god & the devil.

 

1.

Her feet are perfectly squared in the center of a friendly welcome matt, only from her side of the door the matt displayed ‘emoclew’ instead of welcome. Her legs are still stiff and achy from all the driving she’d just done; she endured nine hundred and some odd miles without any pit stops so she’d arrive at her destination before sun set. Mile marker over mile marker, the route was still committed to her memory.

After countless years spent imagining what to expect when she knocked on the devils door, she’d finally found herself there. Once mighty, her tiny fists grew weary with every one of her summons that went unanswered, her sense of purpose suddenly felt thin and her iron spine grew weak. paper-tiger fist fell loosely to her side- defeated, bloodied, and deeply sorry for ever having come that far.

Where do you go after you knock at the devils door and the devil doesn’t answer? Hell suddenly felt like the taste in the back of her throat, the ache in her bones & the sound of teeth grinding themselves into chalky, white dust. Hell was nine hundred and some odd miles to vindication left unanswered. Hell was being angry at god but finding the devil had nothing to say to you, either. there was nothing left to believe in but the fire she set to the large, wooden house. she sat on the hood of her car and watched flames lick the foundation of the house clean until nothing remained but the charred skeleton of her best intentions. Her worst intentions. She tried, she really, really did.

Nobody got out of the house alive.

2.

Now, in these parts, intentionally reversing a welcome mat at your front door is the june clever version of burning crosses out front of your house to scare away anyone who didn’t previously think you were a devil worshipper or clansman. God runs this here town, and he’s about the only local I reckon I wouldn’t greet on my doorstep with a shotgun and friendly smile.

Traditionally, a welcome mat is used to invite friends, family and good spirits into your home as your house guests. The reversed outside someone’s door, though.. Well- lets just say that emoclew is traditionally laid when somebody is trying to keep people/spirits out of the home.

I suggest you just mind your business and don’t go nosing around too much, and if you come across a reversed matt, you high tail it out of there like your britches was on fire. If you need to borrow a cup of sugar, or if you want to ask a question, I suggest you pick up extra sugar next time you‘re out shopping. and as for the question you wanted to ask, well you dog gone wasted it when you asked for that cup of sugar. Figure it out, because I’m tired of spelling everything out for you. you just be sure to mind them manners, boy.

3.

The town survives on tin can phone calls and rural mail delivery service once a week, on meticulously manicured lawns and nails and the clockwork consistency of the towns empty carpool lane. Gods good testament can be heard echoing in the absence of conversation, his sermon never spoken by swollen tongues or a mind preoccupied by idle thoughts. He speaks through key holes and curtain pulls and the moment a blind eye knows it must turn to look the other way. god has taught us that to love our neighbour, we have to love ourselves.

4.

Death notice of Buddy O’Reilly & his town hall- 1938-1975.

Once upon a time, a gentleman named Buddy O’Reilly decided to construct a town hall as grand as he believed the town itself to be;
a place where all residents could gather as a community to discuss anything-and-everything town related.
And so he did.

Now DESPITE the admirable ambition of mr o’reilly himself-
the town had no affairs to conduct as a community to start with.
therefore the town hall sat empty,
And therefore there was no one there to notice when it began to rot.-
and so it did.
Holes tore through the roof like open sores
and the decay soon spread into the buildings marrow
Until eventually,
one
by
one-
the tired walls collapsed under the weight of neglect.

Some time later, mr o’reillys remains were found in much the same condition;
left to quietly decompose
until someone had some business with him
& found something disconcerting
about the pile of newspapers that had accumulated outside his front door.
The coroner stood over the bloated body
and declared the man had died from a lethal combination
of weakened seams
and
a
very,
very
badly
broken
heart.

5.

Eventually the birds began to see some good in the skeletal remains of the town hall and made their homes inside the cracks left in the towns good name and the drawers of the mayors desk. they wove intricate paper castles from the public records; laid their tiny, freckled eggs among the histories of townsfolk that had been torn into anonymity and rendered useless for anything other than to protect fragile bodies until the earth couldn‘t hold them anymore.
and one day their tiny bird lungs will puff up, full of song…
and instead- history repeats itself as the life and death of a silent town come pouring from it’s beak- flames engulfing the paper kingdom as the broken little wings flap hard against the night.

vultures.

the wind eventually made its way in to pick what it could from the bones of the not-yet-dead; soon they’d become one in the same and it doesn‘t matter a wink to the bystanders if you’re still alive. We’re just a planet covered in scavengers waiting to lick your bones clean, to tear your vital organs to shreds and your flesh from your bones, to swoop down from the sky and steal your still-beating heart from your open chest, to take your valuables, your organs, your wallet. Time is a carnivorous beast, an oily, black vulture picking brittle bones dry from inside a heart that’s lost its mind.