Are you fed up with that old religion of yours? Are you currently unaffiliated? Are you okay with your faith but think your deity is dropping the ball? If you answered yes to any of these questions you may want to consider the Church of McGod. Don't let the name fool you, it's not a church or even a religion in the classical sense. We have found that churches and religions try and convert you or force you to believe through propaganda and fear, kind of like a terrorist cell or a presidential campaign. The Church of McGod is not one of these institutions. We have a saying; "No crusades, just cruising". If you like, you are welcome to come along for the ride.
Who is McGod?: You're probably asking yourself, who is this McGod anyway? If you're not you should be. McGod is actually not a she or a he or even a who for that matter. McGod is actually an idea. The idea is this: imagine the world were split in two (by a federally funded twenty foot high wall we'll say). All those who simply wanted to live peacefully, coexisting with others different from them on one side of the wall and all those who felt their religion and God(s) were the only true spiritual path on the other. Eventually, the "My God" side would dwindle down to one person as they would all kill each other (in God's name of course) until there was only one left standing. This would hold true even if a certain religion prevailed as people within that religion would eventually interpret the word of their lord differently and eventually smite each other down to the very last. Actually odds makers would tell you that nuclear weaponry would come in to play and the "My God" half of the Earth would be completely blown away leaving the peaceful folk spinning like a frisbee in space. In any case, the super religious folk screw everything up. McGod is the idea that this need not happen to be proven.
Do We Pray to McGod?: Oh heavens no. Remember that McGod is an idea and not some mythical figure that requires worship. Throughout history questioning a deity pretty much got you killed. The Church of McGod does not condone this behavior as we feel that you should be able to tell a supposed Messiah they messed up or that they down right suck. Here there is an understanding of fallibility and equality. Parishioners of the Church of McGod are no better than you and you are no better than anyone one else in the Church of McGod. We in the Church of McGod also do not mind prayer as we expect and accept that members bring with them a previous religious background or faith. Just know that if you pray to McGod there will be no answer. McGod can not take responsibility for any outcomes, positive or negative.
So why even have a McGod?: Ever believe in an idea so thoroughly it took on a life of it's own? Inventions, businesses, relationships, and even great parties all started out as an idea that people took to the next level. McGod itself is an idea and if you believe it is making you a better person than you develop a relationship with McGod. You can eventually truly love the idea. You can truly love McGod. As we know, true love is always a two way street, therefore despite being an idea McGod loves you too. How would an idea truly love you? You gave it a life of it's own....remember?
What about heaven and hell?: No way. We don't think life is lived simply to be rewarded or punished when it's over. The Church of McGod recognizes reincarnation as a possibility. This is because we can't yet answer the question of if you die and are buried and your decaying body fertilizes soil which in turn allows something to grow and growing is an action carried out by a living thing are you reborn as that living thing? Don't even get us started on the question of whether or not you become a part of the living thing that ate the living thing you became when you grew out of your own fertilized soil. "But what if you're cremated smarty pants"? Well did you know you can eat ash? That brings us right back to the helping something living live more problem. Believe us when we tell you we've thought about it....smarty pants. As far as life and death are concerned in the Church of McGod we simply think you should live your life because you have the opportunity and when you die you'll figure something out. If you are a poor representative you will not be damned to hell as we don't really feel there is one to damn you to. Instead you will be given your pink slip. That's right, the Church of McGod will fire you as you are no longer helping.
In truth we have no need for more members as we are not a conversion based faith, but we are more than happy to accept you in if you are interested. We do not discriminate on gender, age, race, previous or current religion, sexual orientation, or even if your friends think you're alright but sometimes you can be sort of a dick. If you have no faith or are struggling with your current sense of faith we might be worth checking out. Don't worry if you suffer from blind faith as we offer spiritual prescription lenses. Should you care to follow up or if you have any questions look for the Letters from the Church of McGod series as they will explain the idea further.
Simplify.
McGod bless you all.
2.16.2007
Photographer's Journal - Case 14856 - Entry 1
Dear Journal,
Why did I answer that want ad? I should know better than to fall for flashy words and phrases like adventure, crime solving, great pay and flexible hours. I could have been photographing flower pots in Better Homes & Gardens, but oh no, I had to be different. Why do I always seem to need to take everything that next step? Sure lots of people go to school to be professional photographers but who does their thesis on training monkeys to aid in the set up and break down processes thereby allowing the photographer to concentrate fully on the work? I'm such an idiot. A cold idiot....with a highly trained monkey shoved near my balls to help keep us warm.
