||[Apr. 20th, 2005|11:52 pm]
Bowser's Dungeon of Words
This is, I've been told, a confusing story. Please tell me what you think I'm trying to convey to see if I'm semi on target? Thanks.
"Hands of God"
One day my hands told me to start a fire.
They mapped out where and when, how and who, and immediately we set out to torch the place. Dusk had fallen as it had just struck seven, and the time was just right for such an act. It was a few streets down, and it was called the Congregational Church of Westfield. My hands guided my head up to gaze at the steeple in the night, which pierced the sky, penetrating the darkness. A twitch overcame me at the thought that, were I to actually listen to my hands, nothing would ever be the same again; there’d be nothing between the people and the stars- the people and their wildest dreams.
Part of me wanted to pack light to escape the scene after I’d finished, but the other half wanted me to stay and sacrifice myself. The door clapped behind me, fluttering in the wind as easily as dried autumn leaves, and I was on my way.
My path was clear enough. It slithered in and out of the woods, snaking its way in and out of the streetlights, until finally it coiled itself around the white castle. Once there in the clearing, the stars spat tauntingly down on my head. I saw them laugh at my reddening face as I tried to bury myself beneath the dirt and my humiliation. But I drudged on, bearing the heavy backpack, and the heavy task on hand.
The stars were so far away, though. I’d never be able to reach up and touch them, but seeing them sprinkle the nothingness in perfection would be enough. All that needed to be done was to tear down that gaudy pillar. It burned in my hands crisply, burrowing holes the size of half dollars, and its vision raced through my mind. A grin, smooth enough to wax the jealousy of the crescent moon, forced its way upon my face, and I let it sit there until the world above me began to messily shake. It was a powerful moment.
But no. It’s not my fault that everything around me turns to stone, that the world is a graveyard, swallowing everything whole, stealing our souls to the dirt. Immortal souls? Hardly- infinity can’t be kept silent in the dirt, or held captive by that arm of God.
The pouch on my back, holding a motley assortment of matches, lighters, gasoline, and a phone, grew heavier as I stood in the church’s shadow, made present by the daunting lights pointing at its long arm. The steeple signaled in the distance, and the sharp finger pointed down at me, menacingly to say the least.
“Don't do it, don't do it.”
I would, but not because I was destined to or because it was fate for me to change the future, but because the actions were powerful enough to create such beauty and freedoms. I choose by choice, and I had chosen to destroy the church, to burn the lights that shown upon the steeple on nights like these, and to fix a mistake. I had chosen to right a wrong, to free a people, and to let us bask in the stars’ warm glow, gently and for eternity, our souls floating up towards the sky, never knowing limits or battling with the lights of the sinners that once restrained us.
“Don't do it, don't do it.”
Gasoline poured from the canteen and began to fill the small church. Everything would be obliterated again, save me, in this flooding of the earth, the expulsion of the sins and evils of the world. Maybe this time mankind would learn from their mistakes, and maybe in the future there won’t have to be a time machine in order to cleanse us as a race. Maybe this time we will be perfected and free from evils, and able to live. I watched as the fluid spread exponentially, soaking the pulpit rugs, bathing the pews in the pungent gasoline, and it flowed to where I had commanded it. It flew from my bloodied hands as I saw fit, from the top of the steeple, down the flights of stairs, all the way to the sepulchral cellar, in which I could hear the voices of the past begging to be released from this prison. I poured extra in these catacombs thinking that it must take more to fix history.
I emerged from the massive northern doors, arms held in the sign of the cross, holding the doors to let out that hint of life that surfaced from the basement. I was doing it for them as a sort of sacrifice, endowing them with my power which I’d always neglected to use. My arms held firm as I, with a flick of a wrist, struck a match on the door’s hinge, held it to the sky, to my stars, and tossed it behind me. Ashes turned to ashes and dust to dust and the crackling roar, promising freedom, rapidly spread throughout the newly glowing church, muffled only by the systematic shrieks of shattering windowpanes. My work was done, and I began to walk away from the towering mass of powerful fury.
I did it, I did it.
The steeple didn’t seem so big anymore, but pathetic. But it would die soon, too, as we all do, and I guess that was enough to draw a smile to my face. The heat of the four story inferno on that mid-May night, coupled with the agony of such a feat, made me feel all the larger. My hands ached, but they had done well, and even though my brow, caked with mud and gasoline, poured sweat down into my eyes, I stood firm against the crimson backdrop.
Then, without warning my hands thrust themselves up towards the sky, towards God, and they held the image of the burning steeple, firmly embracing the destruction, the beauty, and the actions. They stayed there, burning along with the hallowed church, until the shouts of sirens arrived from the distance.
And now I’m standing here in my cell, amongst murderers and thieves, and they don’t yet recognize the great deed I’ve done for them, and they don’t yet understand the reason that I called the police to turn myself in.