& then...

He'd crossed a line that he thought was impossible for him to cross. He wasn't sure there was any going back. He was so distraught that he'd forgotten. 

Discovering El Rostro

     Pedro was six when he first believed in the Christ. His salvation was permanent and secret. Sister Rosa was more abusive than ever this time of year. He imagined she may have lost her own little one and put her grief into the strap that he and his brother Paco were at fault for straying beneath. When Paco died of cholera he was told this was God's punishment for a mischievous and seldom silent youth. Pedro was fortunate to determine this false, for he had made Rosa's lies a point of study and indeed the character of God was not consistent with such precision wrathfulness. 

    Another twelve kilometers and he might have spent a simple life amidst the loving family of sheep herders found in Jimenez del Teul. However he was a young boy with more instinct than intellect and his nose led him along a path less travelled. There were no phones and telegraph was reserved for important news, so after a short sweep of the grounds and a mile ride by Father Manuel he would be pursued no longer by any organized efforts.

    It was the holy scriptures of course that brought him safely along and demanded a boy of six be equipped to live in wilderness for the same number of months. He would read nightly by flint inspired candlelight the stories so mature and so earnest that he could only grow by decades no longer years. His focus became wisdom not the unproved wishing of a society forgetting its intentional purpose and the marks borne from creator's brand. 

    These Hebrews and their clear misbehaving he understood better than any child his age. His prayers became a chance for those who'd harmed him to find relief for their daily woes and for Pedro a days bite too for he had no reason to believe manna from heaven was a singular phenomenon.

    Soon Pedro came upon a man of sixty caught in wire, his own heart forcing death upon him as he bled a pool that muddied prison rags. Pedro's small hands and wise young mind were unskilled to respond to the unnatural trouble he'd stumbled into. Knowing no greater remedy to this man's wretched state he prayed for the family left fatherless and the poor shopkeeper who was led to thieving after the state claimed his every possession. 

    He hurried to this action he knew was now and would forever be man's greatest access to power. A single fervent request by Pedro was of course the most effective and suitable response to the deplorable condition and inconceivable depravity of this man's fate. Juan Carlos past fifteen minutes later into the arms of Christ where he knew the love of an eternal father and the significance of a God who can employ the lowly and diminished. Pedro lived only twelve years more but his wisdom and kindness taught many what a great privilege and responsibility it was for us all to bear the likeness of God.  

By the Grace of Ba'al

-->

I work nights from my computer lab at home. I live alone with my dog Spudnik. We take a fifteen minute walk each work night at 3am. I find the deep night atmosphere peaceful. A week ago, I saw something that makes me fear the dark. Sputnik and I were rounding a corner on the far edge of the elementary school's field. Sput likes to do his business around there. I saw that night, in the deep distance, leaning between two buildings, something horrible. He wore a suit and tie, smoked a cigarette. But the form of his face was perverse to me. He looked to be a goat. Horns and all.

I told myself I had imagined it, that somehow the angle of shadows caused me to see something that couldn't have been there. Still, Sputnik and I avoided the school entirely.

I couldn't sleep. Never. Every time I closed my eyes I saw it. Him.

We modern men don't believe in fear. We've all watched enough movies to think it hype. So I told myself I would bury this sleeples nightmare.

We found him last night just where he was last week. I tell you no lie. We approached him. As I neared I braved a whisper, “Who are you?”

He spit his cigarette out, answered, “I was a soldier in the Roman legion. We were set to smash Hannibal’s army. They were weak, having lost half their men crossing the alps. This we told ourselves. We formed a vertical front, ten men wide. Our line was incredible,100,000 long. We thought we would ram our enemy’s lines with so much momentum that nothing would stop us. We would roll right over them with all their elephant madness.

“We were wrong. Somehow, they devastated us. They let us keep our formation, but slaughtered the lines in front, one by one. We crept forward to our deaths. You could hear the gnashing sounds of our comrades meeting their end. They all screamed. What was it that was so terrible that caused these men of valor to scream like innocents? Who was this Hannibal? What sort of monstrous god is this Baal that leads him? And to what torment was he leading us?

“A rumor spread through our ranks that they were eating those in front: killing us by ripping our jugulars out with their teeth. My friend who stood beside me, began digging into the earth desperately with his bare hands. He was trying to dig a whole deep enough to cover his head. He chose suffocation over dreaded destiny.

“You ask me who I am? I am fear. And I never die, child. I wait for you.”

I bore all my courage to summon forth one more question, “Soldier, why have you become a goat?”

“I eat the world. Everything in it.”

I ran. I ran, but I did glance back. I saw him biting my Sputnik into pieces.

Too Jung to Die

(The following is based on true events and contains excerpts from an actual radio broadcast)

Date/Time: September 10^th, 1997, 11:47pm

Location: Desert residence, outskirts of Reno, Nevada

After the thunderstorm caused a power outage, Andrew passed his time in a fluffy recliner, soon dozing off to sleep with his left thumb securely bookmarking a pulpy paranoid sci-fi paperback. On the table next to him lay a battery-powered lamp, a his mom's old clock radio, and a copy of The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche (Carl Jung).

