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 Newest draft hereI posted this short story a while back on the Thunderdome in a brawl against Sebmojo. I actually think this story has a lot of potential, and I want to submit it to be published. So, fellow CC'ers, if you'd be willing to oblige me, I'd like a full crit. I want a full autopsy--dissection, diagnosis, the works. Thanks in advance. False God (1189 words) My name is Jordan and I was here to try to convince my Dad to leave a death cult. “Dad, please,” I pleaded with him as he bowed in front of the macabre shrine of Santa Muerte. “Please, we miss you.” My words fell on deaf ears as he kept worshiping at the foot of the shrine. The local patron saint of death and mortality, her image is a corrupted version of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a skeletal woman clad in robes, wearing a crucifix around her neck. In her right hand, she holds a scythe ready to harvest souls while in her left she holds a globe, symbolizing her dominion over all. Like my father, other worshipers were presenting their tributes of flowers, incense, and candles to the feet of the shrine while praying for her blessings and forgives. “Dad, please-” I tried again before I saw a familiar face walk inside and across the aisle. “Father Aguilar?” I've never seen my pastor angry in my entire life and when I saw him, he was absolutely livid. He immediately made his way to the front and stood next to the false idol. “Step down, padre!” a heckler from the audience said. "How dare you desecrate our Lady's shrine!" another person shouted. “Shrine? Blasphemy!” Father Aguilar exclaimed. “This is not a shrine, it's a pagan idol! And all of you are dooming yourselves to a life of torment and hellfire!” “Who are you to tell us who we can and can't worship?” Another heckler called out from the crowd. “Exodus 20, verse five,” Father Aguilar quoted. “'You shall not worship or serve a false idol; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God!'” “Where was your God when my girlfriend was kidnapped by the Cartel?” a voice from the crowd called out. “She's dead now!” she shouted as everyone else roared in agreement. “Please!” Father Aguilar pleaded with the crowd. “I ask you, why worship death when you should instead worship our lord and savior, Jesus Christ? Who died for your sins to ensure us all everlasting life?” “Get him out of here,” said someone else as the crowd got up and pulled him down from the shrine. “Please, listen to my words! Salvation lies not in false Gods but in the one true God!” I followed Father Aguilar outside as he was thrown out of the building. And there he was, his hands over his face making a silent prayer in despair. “Father?” “Jordan!” Father Aguilar hugged me. “What are you doing here, my son?” I dropped my head in shame. “My Dad’s in there. I've been trying for weeks to get him to come back to church, but...” “I know, son,” he said sympathetically. “Father, this cult has him in their grasp and I have no idea how to get him out,” I told him. “Don't lose faith, Jordan,” Father Aguilar told me in spite of his obvious doubt. “The Lord will help us find a way.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “But Father, it's not like we can call fire down from the heavens.” The story of Elijah and the false prophets was my favorite in the Bible. I was joking, but the Father stared at me. “Who says we can't?” He asked. “Wh-What are you thinking, Father?” “Does your father still have his gun?” “Yeah but it's for killing coyotes. Why-” “Just bring it and meet me here.” I showed up later on with my Dad's shotgun and found the Father holding a gas can and I immediately knew what he had in mind. Walking in, I fired a shot in the air to keep the crowd in check as the Father stepped up to the shrine. “In Second Kings, the prophet Ezekiel challenged the false prophets of Baal by seeing whose God would send fire from the heavens first,” he said as he doused the statue of Santa Muerte in gas. “Let's see if your God would stand my test of fire!” He pulled out a lighter and lit the statue. As soon as it erupted in flames, they were extinguished by some unseen force. A host of spirits appeared and enveloped Father Aguilar as he levitated in the air. