Category: Narratives

            A young shadow staggered the streets.  It swayed and blinked with the madness of the night, unsure and unsteady.  In an unconscious sunder from its lifeless sailing, it became aware of a house and a door.  The sick coating on its being pulled it to the stoop of the homestead, and something not-of-the-dark-being rapped sharply on the door.  It waited in sorrow against its will.

            The door opened and a creature of swirling gray sharply began to criticize the shadow.  It demonized and denounced the shadow’s existence, and the shadow quaked and squealed silently within.  The awful gray mass scratched at the shadow, and the shadow recoiled itself into the house.  The door closed behind it.

~

            An old light hovered about its house in peace and joy.  Life was happening, moment by moment, in perfect harmony with the Source.  There was a charming little knock at the door and the light pulsed with excitement.  The light did not know it was incomplete, but now it knew it was, because something had come to complete it.  The joy of joys danced in its mind!

            The light opened the door and saw a small smiling angel sitting on the stoop.  “Aren’t you wonderful!” praised the light.  The angel smiled.  “You are most welcomed into my home,” offered the light, and the angel floated in peaceably.

            “Would you like some rosehip tea?” hummed the light to the angel.  The shadow wailed at the offense of the gray mass and shrunk onto itself.  “Fine, my dear friend.  I will brew you the best I’ve ever made.”  Nausea percolated piteously in the shadow as it was berated by the suppurating grayness.  “Do make yourself comfortable,” said the light to the angel and watched it become content before leaving for the kitchen.  The shadow balked as its incomprehensible tormentor stormed away.

            The shadow was afraid.  What terrible misfortune had brought it to this tragic end.  The gray beast had most likely left to plan its final attack.  The situation was dire, the future, futile, and all lost in the wilderness of despair.  The shadow had to strike first.  It swirled with fear and dark remembrance.  It reached deep into itself and searched.  It searched for its only slight chance of survival.  It searched, and, in grasping, pulled out its only hope: a small black blade.

            Yes!  The grayness, the source of all the shadow’s ills would fall by its hand.  The shadow would slice at the gray’s sides, poking and jabbing until it grew weak.  Then it would cut at the gray’s eyes and slice at its wicked tongue.  By that time the grayness would be so weak that it would lie on the ground, and then the shadow could stab it finally in the back and be free.  It was the only way.  The shadow braced itself and ran its steely finger up and down the dull blade.

~

            The fragrance of love wafted through the house.  The light drifted into the room with its tray of crimson tea.  “I’m so glad you’ve come!” said the light and noticed the angel was holding a daisy in its hand.  “You beautiful dear!  Is that for me?” the light asked as it set the tea on the table by the chairs.  The angel nodded with a twinkle and raised the flower happily in its hand.

            The shadow raised its blade to frighten its oppressor.  The gray devil shrieked with horror.  It bounded about the room in anger, vomiting hate at the heroic little shadow.

            “Let me give you this fresh bouquet I cut this morning!” said the light and the gray monster slashed at the shadow with a large sharp knife.  The angel began handing the light flower after flower.  “You’re tickling me!”  The shadow sliced at its enemy.  “Here, sweet angel!  Do you want me to hold the whole posy?”  The gray villain scratched at the sweet angel’s face.  “Hand me the flowers, blesséd one, and we will enjoy our tea,” said the light to the slashing shadow.

            The gray demon howled fiercely.  The angel offered freely and pleasantly.  The light opened its heart fully.  The shadow grabbed the knife tightly.  The light grabbed the shadow’s hands.

            The tip of the blade pierced the light’s luminous flesh.  “Thank you, angel, they’re very lovely.”  The angel smiled as it sank the blade deep into the light’s soul.  The gray beast cooed as the flowers were placed on its bosom.  The shadow laughed surprisingly as flowers poured out of its hands.  The light pulled the shadow’s wrists, and the knife sank into its heart through to the hilt.