I should have known that this was the wrong gig for me the first time I went on assignment with this damned Forensic Sherpa. Before arriving I remember being so excited to start photographing my first real murder case. That little twinkle in my eye quickly dropped to the ground, picked up a shovel and buried itself alive when we got to "base camp" a.k.a The Frozen Beaver Motel in Kerhanapachookiebits, Alaska. I had to guess that the person working the desk was a woman only because the picture behind her showed a married couple holding hands and she had the least amount of facial hair. She was the very reason for the phrase "handsome woman". She stared coldly at my monkey as I filled out my registration card. The monkey would not leave me alone the remainder of the stay.
I remember trying to use the excitement I toted with me at the beginning of this trip to sooth my frozen body that first day. We hiked for miles and miles searching for flannel fibers and couch lint in a land so harsh nary a bear had been seen in a century. Why were we helping a town of fifteen people solve a murder? They knew who did it. They told us. We stayed for six months trying to find evidence because witnesses and a confession just aren't good enough for the Sherpa.
We never did solve that case and all I walked away with were a few shots of the monkey using his urine to spell my name in the snow and the phone number of a burly figure who couldn't speak. Now here we are again. Scaling a mountain, dusting ice for prints and digging for fingernails in areas recently rearranged by avalanche slides. I had to put on a happy face when they lopped off my frost bitten fingers today. I didn't want to but conditions are bad enough and I don't need that Sherpa leaving me behind again like in Mongolia (even if it was only a joke). Just think, if I can tough it out a few more days we'll be back at the Oily Eel Motel. We'll warm ourselves by the fire and sip whiskey from gravy boats. We'll try and make light of the fact the room is half full of mountain men so lost in instinctual behavior they have the look of dogs staring at you with their head tilted to the side and sprouting a pink warning between their legs.
I must go and make sure the monkey is still receiving air in the crotch pocket.
Why did I answer that want ad? I should know better than to fall for flashy words and phrases like adventure, crime solving, great pay and flexible hours. I could have been photographing flower pots in Better Homes & Gardens, but oh no, I had to be different. Why do I always seem to need to take everything that next step? Sure lots of people go to school to be professional photographers but who does their thesis on training monkeys to aid in the set up and break down processes thereby allowing the photographer to concentrate fully on the work? I'm such an idiot. A cold idiot....with a highly trained monkey shoved near my balls to help keep us warm.
I should have known that this was the wrong gig for me the first time I went on assignment with this damned Forensic Sherpa. Before arriving I remember being so excited to start photographing my first real murder case. That little twinkle in my eye quickly dropped to the ground, picked up a shovel and buried itself alive when we got to "base camp" a.k.a The Frozen Beaver Motel in Kerhanapachookiebits, Alaska. I had to guess that the person working the desk was a woman only because the picture behind her showed a married couple holding hands and she had the least amount of facial hair. She was the very reason for the phrase "handsome woman". She stared coldly at my monkey as I filled out my registration card. The monkey would not leave me alone the remainder of the stay.
I remember trying to use the excitement I toted with me at the beginning of this trip to sooth my frozen body that first day. We hiked for miles and miles searching for flannel fibers and couch lint in a land so harsh nary a bear had been seen in a century. Why were we helping a town of fifteen people solve a murder? They knew who did it. They told us. We stayed for six months trying to find evidence because witnesses and a confession just aren't good enough for the Sherpa.
We never did solve that case and all I walked away with were a few shots of the monkey using his urine to spell my name in the snow and the phone number of a burly figure who couldn't speak. Now here we are again. Scaling a mountain, dusting ice for prints and digging for fingernails in areas recently rearranged by avalanche slides. I had to put on a happy face when they lopped off my frost bitten fingers today. I didn't want to but conditions are bad enough and I don't need that Sherpa leaving me behind again like in Mongolia (even if it was only a joke). Just think, if I can tough it out a few more days we'll be back at the Oily Eel Motel. We'll warm ourselves by the fire and sip whiskey from gravy boats. We'll try and make light of the fact the room is half full of mountain men so lost in instinctual behavior they have the look of dogs staring at you with their head tilted to the side and sprouting a pink warning between their legs.
I must go and make sure the monkey is still receiving air in the crotch pocket.