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he pleaded as the spirits filled the air with unearthly shrieking. They flew inside him and after a moment of deathly silence, Father Aguilar screamed in pain and burst into flames. Nothing of Father Aguilar remained except his charred skeleton which fell to the ground in a pile of ashes. I was hyperventilating as I held the shotgun in a death grip. I locked eyes with the idol. I knew at that moment, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was damned. A glint of light caught my eyes and I looked down towards my chest. I was wearing my rosary under my shirt. And it was glowing. I grabbed my cross as another host of spirits appeared from the idol. Just as it flew at me, I took my rosary out from underneath my shirt and held it above my head. I wrapped my fingers around the glowing cross and I felt a warmth flowing through my hand which coursed through my veins and radiated around me. The miasma dissipated and I heard the idol screech. The spirits flew around the idol and transformed into a giant, skeletal dragon which spread its wings and roared at me. My rosary wasn’t just a simple cross--it was a symbol of my faith, my conviction, and my belief in Jesus Christ. It was that which Santa Muerte, in her complete dominion over death, could never extinguish. So why did Father Aguilar burn while I still stood? Because I had what he didn’t--the faith of a child. Focusing my faith into it, the light formed into a suit of armor. I threw my hands up and it formed into a sword and shield. The dragon took a deep breath and spewed hellfire from its gaping maw. I raised my shield and blocked the flames. Before the dragon could get its second wind, I ran towards it, jumped as high as I could, and wrapped my arms around its neck. The dragon bucked and thrashed trying to throw me off. I pulled myself up on its neck, raised my sword above my head, and thrust it straight into the back of its neck. The dragon screeched as I gritted my teeth and ripped it's head clean off. The beast collapsed and I fell to the ground while everything formed by the spirits of the dead and my faith evaporated. As the shrine disintegrated, I stood in front of a whole crowd of people with their faces transfixed on me in fearsome awe. They bowed. They chanted my name. They repeated it over and over again. My eyes gaped. My body was covered in cold sweat. When I saw my Dad bowing in front of me, the horror finally became reality--I had become a false god. I screamed as I heard a raspy voice laughing triumphantly in my ear. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 06:48 on Oct 29, 2014 |
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Sep 17, 2014 18:27
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I have a new draft. Helsing, I've taken your criticisms into consideration. I've also taken into consideration the criticisms of two other persons who I've had them look at it. Before I post it, I want to address two of your criticisms. I'm aware the dialogue is hokey. My intent is to emulate the overly formal and often bombastic dialogue style from The Bible and other Christian inspired tales like "The Faerie Queene" by Edmund Spenser. That corniness is supposed to transfer into outright terror when the Shrine of Santa Muerte is revealed to host an ancient death God. More natural dialogue, in my opinion, would undercut the narrative of a kid challenging a Death God and failing, not to mention the theme of unquestionable faith. I will, however, concede that I need to improve upon the dialogue if I'm trying to emulate that style. I can't figure out how, though. I've given a brief description why Jordan's dad fell into the cult. I didn't feel that it was all that important. His dad's the impetus, sure. But I don't know, it's not the cult that's the villain, it's the god that they're worshiping. Hopefully, I've improved upon myself with this new draft. Draft in next post. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 03:46 on Sep 24, 2014 |
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Sep 24, 2014 03:42
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False God My name is Jordan and I’m here trying to convince my Dad to leave a death cult. “Dad, please,” I plead with him as he bows in front of the macabre shrine of Santa Muerte. “Please, we miss you.” My words fall on deaf ears as he keeps worshiping at the foot of the shrine. Santa Muerte is the local deity of death and mortality whose image is a corrupted version of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a skeletal woman clad in robes, wearing a crucifix around her neck. In her right hand, she holds a scythe ready to harvest souls while in her left she holds a globe, symbolizing her dominion over all. Like my Dad, other worshipers were presenting their tributes of flowers, incense, and candles to the feet of