sweet bird songs You have given to Your forest on a spring morning, and no painter to the morning mist You grant us from Your lakes. Man compares not to You, Lord, for man knows not the toil of Your works, as no mind of poet nor scientist can fathom the grand scale you create on. In the miniscule ant your purest grace is found; life simply incarnate.
To them, I am a stranger, a burden to be excepted. I speak gently to them, and they sleep. I cry of the house of sinners, and they turn a deaf ear. No voice of another man, speaking that which speak can reach them now. This ration they so crave does not exist in my words, but a higher thinking set up upon beliefs. To them, what can not be seen, touched, or dissected does not exist, and they would take a knife to Your stomach, to see what makes the immortal’s heart beat, even if to means ceasing its function. I understand why You and Your angels must hide from these men, keeping distance from their blades. Man might cut an angel’s wings off so that he might sow it to his back and attempt to take wind himself, or skin Gabriel to make a coat from angel skin and melt his horn to weld the buttons. Man, it would seem, is lost.
The children, there is hope in them, though disgruntled by the lack of faith in their hopelessly realistic parents. A yearning to be awakened is nestled tightly within the children’s hearts that it bleeds through their eyes, and waves of their hope pour on to me at sermons like a **** flood held back behind the levees of poverty. To their parents, church is a ritual, an arron of the Sunday morning, but to the children, my words Your word is the sweetest evening hymn, nulling them into a trance where holy devoutness, oneness with god, and the desire to be reborn resonate through their souls. The ways of Darwin and Tesla make no sense to them, for how can transformations and bolts of lightning compare to the sweet bliss of Your presence in all that we do? Unlike men, children are haven’t strayed from Your ways.
There is one among them, the child, a true patron saint of your word, and never in my life have my eyes witnessed such dutiful behavior among any human, youth nor adult. Pastor and pope can not compare to his devoted disposition, in which he has made Your word his, and demands the same of all others. Not blessed with being pleasant to the eye, he hardly receives the kindness of those higher then him, though he would neither resent nor punish them for their own indecency, for he knows that in Your eyes, we are all beautiful. A younger shadow follows him around, his brother, trying to imitate his piousness in every step, but falls a mile behind; he is not blessed in Your light as the other. If any at all should come out of this time alive, let it be him lord; let it be him. If I have to serve an eternity in your absence, then so be it, but care for the boy, light him with your grace and raise him with your blessings.
Yet, I am both blessed and cursed as a father of Your house by the children, for they are a quizative youth, always question Your love and reason. It is a justified question, for our **** nation has fallen under hard times, and city and rural alike have descend under a perpetual state of misery. Public influential has left the church it would seem Father, and man forgotten the reign You have over him. Politician’s and scientist, these false idols and icons break apart Your power, chewing away at Your influence as the days pass by and Your way no longer seems relevant. Pull the chain oh Lord, pull the chain on their leash and punish the forgetters and the sinners. I fear I might loose the children if this or some other miracle is bestowed upon our village.
The child of which I spoke earlier again proved his loyalty to the good book and to the souls of hell, as I caught him forgiving for the sins of others in the confession box today, though some were hardly sins at all, he asked forgiveness for their unclean soul, and I granted every one. If not one exist like this in every town, then how else would sinners be granted their pardon in to paradise?
I fear, that my prayers You heard, and answered all to well. Heavenly Father, what has man done to deserve such smiting that all of earth’s soil be stained with blood? Yes, a snap in place and firm smack they needed, but not a war such as this, perhaps the last of all wars. And the children, why must they be deprived of parental care? Fathers have gone off to battle and the mothers work in their place while the children, the children are left with me. Desperate we grow Lord, desperate for this prolonged miracle.
Months passed and sinner and saints alike still spill their blood around the world, for a false church known as a politics. The mothers have not returned, nor have the fathers and we, the children and I, still sit and wait patiently, our prayers to You every second. As our rations run short and a drought besets our village, fear plagues our souls with the thought that in all of this chaos and gender steeling, You have been killed. It feels, Lord, to be created is to be shunned by you, for these children know no happiness, but only depression. *Why died did I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? Why did the knees prevent me? Or why the breast that I should suck? For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest, with kings and counselors of the earth which built desolate places for themselves; or with the princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver: Or as an hidden untimely birth had I not been as infants which never saw light.* Famine setting in, we grow restless. . . .
Whether by miracle or mistake You sent her to us, virgin eyes wrapped in veil, hair far blonder and skin paler than man knows, and wings as a hawks and white as a doves; an angel at our doorstep. Sent to the boy whom I praised and his brother, she was found lying by the lake side, filling the lake with her tears, and as she walked, all behind her the land prospered as the Garden of Eden in the days of origin. The Tears I shed were of thanks to You and of relief for the children, our prayers had been answered. I spoke to her, asking, ‘Alas, beautiful angel, why do you hide your face?’ but she was silent still. What a blessed gift of serene joy you have given us oh Lord!