2.13.2007
Forensic Sherpa Case Files - Case 14856 - Report 1
The air is so cold it feels like a sheet of glass we shatter with each movement that takes us along the ridge line. The Alpaca ballistics team assures me that the snow is still a day or so away, and I am inclined to trust them. They've been here before. They know.
We lost a good man on the west face ascent. He had someone else's wife and kids waiting for him back home. He carried pictures. The kids looked nothing like him. They were beautiful. Sometimes I'm not sure I can handle the tragedy of it, but those are the dangers of high altitude investigation. We all know them going in. We all accept them for our own reasons.
I had to amputate four of my photographers fingers yesterday leaving him only a thumb, a pinkie and a pointer finger. He doesn't seem overly concerned. "As long as I've got my tripod two of these are still extras," he told me with that broad toothless smile of his. He has a tiny, dexterous monkey that lives in a warm pouch beneath his testicles. The monkey sets the f-stop and shutter speed of the camera. It assembles the tripod. So, everything should be fine.
My pack has yet to bother me. This is, reportedly, a single victim crime scene we are trekking toward, so I have kept the supplies somewhat limited. Currently I am carrying 30 tins of beef, 15 pounds of cornmeal mush, 32 pineapples, a dingo carcass, 7 MKII fragmentation grenades, a snow shovel, a three hundred foot coil of high tensile wire, the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe, a desk lamp, two barefoot Guatemalan nuns, 92 pairs of wool socks, a rabbit cage with rabbit, a small oak dinette set, four cases of Ziplock bags, a two cycle rebuilt engine, a heart shaped box of chocolates, 2 dozen donuts, a retractable communications satellite and a six person dirigible. I hope this light load isn't making me weak. Maybe I will add a rock or two if I can find one loose in all this snow and ice.
Livingston, one of the Ballistics Alpacas, says we should reach the scene in a few days. I will send an update then. Hopefully we will collect enough evidence to catch the bastard that did this and put him away for a long time.
Yours,
Forensic Sherpa
We lost a good man on the west face ascent. He had someone else's wife and kids waiting for him back home. He carried pictures. The kids looked nothing like him. They were beautiful. Sometimes I'm not sure I can handle the tragedy of it, but those are the dangers of high altitude investigation. We all know them going in. We all accept them for our own reasons.
I had to amputate four of my photographers fingers yesterday leaving him only a thumb, a pinkie and a pointer finger. He doesn't seem overly concerned. "As long as I've got my tripod two of these are still extras," he told me with that broad toothless smile of his. He has a tiny, dexterous monkey that lives in a warm pouch beneath his testicles. The monkey sets the f-stop and shutter speed of the camera. It assembles the tripod. So, everything should be fine.
My pack has yet to bother me. This is, reportedly, a single victim crime scene we are trekking toward, so I have kept the supplies somewhat limited. Currently I am carrying 30 tins of beef, 15 pounds of cornmeal mush, 32 pineapples, a dingo carcass, 7 MKII fragmentation grenades, a snow shovel, a three hundred foot coil of high tensile wire, the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe, a desk lamp, two barefoot Guatemalan nuns, 92 pairs of wool socks, a rabbit cage with rabbit, a small oak dinette set, four cases of Ziplock bags, a two cycle rebuilt engine, a heart shaped box of chocolates, 2 dozen donuts, a retractable communications satellite and a six person dirigible. I hope this light load isn't making me weak. Maybe I will add a rock or two if I can find one loose in all this snow and ice.
Livingston, one of the Ballistics Alpacas, says we should reach the scene in a few days. I will send an update then. Hopefully we will collect enough evidence to catch the bastard that did this and put him away for a long time.
Yours,
Forensic Sherpa
2.08.2007
Dear Scientology
Dear Scientology,
Look, it's time to throw in the towel. Sure you suckered actors and other frauds with deep pockets to join your little brigade but it's over. We heard the news about you guys selecting Maverick as your spiritual leader. Seriously, Tom Cruise as a demigod? He's played a few good roles but as a demigod he is going to be the equivalent of his own on air freak out all over Oprah's couch. You want to know the truth, we here at the Church of McGod are happy about it. You have taken on the worst possible Christ figure imaginable and we wish you the best of luck. The odds of your "religion" surviving are about as good as the drummer from Def Leopard growing his arm back.