the shrine while praying for her blessings and forgiveness. "Dad, please," I try again, but he won't budge. A familiar person walks inside and storms towards the idol. "Father Aguilar?" Father Aguilar is the priest of our local parish. In recent months, with the drug violence escalating, worship in the false god Santa Muerte has reached a fever-pitch as dozens upon dozens of members of our church have left--my Dad included, when my Mom died in a cartel shootout. Like everybody else, he's become disillusioned in their faith in God. Now they all seek solace in the macabre idol in front of me. In response, Father Aguilar is now on a righteous crusade against Santa Muerte worship. I’ve never seen Father Aguilar so angry in my life. His eyes are absent of the kind of love and caring he usually has for his flock--they’re instead filled with fire and brimstone. He immediately makes his way to the front and stood next to the false idol. “Step down, padre!” a cultist shouts. "How dare you desecrate our Lady's shrine!" shouts another. “Shrine? Blasphemy!” Father Aguilar exclaims. “This is not a shrine, it's a pagan idol! And all of you are dooming yourselves to a life of torment and hellfire!” “Who are you to tell us who we can and can't worship?” a cultist asks angrily. “Exodus 20, verse five,” Father Aguilar quoted to the crowd. “'You shall not worship or serve a false idol; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God!'” “Where was your God when my girlfriend was kidnapped by the Cartel? She's dead now!” a voice shouts as everyone else roars in agreement. “Please!” Father Aguilar pleads with the crowd. “I ask you, why worship death when you should instead worship our lord and savior, Jesus Christ? Who died for your sins to ensure us all everlasting life?” “Get him out of here,” someone else says as the cult rises and forces Father Aguilar away from the idol. “Please, listen to my words! Salvation lies not in false gods, but in the one true God!” His words falling on deaf ears, I follow Father Aguilar outside as he’s thrown out the building. He kneels to the ground with his hands covering his face as he makes a silent prayer of despair. “Father Aguilar?” I ask “Jordan!” Father Aguilar turns and hugs me. “What are you doing here, my son?” I drop my head in shame. “My Dad’s in there. I’ve been trying for the longest time to get him out, but…” “I know, son,” he says sympathetically. “Father, this cult has him in their grasp and I have no idea how to get him out,” I tell him. “Don't lose faith, Jordan,” Father Aguilar told me in spite of his obvious despair. “The Lord will help us find a way.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “But Father, it's not like we can call fire down from the heavens.” The story of Elijah and the false prophets was my favorite in the Bible. According to the Bible, Elijah challenges the false prophets by seeing whose god could send down fire from the heavens first. I was joking, but he stares at me. “Who says we can't?” he asks. “Wh-What are you thinking, Father?” “Does your father still have his gun?” “Yeah but it's for killing coyotes. Why-” “Go get it and bring it here.” My house is a block away, so I run as fast as I can to get my Dad’s shotgun. I return with the gun and see Father Aguilar holding a gas can. I nod at him, knowing exactly what he has in mind. We walk into the shrine, surrounded on all sides by angry cultists. Before a single person can rise up in anger, I fire a single shot in the air. Everyone jumps and backs away from us as I hold the gun out and pan it around. As I corral the cult, Father Aguilar positions himself next to the idol of Santa Muerte. “In Second Kings, the prophet Ezekiel challenged the false prophets of Baal by seeing whose God would send fire from the heavens first,” he says while dousing statue of Santa Muerte in gas. “Let's see if your god would stand my test of fire!” He pulls out a lighter and ignites the gas-soaked idol. But as soon as it erupts in flames, it extinguishes. What happens next will be forever burned into my memory. The eyes of the statue flash blood-red. I hear a raspy snarl and from the statue, something escapes from it. It appears as a giant miasma made up entirely of wisps. Looking closer, I see human forms--arms, clothes, hair, and, disturbingly enough, faces. Faces of the young and the old, all of them contorted and stretched out in pure agony, all of them unified in a single, horrifying, unholy scream. I find myself so transfixed in this demonic force, that I’m completely frozen in fear. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Father Aguilar pleads as the spirits surround him in a shrieking whirlwind. They then fly inside him, absorbing themselves within his body. After a moment of deathly silence, Father Aguilar screams in agony and bursts into hellfire. The smell of burned flesh and fat fills the air as the flames dissipate. Nothing of Father Aguilar remains except a blackened skeleton which collapses into a pile of ash. The spirits escape from the pile and return from once they came, inside the idol. Everybody else gasps in terror. I’m too busy hyperventilating, trying to keep my palpitating heart from bursting from my chest and escaping my body in pure terror. I look eyes with the demonic idol. At this moment, I truly fear for my immortal soul. I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am damned. A glint of light catches my eyes and I look down towards my chest. I’m wearing my rosary around my neck. And it’s glowing. I grab my cross as another host of spirits escape from the idol. I wrap my fingers around it tightly and I feel a warmth flowing through my hand, coursing through veins, radiating around me. The spirits dissipate around my aura and I hear the idol snarl. The spirits now collect themselves and transform. They take the form of a beast--a gargantuan, satanic dragon with giant wings and glowing red eyes. It spreads its wings and roars at me. My rosary isn’t just a simple cross--it’s a symbol of my belief, my conviction, and my child-like faith in the grace and love of my savior, Jesus Christ. It is that which Santa Muerte, in all her demonic power and dominion over death, can never extinguish. The light that surrounds me forms into the full armor of God--the breastplate of truth protects my heart, the belt of truth is buckled around my waist, and my feet are fitted with the readiness that comes in the gospel of peace. The dragon takes a deep breath and spews hellfire from its gaping maw. I take up my shield of faith and hold it aloft, blocking the flames entirely. Before the dragon can get its second wind, I tighten my helmet of righteousness on my head and draw my sword of the spirit, ready to confront the evil one. I run up and swing my sword at its mouth, cutting into its nose. The dragon recoils in pain, lifting its head and snarling at me. With its soft underbelly exposed, I cry out in rage and rush towards it with my sword pointed out, stabbing it. The dragon screams in pain while I hold the sword tight in both hands and lift it overhead, cutting further into its vile belly to disembowel it. The dragon lets out a fatal scream and collapses. Everything from the spirits that formed it to my faith that formed my armor evaporates. The shrine explodes and fragments. I cover my face as I feel the fragments cutting into my skin. I now stand in front of a whole crowd of people, covered in dust and bits of stone, whose faces are transfixed upon me in fearsome awe. They bow. They chant my name. They repeat it, over and over again. My eyes gape. My body is covered in cold sweat, stinging into my open cuts. I see my Dad bowing in front of me. Now the horror truly dawns upon me--I have finally become the one thing I fear and despise the most, I have become a false god. I scream as I hear a raspy voice laughing triumphantly in my ear.
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Sep 24, 2014 03:43
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supermikhail posted:Oh. Well, I read the original draft and your reply to Helsing's critique, and I don't really want to re-read the new draft (sorry), but I noticed, EDIT: I'm on a 1st Person POV kick, right now, that's why.
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Sep 25, 2014 20:05
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BottledBodhisvata posted:I like the basic ideas at work here, but it lacks important details, and the re-write, from what I skimmed over, seems to address this by telling rather than showing. EDIT: I wanna ask, does Jordan describing his armor through Ephesians 6: 10-18 work? I want to properly convey how much he believes in his faith, so I figured that describing things like the armor through Biblical text would be only proper for his character. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 21:04 on Sep 25, 2014 |
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Sep 25, 2014 20:55
