Future Faith

by Dallen Hall

“The Ringmaster begins, ‘Come One! Come All! To the crazy circus, the bag of cats, that is my mind. Watch as our radiant performers emulate the great Phillip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, William S. Burroughs and Frank Miller as they pull a train on E.L. James in such bacchanalian revelry it would put the Aristocrats to shame.’ The lights shut off. And the tortuous sounds of their orgiastic consummation cascades through the circus tent, permeating the minds of the audience with the swirling, swelling swamp of their sinful sirens. The Ringmaster continues, ‘Hear the tale of a child born!’ The lights blast on and the unholy offspring leaps from the bloody mess of carcasses with an ecstatic elasticity. The blood encrusted mutant toddler scutters along with surprising agility given his propulsive legs are attached to the top of his head. His voice speaks not, yet his mind communicates. Light, instead, pulses from his angelic intelligence. He’s telling the good word, but he’s obsessed with the first line. He can’t get past it. ‘In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was God.’ He keeps f*ing repeating it. Despite possession by this ceaseless refrain reiterating compulsively from the center of his being, he’s obviously not in torment. It is his praise and glee and joy. His face is an angel possessed of a blissful idea that radiates through his selfless expression. The Ringmaster commands, ‘Feel the weight of a child lost.’ He turns his back to the audience, ushering the momentous arrival of an enigmatically magnetic angel. The regally dressed angel gracefully pirouettes a spiraling sword that strikes. Once. And twice. Severing head. From legs. And neck. The head beheld by the majestic angel bemoans a begging whimper, bequeathing his last breath, ‘mama.’ His eyes flutter close. The angel drops the dreaded head in my lap. Its cold mass pierces my sublimity and escapes my grasp.The Ringmaster offers, ‘Taste the sacrifice of the selfish.’ He spins around to face me and thrusts a goblet in my face. I notice first the vacancy of the vessel, then, the absence of the severed head and finally, a rush of blood bellowing from a bottomless portal in its place. ‘TASTE,’ he commands and shoves my head into the red abyss. I gargle and swallow. And drown.” F* this. I don’t have to read this. I pull my eyes up from the handwritten essay and look at the one who passed it to me. Ugh, of course. Him. The narcissistic douche who’s always asking pseudo intellectual questions in my philosophy and religion courses. You’re not meta. Get over yourself. F*ing word. He thinks he’s some brooding intellectual. More like a rotting loner. I bet he smells like balls.I look back down at his essay. The page is blank. I look up. He’s gone. The classroom is empty. What the … fuh …Who is what and where and why and when?---------------------Bright. White. Breath. I inspire.And awake from my arresting dream. F*ing word, what was that? I look at my phone. I’m late. Sh**, I’m the first to present today. I run to class and burst through the open door as the professor finishes roll call. He groans as he marks my attendance. I catch my breath before approaching the podium and pull from my mailbag my essay. First, I introduce the characters by way of their “It’s the testimony of an unrepentant sinner trapped in mortal sin,” states the Reverend. “It’s a contemplation on the futile cyclicity of pious submission by a romantic,” responds Detective Gus Smitt. “Sex and Piety. Romance and Domination. Solipsism and Self-emptying. And behind it all, the heart of man,” says Wendale, the burlesque establishment executive.“Fall down into the muck, wallow in it. And in an enraptured release of euphoric sadness, arise from the depths of hell,” says Pigdick, the best mate. “Sploosh,” says Alex, the hermaphroditic alien roommate."Godhead help us," says the Reverent.

47 pages, Paperback

Published April 11, 2021