I assume this is the only place I can put this. Do tell me if it's not meant to be here, but it's actually something I began writing for a wholly different reason. There's quite a lot done, but I won't just assault you with mountains of text.
Now, the story is written from a point of view that doesn't reflect any of my beliefs. It's not intended to make a statement, or upset anyone, as it's full of religious themes. The main character is simply a confused person who is not well educated in a religious sense, but has had to come to terms with some of it all. You'll see. If it does miff people, I'll happily withdraw it.
So, here it goes.
THE WORLD WE KNEW.
The world we knew, the one we had driven to the heights of it's madness, died with a whimper. Of course, there were people who had theorised this in an intellectual misery, a kind of 'I told you so....' When it came down to it, they were right, and they were as great as fools as Sartre and the other 'existentialists'. They could not have been so wrong. It's lucky for them they had mostly died, rotting in the sure knowledge of their own pointlessness.
It began with a simple noise, a noise which reverberated in our skulls, sending shockwaves of miasmic shock and terror through us all, a trigger of some past memory, maybe an instinct beyond fear or flight, a total and utter convulsion of all that we were, from our very core to the burning sensation in every pore in every inch of skin. For me it was the shout of a lion, a roar of indignation , of a fury that lay rooted in pain. It was a noise I wish I had never heard. When a wolf howls, it tails off to a breaking cry, shattering at the end into spiteful pieces. This began with a terrible torment, growing to indignation then fully into a fury , falling once again to pain before it's ending.
Others were said to have heard different cries; those who followed different books of faith heard different things, but, in the end, it was the same for all - I heard that He had said that all would find their own way, including those who looked within more than without in their path of faith. However it came to us, all who are left agree that the noises that followed were strict, both in their form and the order in which they came - the ringing of seven beds, the striking of seven rods; more and more of these things sounded throughout the world, and yet we failed to truly understand. Even those who protested their faith like a crutch or beacon seemed unprepared for what came after, let alone within their excited babble and frenzied discussion of profuse texts.
Of course, we'd had those that had waited for this. They clamoured and cried in their devout insanities, spread their ridiculous pride in their 'proven' belief like prophets of fragments of the Sins, each more fervent in their need to be foremost amongst those who believed. I, however, simply sat down in terror, and gathered my family to me, awaiting whatever would come. Sure, lakes of fire, only God knew what else, although plenty thought they were of a potency to profess full knowledge, to 'advise' their governments of what would happen, of what should be done, of everything they thought would separate the faithful from the faithless. I was in an odd position, you see, because I had faith, I had a belief in goodness that was unshakeable, and I had friends who considered me to be a walker of their path despite not being a member of their Churches. If I went to church, I would sit in shadow at the back, and was always surprised I was not the only one there that did this. When hands were shaken and voices clamoured, I spoke from inside - never one for noise and the loss of breath and dignity that follows outbursts of faith.
It is only because of what has happened that I sound so bitter, so judgemental of others, for I am one of those that are fully caught in the face of the mess we contributed to, meaningfully or meaninglessly, it is the same result for all that are still here. We stand in groups of shattered souls, living in fear and hiding in places that we would not have considered existed before the Lion's Roar. We now sit in mud and rain, streaked with blood, unwashed, unclean, struggling for something we do not even know the why, when or where of; there is no sanity left here, no up or down, no right or wrong. There is just one distinction now; those living and those...gone.
I have no idea why I am writing this. Why should I be writing a record of these times when it seems unlikely there will be anyone left to read it? I guess I just HAVE to. There is a need in me, to record the loss, the fall of our world, the broken path of the celebrated 'End Times'; for they have gone horribly, horribly wrong indeed.
The first appearance of anything Beyond (that is what I choose to name the beings that are not 'of Clay' - the shining hosts, the fallen princes; all of them - children of Fire, and then the other 'things' that emerge from a lack of Grace was above what was Israel. Of course it would be there - nothing else would make any sense. A Star burned in the sky at night for seven days, then it fell to earth, becoming a thing of fire, falling swiftly, to hover above Gethsemane. The place where our sins were absolved, only to be remade at an exponential rate of increase. Perhaps a knowing, insistent disbelief and a need to PROVE faith in error was the greatest of them all. I shall probably never know, but I have my own theories.
Of course, this descending star was one of Them, the Children of Fire, a member of the Angelic Hosts of Heaven, as they were back then. I can't even remember which, but I am no Theologian. I never read the Theurgia, nor the sister of it, the darker one they named Goetia. In fact, if I make an errors and someone reads this, then they are not intentional, simply born of an ignorance in these things. I know what is here now, and I doubt it is what all thought that knew of the Goetia, Theurgia, the Gnostic Texts, all these things that always made me feel less intelligent than other people: people who spouted 'facts' like a wine enthusiast spouts their desire to spend as much money as possible, to enforce their dry insistence of what is best for everyone around them.
Anyway, bitterness divides my attention - that and the fact I have to listen to the 'lines' as they gently clatter in the wind, awaiting the moment I must run again, or simply use this hunk of metal that kills things in a vain battle to stay alive myself.
I believe it was Michael, but I may be wrong. Whatever the case may be, an Angel had come to us, and spoke of the return of the Messiah. The veritable Lamb of God was coming back, and it truly was rather exciting. With the noise of trumpets and lyres, his words spilled from his perfect alabaster mouth, and we knew emotions of such heights many thought they would die from the excruciating ecstasy of their all consuming embrace. His pretty speech ended in a final phrase, something we should have taken more note of, perhaps: 'The Son of God returns to you, but his coming is that of a lion - gone is the lamb.' That's sort of what I remember, but it's fairly hazy, given the next few days events, then weeks, then months, then this night, sitting with a biro running out of ink when I dare not leave to go to a shop to see if they have any left after the breaking of society. I guess that biros were not high on peoples' agendas when they looted the shops, because I seemed to find them in most places I go to. Dvds aren't exactly rare either, but you ask for a chocolate bar and you run into trouble. Of course, there simply is no-one left in the shops to ask, but I do leave money if I have any; it doesn't feel right to just take a simple biro, despite all that has occurred.
I'll never get to tell you anything if I talk like this, but please forgive me. I have people around me, I'm not alone, yet the height of my day is my time with you, even though you may never exist. Strange thing indeed, but one must cling to these little insanities to survive the greater ones that are waiting for the unwary. Yes, what happened next. This was not so good. He came, the Christ, a glowing figure in a shroud, a brilliance so great you simply could not see. You could stare until your eyes threatened to melt, but no features were discernable besides a wondrous purity, an innocent seeming wonder that settled on your soul, and a crown of thorns that adorned his head.
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Please don't think I write this with an awful arrogance. Far from it. If you like it, I'll pass on more.