            The light slumped to the floor.  “I didn’t know I was incomplete.”  The shadow looked down at the light in awe.  Where was the gray monster who had tortured it so?  “Thank you, Angel,” whispered the light, and off to sleep it fell, complete forevermore.

            The angel looked around at the house.  How perfect and fair everything seemed.  It picked up the flowers at its feet and walked to the chair.  There was hot rosehip tea on the table and the essence of love permeating the air.  It sat, and sipped, and felt its light grow.  Life was happening, moment by moment, in perfect harmony with the Source.

            And then there was a charming little knock at the door.

~~~

The birds chirped as they flew across the backdrop of a perfect sky.  Beneath them snaked a deep and mighty river, roaring with the lifeblood of the Earth.  From the thrumming swarm of their flock, two of the avians separated and perched on an old girder bridge, cooing in the cool breeze of the day.  They were an odd pair to behold.  The one moved its head as if listening succinctly to every sound as it happened.  The other kept its head still, as if staring straight at the Sun.  Then, what would have seemed unexpected to an outside observer, one of the birds flew away.

Susan and Mark strolled onto the bridge that fine spring day, their shoes causing light tingings to ring through the air.  They made eye contact and smiled glowingly, reveling in their stunning romance.  It had only been three months, three months and forever, since that day in the park where their lives first intertwined.  Susan was crying, and Mark, of all the passersby, stopped and offered his sleeve.  That morning was the day Susan left her church, and she needed a sleeve.

Susan had decided she could no longer keep going, keep on living as she had been.  It had been a lifetime of commitment and attendance, and her priest was adamant that she not leave her church.  “Keep your faith!” he pleaded, but it only nettled her sensitivity, for there laid her issue.  Faith.  She could not keep what was not there already.  She was not sure, she had long been unsure, that there was a God.  At church, faith beamed so perfectly, so honestly on everyone’s face.  Everyone looked up and they connected to something.  Susan looked up, and she too made that face, knowing the shape of every muscle, able to produce it at will in the mirror; but underneath that clever facade she felt deserted in the crowd, as if she were the only lamb who couldn’t see the Sun.  “Perhaps there is no Sun to see.”  She was alone.  It tortured her and she fled.

“Mark.”

“Yes, dear?” he asked, taking her hand with interest.

“I think I’ve found my faith.”

“Oh. Hmm. Really?” he mused, looking carelessly down through the grating of the bridge.

It was an old girder bridge, once popular as a route for the rolling throngs of carts and horses, but now only haunted by strolling pedestrians.  Built during the great age of steam boats by strong and dirty hands, the bridge arched high over the river so to give plenty of leeway to the once passing stacks of iron that unapologetically bellowed smoke over any unfortunate agent of commerce who happened to be standing on the grating that towered above the churning water below.  Ships of size and note no longer navigated these waters, and the bridge’s august height, like its presence, no longer served a purpose.  In the big, modern world, it was a little thing.

“It’s about faith in the little things, Mark,” she glimmered.  “It’s like – like this bridge.  I have faith in the people who made it.  All of them must be gone by now, but I have faith in their work.  I have faith that, despite its age, it won’t break beneath me.  I am without worry!”

They stopped to look out over the river, breathing in the glory of the day.  Small boats jetted along the water.  The trees on the banks waved happily in the breeze.  They saw two birds break away from a migrating flock and perch on the highest girder.  Susan savored the freedom she felt, and noticed appreciatively the Sun’s rippling reflection in the water.  Mark stamped his foot on the metal walk, echoing a metallic knell.

“There’s no doubt about it.  It’s sturdy,” Mark assured.  “Is that really the faith you were having problems with?”

“I don’t know,” she considered, and then smiled.  “It’s a start.”

He grinned in his way, digging his bottom lip up into his teeth.  “But it’s not much of a stretch.”