//BUZZ, CLICK!\\

The power popped back on around 1:15 am, jarringly waking Andrew from near-REM level sleep. The kitchen lights seemed far too bright, and the radio was tuned into Art Bell's Coast to Coast AM (one of Andrew's famous pastimes during his occasional bouts of insomnia).

Tonight's broadcast was something rather unforgettable indeed, since a very frantic caller fought through a mesh of powerful static:

"I don't have a whole lot of time...um...I was a former employee of Area 51...let go on medical discharge a week ago...and...(crying)...don't know WHERE to start...they'll triangulate on this position really soon...

What we're thinking of as Aliens ...they're EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL BEINGS...an earlier precursor of the SPACE PROGRAM MADE CONTACT WITH...uh...NOT what they claim to be...INFILTRATED...the MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT...DISASTERS that are coming...the GOVERNMENT knows about them....and there's...SAFE AREAS in this WORLD THAT THEY COULD BEGIN MOVING THE POPULATION TO...but they...THEY WANT THE MAJOR POPULATION CENTERS WIPED OUT SO THAT THE FEW THAT ARE LEFT WILL BE MORE EASILY CONTROLLABLE....(crying, breaking up more)...I started getting..."

Silence. The broadcast went dead. Andrew tried not to freak out, considering the storm...but he soon realized that the lights were all on...an insinuation that the electricity was fine.

He turned the radio to other stations, and none worked. Perhaps it was a short-circuit from a surge? He tested another radio in the bedroom, but it was also on the fritz.

After what felt like an eternal auditory blackout (though it was only two minutes), both radios simultaneously popped back on, and there was an echo of Art Bell apologizing for the radio silence, and a baffled attempt to explain what may have happened. (For some reason) Bell's conspiratorial ramblings this evening seemed all the more convincing.

*KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK*

It was 1:30 in the morning, in the middle of the desert, but those deafening knocks could have easily been confused for gunshots.

Andrew stared at the front door, which, at a mere 20 feet away, in that particular moment seemed larger and more ominous than any door he'd seen, or even imagined, in his life.

 *BANG!*
 Andrew was promptly jarred out of what one would assume to be pure catatonia by another tremendously loud noise.

He jumped back and looked down at the Jung book, which had just dropped and (perhaps mockingly) opened itself to the page he'd extensively highlighted earlier that evening regarding synchronicity, and the defeat of assumed coincidence.

Andrew shut his eyes tightly and prayed that this was a dream.  Just then, there were three longer, stronger knocks at the front door.

TO BE CONTINUED

New Single

Macy backed out of her driveway, 99.3FM still on a commercial break. They were playing that dumb ad for whichever hybrid car was supposed to save the planet. Finally, she heard the friendly voices of Jay and Monica. 

“Welcome back to Jay and Monica on KPST 99.3, where we are pleased-”

“Ecstatic, Jay!”

“-ecstatic to be bringing you the new, highly-anticipated single from The Knockoffs!”

“Their new album drops May 24th, and the single is called, ‘On Your Way Out’.”

The song started with some raw guitar chords and whizzing synth. Macy didn’t care much for The Knockoffs, but at least she’d have something to talk about with Jill at work today; the band was Jill’s one obsession. Macy stopped at a red light and reached for her coffee.

“You said you couldn’t stand me when I’m drunk

That I was just a punk 

That my ship had sunk”

Macy was frozen. Behind her, a car honked. The light had turned and cars were moving. She gunned it.

 “Well Macy if you feel that way, don’t trip on your way out!”

He was a punk. Ty was an impulse buy; sun-kissed hair, drummer in a local band, and seemed fun. And he was fun, at least until Macy got to know him, when she realized that he was rude, juvenile, and couldn’t keep his drumstick in his pants. She tried breaking up with him one morning, but he had a hangover (again) and he wouldn’t remember anything anyway, so she hastily wrote some lyrics– Ty had told her that she could probably write better lyrics than Quinn, their lead singer– and stormed out, never to come back. Ty called that evening with the untimely retort that made it into the single, to which Macy simply laughed and hung up. 

Once she was at work, Macy was able to distract herself with the stacks of papers to be processed. This lasted until lunch. In the break room, Jill forwent the bite of salad that was on her fork in order to leap up to greet Macy.

“So... you never told me you hooked up with Quinn Mayfield,” gushed Jill, hovering over the fridge door as Macy reached for her lunch. 

“I didn’t,” said Macy, annoyed that she was thinking about Ty’s song again. She tried to change subjects. “Do you think the construction will be done by April like they promised?”

“Whatever, Macy. You heard the new single, I assume?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“So? It’s not like there are that many chicks named Macy in the world. And you’re from Monterey, which is where–”

“I know where they’re from,” Macy snapped.

“Jeez, Macy. Just asking.” Jill drifted back to her salad, and Macy popped her linguine into the microwave. By May 24th, Jill would know that Ty wrote the lyrics and she’d ask about it again. Macy sighed. Better get it out of the way now.

“Remember how I said I dated a drummer in college?”