My offer still stands on the boy, as his happiness is of the utmost importance to me, beyond my own salvation and ever lasting soul even. Hard to imagine a life without Your presence and one wonders if it is empty or clustered? Mist or flames? There is only one who can answer that question of course, one long forsaken by your house even before the arrival of the son. Even the atheist feels your being within his days, though he rejects it through his own self righteous image of truth and beauty.
The days that passed we are grievanced with a thick snow forced to resign with in the church at all hours we aid to our angel, who had yet to speak or show her eyes to us. Hark! How all things fall into play with your aid lord! For now food we have to spend until the parents return, and the end of the war. Children have begun to imitate her ways, walking around eyes bandaged, hushed, and with fake wings glued to their backs. As if it were a competition, the wings have grown in size and there feats that occur blindfolded increase in danger and skill, though other then me, they fall upon blind eyes.
Today, Lord, I observed the angels whispers, but she spoke not to me, but to the children. Now it seems all have fallen silent to me, children and angel alike. Snow continues to burry us outside, and though it has risen far above the door we worry not, nor even speak of the matter, for the children have found a new calling, and it is now that I realize your intensions good Lord, and I do not resist, nor reject to them for the children are blessed from Your humanity. Drawing them from life to Your own state of being, and to Your garden, such is beauty Lord. Such is Your beauty.
The Children have left now, flying off with the angel to the highest planes, while a heavy snow falls outside the walls. Soon they will be with You, Lord, walking aside You in paradise for eternity. I attest, there is pain in Your absence, but not so that love for You should vanish completely. *How hast thou helped him that is without power? How savest thou the arm that hath no strength? How hast thou counseled him that hath no wisdom? And hast thou plentifully declared the thing as it is? To whom hast thou uttered words? And whose sprit came for thee?* I wait for thee, Lord, patiently for Your word and acceptance, though your rejection is what I pleeded for, I wonder how many years of active devotee shall compensate in Your eye? A hundred centuries? Perpetuity perhaps? I can wait that long if it means that I and the boy shall walk besides you bathed in your light and pleasured by your grace. With in the walls of self defined hell I shall wait here, frozen in your absence, serving as a patient ode to your love. . . .
* From The Book of Job
Inspired from this painting
Lord, what is man? Thou art too kind to share Your grace with him, for it was man who forsake Your only son, and it is man whose morality hails from the ever burning inferno of Your hate. Lost is man Lord, in Your time of absence. Unable to forgive You for all the pain of modern days he is, and no one dare ask forgiveness from the unforgiven. Speaking through Your mirrors, the fathers of your house, offers him little succor. The good word he has abandoned, its all embedding compass left astray in the clutter of desperation. Lost in his way, man has forged a new god with in his mind, one of ration, a seeable god. Scary a sight, when the world acts to reason, for man is not one who can handle knowledge without guidance. I fear the worse in these times, when the apple seed does again takes root, infesting us with thoughts of progression to heights higher then the kingdom of Babel.
House of New Hope in Maine is my church, and I its father. This is a small town, so much so that Your blueprints can still be seen within this land, Your hands shaping the rolling hills, and Your with your knife carved trees which have yet to be cut down by the manufactures of city roads. No composer can compare to what sweet bird songs You have given to Your forest on a spring morning, and no painter to the morning mist You grant us from Your lakes. Man compares not to You, Lord, for man knows not the toil of Your works, as no mind of poet nor scientist can fathom the grand scale you create on. In the miniscule ant your purest grace is found; life simply incarnate.
To them, I am a stranger, a burden to be excepted. I speak gently to them, and they sleep. I cry of the house of sinners, and they turn a deaf ear. No voice of another man, speaking that which speak can reach them now. This ration they so crave does not exist in my words, but a higher thinking set up upon beliefs. To them, what can not be seen, touched, or dissected does not exist, and they would take a knife to Your stomach, to see what makes the immortal’s heart beat, even if to means ceasing its function. I understand why You and Your angels must hide from these men, keeping distance from their blades. Man might cut an angel’s wings off so that he might sow it to his back and attempt to take wind himself, or skin Gabriel to make a coat from angel skin and melt his horn to weld the buttons. Man, it would seem, is lost.
The children, there is hope in them, though disgruntled by the lack of faith in their hopelessly realistic parents. A yearning to be awakened is nestled tightly within the children’s hearts that it bleeds through their eyes, and waves of their hope pour on to me at sermons like a **** flood held back behind the levees of poverty. To their parents, church is a ritual, an arron of the Sunday morning, but to the children, my words Your word is the sweetest evening hymn, nulling them into a trance where holy devoutness, oneness with god, and the desire to be reborn resonate through their souls. The ways of Darwin and Tesla make no sense to them, for how can transformations and bolts of lightning compare to the sweet bliss of Your presence in all that we do? Unlike men, children are haven’t strayed from Your ways.
There is one among them, the child, a true patron saint of your word, and never in my life have my eyes witnessed such dutiful behavior among any human, youth nor adult. Pastor and pope can not compare to his devoted disposition, in which he has made Your word his, and demands the same of all others. Not blessed with being pleasant to the eye, he hardly receives the kindness of those higher then him, though he would neither resent nor punish them for their own indecency, for he knows that in Your eyes, we are all beautiful. A younger shadow follows him around, his brother, trying to imitate his piousness in every step, but falls a mile behind; he is not blessed in Your light as the other. If any at all should come out of this time alive, let it be him lord; let it be him. If I have to serve an eternity in your absence, then so be it, but care for the boy, light him with your grace and raise him with your blessings.