It was not a lover’s quarrel.  They often talked like this, and Susan knew that Mark’s honest deliberations had already helped her very much.  He was not, nor had ever been, a churchgoer.  His perspectives were fresh to her.  On his own, he was a confident person, and confidence was a trait Susan admired deeply.  He was always steadfast.  Always reliable.  Always there.  In a way, he was her hero, and she always pined to know what he was thinking and how his mind worked.  “Then where do you think my problem with faith lies?”

He started to walk them on as he spoke, “With less tangible things.  You said you left your church because you weren’t sure anymore that there was a God.  It wasn’t the people, or the ritual, or the activities.  They were there and real.  You said you had no faith because He wasn’t real to you, because you couldn’t feel Him.”

“Yes, I’m unsure,” she reconfessed.  “That’s why this bridge is so important to me.  It is firm and real.  I’m completely sure of it. I know what it feels to have complete faith!”

Mark smiled again in his way, “But it isn’t much of a stretch.”

“Then what are you proposing?”

“Faith is power, Sue,” he said, stopping their walk again.  “You believe in something and it’s real.  You believe in this bridge, and so it is.  You believe it will keep you from falling, and it will.  Your problem isn’t with God, it’s with faith.  You don’t believe in anything unless it is already sure for you, unless someone has already put it there for you to believe.”

She digested his words and their gravity.  No longer did she feel the good sensations the bridge first gave her.  She wished she could have reveled in the mood longer, ‘but Mark is only trying to help,’ she thought and understood.  “I guess you’re right, dear,” she conceded, but she no longer desired to talk about it, to ruin the day any further with unpleasantness, and moved to close that conversation.  

“Something to work on,” she declared.

He took her hand and held it.  “Are we meeting for dinner tomorrow?”

She was happy again.  “Of course, dear.  That would be nice.  Where should we go?”

“I was thinking about that Italian place near your apartment, the one you keep talking about.”

“Oh, yes!  I can’t imagine why we haven’t gone there yet.  You’ll absolutely love it!”

“I bet I will.”

“It’s really fancy.”  She poked him, “You’ll have to wear a tie.  Ooh, and I’ll wear my red dress!”

He laughed at her enthusiasm and breathed a pleasant sigh. “So,” he grinned, “You are sure we’ll meet tomorrow?  No doubts?”

She smiled, “I have complete faith!”

He looked down through the grate and then back into her eyes.  “Don’t lose your faith.”  And with those peaceful words, he turned and climbed up the railing.

“Mark?” she asked with a cheery unease.  “What are you doing?”

Stepping down onto the ledge he looked with love into her eyes and smiled, his lip digging up into his teeth.  “Don’t lose your faith.”  And with those words he stepped back and off the bridge.

A bird moved its head as it heard the wind suck out of Susan’s lungs.

She grabbed at him in desperation, her chest tight and unable to release her screams.  She watched in horror as his clothes rippled and his limbs hung helplessly in space.  Her neck twitched painfully as she saw his body splash violently into the waters below.  Her skin burned with shock.  Her ribs collapsed with disbelief.  “My God!”  She huffed, fear condensating in her breath.  Seconds passed as a searing headache lashed over her.  Then her thoughts were voided.  Tears welled up.  Logic fell from her lips.  “He’ll resurface – he’ll swim to shore – just watch for him to surface.”  She stared.  Seconds passed.  The waters roared on.  No one came up.  Her breathing heaved as she made deals with something unknown.  “Have faith … and he’ll resurface.  Have faith … and he’ll come up!  Have faith!  Faith!  FAITH!  Faith!  Faith.”  She sat on the bridge, her fingers clutching through the gaps.  “Have faith.”  Minutes passed.  He did not come up.

She lay on the bridge, sobbing from the deepest parts of her soul.  She was nauseous and lost to any choice, any direction, any will to go on.  It all seemed so final and horrible, tragic and inescapable, forsaken and hopeless.  But in the roar of the water and the flaps of a bird’s wings, she could hear the echoes of her lover’s questions, “You are sure we’ll meet tomorrow?  No doubts?”

“I have complete faith!”  She remembered, and slowly, bravely stood herself up.

“Don’t lose your faith.”  And she walked on.  Alone.