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Third Draft. Hopefully this one's the charm. False God My name is Jordan and I’m here trying to convince my Dad to leave a death cult. “Dad, please,” I plead with him as he bows in front of the macabre shrine of Santa Muerte. “Please, we miss you.” My words fall on deaf ears as he keeps worshiping at the foot of the shrine. Santa Muerte is the local deity of death and mortality whose image is a corrupted version of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a skeletal woman clad in robes, wearing a crucifix around her neck. In her right hand, she holds a scythe ready to harvest souls while in her left she holds a globe, symbolizing her dominion over all. Like my Dad, other worshipers were presenting their tributes of flowers, incense, and candles to the feet of the shrine while praying for her blessings and forgiveness. The shrine itself isn’t like a proper church; one with pews, a pulpit, or even a pastor. It’s an empty room, no bigger than my church’s humble-sized recreation hall. The floor is bare and there’s nothing else except the worshipers, their offerings, and the idol itself. It’s rather eerie, in retrospect, how these cultists can hold services with such minimalism while what I’m used to involves much, much, more structure and regalia. It’s clear that their faith is so strong that they do not require the sorts of rituals and processions that I and many of my fellow believers in the one, true God are accustomed to. "Dad, please," I try again, but he won't budge. A familiar person walks inside and storms towards the idol. "Father Aguilar?" Father Aguilar is the priest of our local parish. In recent months, with the drug violence escalating, worship in the false god Santa Muerte has reached a fever-pitch as dozens upon dozens of members of our church have left, Dad included. Like everybody else, he's become disillusioned in their faith in God. Now they all seek solace in the macabre idol in front of me. In response, Father Aguilar is now on a righteous crusade against Santa Muerte worship. I’ve never seen Father Aguilar so angry in my life. His eyes are absent of the kind of love and caring he usually has for his flock--they’re instead filled with fire and brimstone. He immediately makes his way to the front and stood next to the false idol. “Step down, padre!” a cultist shouts. "How dare you desecrate our Lady's shrine!" "Shrine? This is no shrine, it's a pagan idol!" Father Aguilar exclaims with religious fervor. "And all of you are dooming yourselves to a life of damnation and hellfire!” “Who are you to judge us?" another cultist says accusingly. “Exodus 20, verse five,” he quotes to the crowd. “'You shall not worship or serve a false idol; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God!'” “Where was your God when my wife was kidnapped by the Cartel?" Dad shouts at him. "She's dead now!” Everyone else roars in agreement. “Please!” Father Aguilar pleads with the crowd. “I ask you, why worship death when you should instead worship our lord and savior, Jesus Christ? Who died for your sins to ensure us all everlasting life?” “Get him out of here,” someone else says as the cult rises and forces him away from the idol. “Please, listen to my words! Salvation lies not in false gods, but in the one true God!” His words falling on deaf ears, I follow Father Aguilar outside as he’s thrown out the building. He kneels to the ground with his hands covering his face as he makes a silent prayer of despair. “Father Aguilar?” I ask “Jordan!” Father Aguilar turns and hugs me. “What are you doing here, my son?” I drop my head in shame. “My Dad’s in there. I’ve been trying for the longest time to get him out, but…” “I know, son,” he says and wraps his arm around me. “Father, this cult has him in their grasp and I have no idea how to get him out.” “Don't lose faith, Jordan, the Lord will help us find a way.” I give him a half-hearted smile. “But Father, it's not like we can call fire down from the heavens.” According to the Bible, the Prophet Elijah challenged the false prophets of Baal by having two separate altars built to see whose god would send fire from the heavens first. It was my favorite Biblical story, and I meant what I said in jest. “Who says we can't?” he asks. “Wh-What do you mean?” “Does your father still have his gun?” “Yeah but it's for killing coyotes. Why-” “Go get it and bring it here.” My house is a block away, so I run as fast as I can to get my Dad’s shotgun. I return with the gun and see Father Aguilar holding a gas can. I nod at him, knowing exactly what he has in mind. We walk into the shrine, surrounded on all sides by angry cultists. Before a single person could rise up in anger, I fire a single shot in the air. Everyone jumps and backs