Tag: history

Sacrifice That

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He commanded me to go up the mountain with my son and a knife.
“Prove your loyalty to me,” said The Lord. “Go kill him.”
God’s a prick. He’s always fucking with us like that.
Sacrifice this, recite that.
I’m tired of it.
So I let Him guide me up the mountain, His hand showing the way.
I lay my son on a flat rock, draw the knife, and ask if He’s sure about this.
“Just kidding,” He says. “Go sacrifice that goat.”
He points to a mountain goat.
I grab his Hand, cut off a finger, and swallow it.

Witness

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I’m a professional witness.
The wilder the thing you want me to witness, the more it’ll cost you.
Same goes with how far I need to go back into history to witness it.
Some scientists did the math and figured out that building superconducting supercolliders was far too expensive for particle research.
So, they’re paying me to witness the Big Bang.
I go back tomorrow and come back Friday.
They paid me only half in advance, just in case I’d be tempted to stay.
Of course I’ll come back. My cat and plants won’t feed themselves.
Sitters? Too damn expensive.

Rite of Passage

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Some societies have complex and deadly rites of passage. The elders really bust your ass.
Others require that simple rituals be performed. That kind of cake walk makes for a weak man and a weak tribe.
The times sure have changed since my tribe roamed these lands, before fences. Before the white men came.
My great-grandfather had to hunt ten rattlesnakes on his own. Now, my grandson gets a hundred bucks worth of chips and is told to make it last the evening.
Otherwise, we’ll throw a rattlesnake at him.
Maybe the times haven’t changed all that much after all.

Seven Locks

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A locked chest?
The lock requires seven keys.
Legend says that each was handed to the King of each Continent, but we all know that’s crap. There was never a King of Antarctica.
So, I pick the locks.
Surprisingly easy to do. The locks were just ornamental.
I open the chest, and sure enough, it’s empty.
Once again, the locks were ornamental. This chest has been opened many times before.
So, I toss in a few leftover items from the shelves. It’s a museum, we have plenty of stuff in storage.
I lock it back up.
Back on the shelf.

Fifteen Seconds

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Once you hear sirens, you have fifteen seconds to seek shelter.
Will the rocket land in the fields?
Will the rocket land in a school?
Will the rocket land in the streets?
Will the rocket land on you?
The shelter is across the street, you can get there quickly, but a child is standing there on the sidewalk, crying.
Run for the shelter now? Or cover the child with your body and close your eyes?
We watch the images on the television, and so many of us judge.
What would YOU do to protect that child from the deadly rain?

The Trojans

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The plan is brilliant.
We are French, after all.
We shipped the statue in pieces for assembly in the harbor.
The torso of the statue was large enough to hold 500 soldiers. Our weapons are in the torch.
Vive la France, New Paris!
In the middle of the night, we are to crawl out the door and begin the invasion.
“Where’s the door?” I, the commander, asks.
We tapped out a message of surrender to a confused workcrew on the outside.
Ransom is such a dirty word. The diplomats will smooth it over with a gift of wine and cheese.

Forty Acres

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My name be Rufus Washington Cleveland and I be 173 years old today.
What’s this here place called? Time Square?
Well, I calls it mine.
I been waitin over a century for my forty acres and a mule, and I’m takin these here forty acres.
Lincoln himself promised em to me. Said “You get forty acres and a mule, Rufus.”
When I axed him which forty I get, he just said “Just go take ’em.”
Gonna be a shame to tear these here buildins down, but this here is mah land, and I wanna get to plantin in the spring.

Quote

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They say the devil can quote scripture.
Of course he can. He wrote it. Every word of it.
Branded on the backs of the sinners with red hot pokers.
Skin torn from flesh, pressed into sheets, bound between brimstone covers, still dripping with their blood.
He was there at the Council of Nicea, making changes to his rough draft, whispering in old priests ears and making deals.
I’ll make you a saint.
I’ll make you a hero.
I’ll make you a prophet.
I’ll make you a god among men.
Every hotel room is his church, his word in the drawer.

The Wall

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Just a black angle in the ground, etched marble with so many names.
You could jog past it in less than a minute, nothing but a blur.
The flags at the base of each piece, the flowers.
Boots and candles. Cigarettes and flasks.
It’s the people that make you slow down and stop.
Less and less each year, parents too old to make the trip. Or gone themselves.
Children all grown up. They have children of their own. Easier to just let them learn about it in school.
The wall’s still there.
What was it for? What did we learn?

The Battery

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The monks bring out the iron chest and assemble the relics upon the altar.
Tears from a thousand saints poured into the Holy Grail, iron from the gates of Heaven and Hell wired with a slender silver thread that was hammered from Judas’ coins.
They connect the wires around my horns.
“Do you see The Light?” asks the abbot.
I wait. There is a buzzing in my ears, but no light.
“I am deeply sorry, Lucifer. Redemption is beyond your grasp.”
I crawl back to The Pit to continue my plans.
“A Hallmark card, perhaps?” says a demon.
Infernal fools.