Yet, I am both blessed and cursed as a father of Your house by the children, for they are a quizative youth, always question Your love and reason. It is a justified question, for our **** nation has fallen under hard times, and city and rural alike have descend under a perpetual state of misery. Public influential has left the church it would seem Father, and man forgotten the reign You have over him. Politician’s and scientist, these false idols and icons break apart Your power, chewing away at Your influence as the days pass by and Your way no longer seems relevant. Pull the chain oh Lord, pull the chain on their leash and punish the forgetters and the sinners. I fear I might loose the children if this or some other miracle is bestowed upon our village.
The child of which I spoke earlier again proved his loyalty to the good book and to the souls of hell, as I caught him forgiving for the sins of others in the confession box today, though some were hardly sins at all, he asked forgiveness for their unclean soul, and I granted every one. If not one exist like this in every town, then how else would sinners be granted their pardon in to paradise?
I fear, that my prayers You heard, and answered all to well. Heavenly Father, what has man done to deserve such smiting that all of earth’s soil be stained with blood? Yes, a snap in place and firm smack they needed, but not a war such as this, perhaps the last of all wars. And the children, why must they be deprived of parental care? Fathers have gone off to battle and the mothers work in their place while the children, the children are left with me. Desperate we grow Lord, desperate for this prolonged miracle.
Months passed and sinner and saints alike still spill their blood around the world, for a false church known as a politics. The mothers have not returned, nor have the fathers and we, the children and I, still sit and wait patiently, our prayers to You every second. As our rations run short and a drought besets our village, fear plagues our souls with the thought that in all of this chaos and gender steeling, You have been killed. It feels, Lord, to be created is to be shunned by you, for these children know no happiness, but only depression. *Why died did I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? Why did the knees prevent me? Or why the breast that I should suck? For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest, with kings and counselors of the earth which built desolate places for themselves; or with the princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver: Or as an hidden untimely birth had I not been as infants which never saw light.* Famine setting in, we grow restless. . . .
Whether by miracle or mistake You sent her to us, virgin eyes wrapped in veil, hair far blonder and skin paler than man knows, and wings as a hawks and white as a doves; an angel at our doorstep. Sent to the boy whom I praised and his brother, she was found lying by the lake side, filling the lake with her tears, and as she walked, all behind her the land prospered as the Garden of Eden in the days of origin. The Tears I shed were of thanks to You and of relief for the children, our prayers had been answered. I spoke to her, asking, ‘Alas, beautiful angel, why do you hide your face?’ but she was silent still. What a blessed gift of serene joy you have given us oh Lord!
My offer still stands on the boy, as his happiness is of the utmost importance to me, beyond my own salvation and ever lasting soul even. Hard to imagine a life without Your presence and one wonders if it is empty or clustered? Mist or flames? There is only one who can answer that question of course, one long forsaken by your house even before the arrival of the son. Even the atheist feels your being within his days, though he rejects it through his own self righteous image of truth and beauty.
The days that passed we are grievanced with a thick snow forced to resign with in the church at all hours we aid to our angel, who had yet to speak or show her eyes to us. Hark! How all things fall into play with your aid lord! For now food we have to spend until the parents return, and the end of the war. Children have begun to imitate her ways, walking around eyes bandaged, hushed, and with fake wings glued to their backs. As if it were a competition, the wings have grown in size and there feats that occur blindfolded increase in danger and skill, though other then me, they fall upon blind eyes.
Today, Lord, I observed the angels whispers, but she spoke not to me, but to the children. Now it seems all have fallen silent to me, children and angel alike. Snow continues to burry us outside, and though it has risen far above the door we worry not, nor even speak of the matter, for the children have found a new calling, and it is now that I realize your intensions good Lord, and I do not resist, nor reject to them for the children are blessed from Your humanity. Drawing them from life to Your own state of being, and to Your garden, such is beauty Lord. Such is Your beauty.
The Children have left now, flying off with the angel to the highest planes, while a heavy snow falls outside the walls. Soon they will be with You, Lord, walking aside You in paradise for eternity. I attest, there is pain in Your absence, but not so that love for You should vanish completely. *How hast thou helped him that is without power? How savest thou the arm that hath no strength? How hast thou counseled him that hath no wisdom? And hast thou plentifully declared the thing as it is? To whom hast thou uttered words? And whose sprit came for thee?* I wait for thee, Lord, patiently for Your word and acceptance, though your rejection is what I pleeded for, I wonder how many years of active devotee shall compensate in Your eye? A hundred centuries? Perpetuity perhaps? I can wait that long if it means that I and the boy shall walk besides you bathed in your light and pleasured by your grace. With in the walls of self defined hell I shall wait here, frozen in your absence, serving as a patient ode to your love. . . .
* From The Book of Job
Inspired from this painting