away from us as I hold the gun out and pan it around. As I corral the cult, Father Aguilar positions himself next to the idol of Santa Muerte. “In Second Kings, the prophet Ezekiel challenged the false prophets of Baal by seeing whose God would send fire from the heavens first,” he says while dousing statue of Santa Muerte in gas. “Let's see if your god would stand my test of fire!” He pulls out a lighter and ignites the gas-soaked idol. But as soon as it erupts in flames, it extinguishes. The eyes of the statue flash bright-red. I hear a raspy snarl and from the statue while a giant miasma flows exudes from it like smoke. No, not smoke, it's a miasma ; comprised of human figures complete with faces and bodies. Faces of the young and the old, all of them contorted and stretched out in pure agony, all of them unified in a single, horrifying, unholy scream. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Father Aguilar pleads as the spirits surround him in a shrieking whirlwind. Skeletal hands, outstretched into claws, grab onto him and tether themselves on him like streamers onto a may pole. Their wailing is now louder and higher like an infernal orchestra led by their unseen and incomprehensible conductor. They then fly inside him, absorbing themselves within his body. After a moment of deathly silence, Father Aguilar screams in agony and bursts into hellfire. The smell of burned flesh and fat fills the air as the flames dissipate. Nothing of Father Aguilar remains except a blackened skeleton which collapses into a pile of ash. The spirits escape from the pile and return from once they came, inside the idol. Everybody else gasps in terror. I want to run as fast as I can but I’m hyperventilating too hard, trying to keep my palpitating heart from bursting from my chest and escaping my body in pure terror. I lock eyes with the demonic idol. Locking eyes with the demonic idol I grab the shotgun tightly, turn the barrel towards my chin, and slip my finger around the trigger. I no longer fear for my immortal soul for I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am damned. A glint of light catches my eyes and I look down towards my chest. It's the rosary around my neck and it's glowing. I grab my cross as another host of spirits escape from the idol. I wrap my fingers around it tightly and I feel a warmth flowing through my hand, coursing through veins, radiating around me. The spirits dissipate around my aura and I hear the idol snarl. The spirits now collect themselves and transform. They take the form of a beast--a gargantuan, satanic dragon with giant wings and glowing red eyes. It spreads its wings and roars at me. My rosary isn’t just a simple cross, it’s a symbol of my belief, my conviction, and my child-like faith in the grace and love of my savior, Jesus Christ. It is that which Santa Muerte, in all her demonic power and dominion over death, can never extinguish. The light that surrounds me forms into the full armor of God. The breastplate of truth protects my heart, the belt of truth is buckled around my waist, and my feet are fitted with the readiness that comes in the gospel of peace. The dragon takes a deep breath and spews hellfire from its gaping maw. I take up my shield of faith and hold it aloft, blocking the flames entirely. Before the dragon can get its second wind, I tighten my helmet of righteousness on my head and draw my sword of the spirit, ready to confront the evil one. I run up and swing my sword at its mouth, cutting into its nose. The dragon recoils in pain, lifting its head and snarling at me. With its soft underbelly exposed, I cry out in rage and rush towards it with my sword pointed out, stabbing it. The dragon screams in pain while I hold the sword tight in both hands and lift it overhead, cutting further into its vile belly to disembowel it. The dragon lets out one final scream and collapses. Everything from the spirits that formed it to my faith that formed my armor evaporates. The shrine explodes and fragments. I cover my face as I feel the fragments cutting into my skin. I now stand in front of a whole crowd of people, covered in dust and bits of stone, whose faces are transfixed upon me in fearsome awe. They bow. They chant my name. They repeat it, over and over again. My eyes gape. My body is covered in cold sweat, stinging into my open cuts. I see my Dad bowing in front of me. Now the horror truly dawns upon me--I have finally become the one thing I fear and despise the most, I have become a false god. I scream as I hear a raspy voice laughing triumphantly in my ear.
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Oct 8, 2014 23:16
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This is my final prompt. Hopefully it's fit to submit. False God (1732 words) My name is Jordan and I’m here trying to convince my Dad to leave a death cult. “Dad, please,” I plead with him as he bows in front of the macabre shrine of Santa Muerte. “Please, we miss you.” My words fall on deaf ears as he keeps worshiping at the foot of the shrine. Santa Muerte is the local deity of death and mortality whose image is a corrupted version of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a skeletal woman clad in robes, wearing a crucifix around her neck. In her right hand, she wields a scythe ready to harvest souls while in her left she holds a globe, symbolizing her dominion over all. Like my Dad, other worshipers are presenting their tributes of flowers, incense, and candles at the feet of the shrine while praying for her blessings and forgiveness. The shrine itself isn’t like a proper church, one with pews, a pulpit, or even a pastor. It’s an empty room, no bigger than my church’s humble-sized recreation hall. The floor is bare and there’s nothing else except the worshipers, their offerings, and the idol itself. It’s rather eerie, in retrospect, how these cultists can hold services with such minimalism while what I’m used to involves much, much, more structure and regalia. It’s clear that their faith is so strong that they do not require the sorts of rituals and processions that I and many of my fellow believers in the one, true God are accustomed to. "Dad, please," I try again, but he won't budge. An enraged person walks inside and storms towards the idol. "Father Aguilar?" Father Aguilar is the priest of our local parish. In recent months, with the drug violence escalating, worship in the false god Santa Muerte has reached a fever-pitch as dozens upon dozens of members of our church have left--my Dad included, when my Mom died in a cartel shootout. Like everybody else, he's become disillusioned in his faith in God. Now they all seek solace in the macabre idol in front of me. In response, Father Aguilar is now on a righteous crusade against Santa Muerte worship. I’ve never seen Father Aguilar so angry in my life. His eyes are absent of the love and caring he usually has for his flock--they’re instead filled with fire and brimstone. He immediately makes his way to the front and stands next to the false idol. “Get down from there, padre!” a cultist shouts. "How dare you desecrate our Lady's shrine!" shouts another. “Shrine? Blasphemy!” Father Aguilar exclaims. “This is not a shrine, it's a pagan idol! And all of you are dooming yourselves to a life of damnation and hellfire!” “Who are you to tell us who we can and can't worship?” a cultist asks angrily. “Exodus 20, verse five,” he quotes to the crowd. “'You shall not worship or serve a false idol; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God!'” “Where was your God when my wife was kidnapped by the Cartel?" My Dad shouted at him. "She's dead now!” Everyone else roars in agreement. “Please!” Father Aguilar pleads with the crowd. “I ask you, why worship death when you should instead worship our lord and savior, Jesus Christ, who died for your sins to ensure us all everlasting life?” “Get him out of here,” someone else says as the cult rises and forces him away from the idol. “Please, listen to my words! Salvation lies not in false gods, but in the one true God!” His words falling on deaf ears, I follow Father Aguilar outside as he’s thrown out the building. He kneels to the ground with his hands covering his face as he makes a silent prayer of despair. “Father Aguilar?” I ask “Jordan!” Father Aguilar turns and hugs me. “What are you doing here, my son?” I drop my head in shame. “My Dad’s in there. I’ve been trying for the longest time to get him out, but.…” “I know, son,” he says and wraps his arm around me. “Father, this cult has him in their grasp and I have no idea how to get him out.” “Don't lose faith, Jordan, the Lord will help us find a way.” I give him a half-hearted smile. “But Father, it's not like we can call fire down from the heavens.” The Story of Elijah and the false prophets was my favorite in the Bible. In the story, Elijah challenges them by having two altars built to see who's god would send fire from the heavens first. I was joking, but Father Aguilar stares at me. "Wh-What are you thinking, Father?" I asks. “Does your father still have his gun?” “Yeah but it's for killing coyotes. Why-” “Go get it and bring it here.” My house is a block away, so I run as fast as I can to get my Dad’s shotgun. I return with the gun and see Father Aguilar holding a gas can. I nod at him, knowing exactly what he has in mind. We walk into the shrine, surrounded on all sides by angry cultists. Before a single person can rise up in anger, I fire a single shot in the air. Everyone jumps and backs away from us as I hold the gun out and pan it around. As I corral the cult, Father Aguilar positions himself next to the idol of Santa Muerte. “In Second Kings, the prophet Ezekiel challenged the false prophets of Baal by seeing whose God would send fire from the heavens first,” he says while dousing statue of Santa Muerte in gas. “Let's see if your god would stand my test of fire!” He pulls out a lighter and ignites the gas-soaked idol. But as soon as it erupts in flames, it extinguishes. The eyes of the statue flash blood-red. I hear a raspy snarl and from the statue and something escapes from it. It appears as a giant miasma made up entirely of what I can’t even properly fathom. The miasma is comprised of human figures, complete with faces and bodies. Faces of the young and the old, all of them contorted and stretched out in pure agony, all of them unified in a single, horrifying, unholy scream. I find myself so transfixed in this demonic force, that I’m completely frozen in fear. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Father Aguilar exclaims as the spirits surround him in a shrieking whirlwind. Skeletal hands, outstretched into claws, grab onto him and tether themselves on him like streamers onto a may pole. Their wailing is now louder and higher like an infernal orchestra, and it’s led by their unseen and incomprehensible conductor. They then fly inside him, absorbing themselves within his body. After a moment of deathly silence, Father Aguilar screams in agony and bursts into hellfire. The smell of burned flesh and fat fills the air as the flames dissipate. Nothing of Father Aguilar remains except a blackened skeleton which collapses into a pile of ash. The spirits escape from the pile and return from once they came, inside the idol. Everybody else gasps in terror. I want to run as fast as I can but I’m too busy trying to keep my palpitating heart from bursting from my chest and escaping my body in pure terror. Locking eyes with the demonic idol, I turn my Dad's shotgun on myself and wrap my finger around the trigger. I no longer fear for my immortal soul for I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am damned. A glint of light catches my eyes and I look down towards my chest. I’m wearing my rosary around my neck. And it’s glowing. I grab my cross as another host of spirits escape from the idol. I wrap my fingers around it tightly and I feel a warmth flowing through my hand, coursing through my veins, radiating around me. The spirits dissipate around my aura and I hear the idol snarl. The spirits now collect themselves and transform. They take the form of a beast--a gargantuan, satanic-looking dragon with giant wings and glowing red eyes. It spreads its wings and roars at me. My rosary isn’t just a simple cross--it’s a symbol of my belief, my conviction, and my child-like faith in the grace and love of my savior, Jesus Christ. It is that which Santa Muerte, in all her demonic power and dominion over death, can never extinguish. The light that surrounds me forms into the full armor of God--the breastplate of truth protects my heart, the belt of truth is buckled around my waist, and my feet are fitted with the readiness that comes in the gospel of peace. The dragon takes a deep breath and spews hellfire from its gaping maw. I take up my shield of faith and hold it aloft, blocking the flames entirely. Before the dragon can get its second wind, I tighten my helmet of righteousness on my head and draw my sword of the spirit, ready to confront the evil one. I run up and swing my sword at its mouth, cutting into its nose. The dragon recoils in pain, lifting its head and snarling at me. With its soft underbelly exposed, I cry out in rage and rush towards it with my sword pointed out, stabbing it. The dragon screams in pain while I hold the sword tight in both hands and lift it overhead, cutting further into its vile belly to disembowel it. The dragon lets out a fatal scream and collapses. Everything from the spirits that formed it to my faith that formed my armor evaporates. The shrine explodes and fragments. I cover my face as I feel the fragments cutting into my skin. I now stand in front of a whole crowd of people, covered in dust and bits of stone, whose faces are transfixed upon me in fearsome awe. They bow. They chant my name. They repeat it, over and over again. My eyes gape. My body is covered in cold sweat, stinging into my open cuts. I see my Dad bowing in front of me. Now the horror truly dawns upon me--I have finally become the one thing I fear and despise the most, I have become a false god. I scream as I hear a raspy voice laughing triumphantly in my ear. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 07:19 on Oct 29, 2014 |
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Oct 29, 2014 06:47
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Thanks, BadSeafood, my old friend. I hope that my future Thunderdome endeavors will prove that I have internalized it. Jimson posted:I'm not a good writer in the slightest, as evidenced by my AV and my performance in last years Thunderdome. The thing that makes me sad here is the story has some potential if only for the accidental implication that I over analyzed to find.
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Oct 30, 2014 07:20
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