As long as we are all making big announcements we have one of our own. Just this morning McGod chose his own representation here on Earth. He has given the title of Grand Jeebus to one Colin O'Brien, a slightly overweight Irish kid in New Jersey that goes by "The Dude". There's your demigod Cruise! There's your New Jersey dogma story Kevin Smith! There's your lazy guy turned likable hero Cohen brothers! McGod has proven his wisdom with this selection and so it shall be written.
So why bother writing a letter to you if we're all set over here? Actually, we are very upset by your choice of Tom Cruise and wish you would reconsider for the following reason; we came up with a killer slogan and you blew it for us. You see, McGod would like people to know what he's about through jingles, catch phrases, maybe even a billboard or two. He gave to us the slogan of "No crusades, just cruising". Catchy isn't it? Well, you can see how you selecting Tom Cruise makes it seem as though we might be stealing this little nugget from you guys or at the very least trying to underhandedly capitalize on your famous sorta Christ as it pertains to rootless start-up religions. This couldn't be further from the truth. We are not here to steal or cheat or in any way stamp out lesser religions. We have faith that when the time is right you will simply get tired of kidding yourselves, put down your glasses of crazy fruit punch and hop out of that Wonkavision you've been stuck in. Our mission, as laid out by the one McGod, is not to convert people but simply to hope that some day everyone will get it.
Please consider changing your messiah so that we can use our kick ass slogan and not step on any toes. We promise not to make a fuss about anyone else you may choose regardless of their name as we will consider this a one time favor. Honestly, do you really mind? Your religion is going down the toilet anyway.
Sincerely,
Parishioners of the Church of McGod, Jameson Chapter
Look, it's time to throw in the towel. Sure you suckered actors and other frauds with deep pockets to join your little brigade but it's over. We heard the news about you guys selecting Maverick as your spiritual leader. Seriously, Tom Cruise as a demigod? He's played a few good roles but as a demigod he is going to be the equivalent of his own on air freak out all over Oprah's couch. You want to know the truth, we here at the Church of McGod are happy about it. You have taken on the worst possible Christ figure imaginable and we wish you the best of luck. The odds of your "religion" surviving are about as good as the drummer from Def Leopard growing his arm back.
As long as we are all making big announcements we have one of our own. Just this morning McGod chose his own representation here on Earth. He has given the title of Grand Jeebus to one Colin O'Brien, a slightly overweight Irish kid in New Jersey that goes by "The Dude". There's your demigod Cruise! There's your New Jersey dogma story Kevin Smith! There's your lazy guy turned likable hero Cohen brothers! McGod has proven his wisdom with this selection and so it shall be written.
So why bother writing a letter to you if we're all set over here? Actually, we are very upset by your choice of Tom Cruise and wish you would reconsider for the following reason; we came up with a killer slogan and you blew it for us. You see, McGod would like people to know what he's about through jingles, catch phrases, maybe even a billboard or two. He gave to us the slogan of "No crusades, just cruising". Catchy isn't it? Well, you can see how you selecting Tom Cruise makes it seem as though we might be stealing this little nugget from you guys or at the very least trying to underhandedly capitalize on your famous sorta Christ as it pertains to rootless start-up religions. This couldn't be further from the truth. We are not here to steal or cheat or in any way stamp out lesser religions. We have faith that when the time is right you will simply get tired of kidding yourselves, put down your glasses of crazy fruit punch and hop out of that Wonkavision you've been stuck in. Our mission, as laid out by the one McGod, is not to convert people but simply to hope that some day everyone will get it.
Please consider changing your messiah so that we can use our kick ass slogan and not step on any toes. We promise not to make a fuss about anyone else you may choose regardless of their name as we will consider this a one time favor. Honestly, do you really mind? Your religion is going down the toilet anyway.
Sincerely,
Parishioners of the Church of McGod, Jameson Chapter
1.28.2007
The Week In Review (1/22/07-1/28/07)
These are the best and the worst, the moments, the sights, the sounds and the frolicking of note for the past seven days.
Clothing:
Blazer and replacement button - $11.00
Brown leather saddle shoes - $6.00
Blue jeans - $4.50
Finding more excuses to hit up thrift stores and look great doing it- priceless
Movie of the Week:
Wordplay (documentary)- Actually it was the only movie I watched all week so winner by default. The most notable moment was watching a former crossword champion struggle with social angst and yet brim with self confidence as it pertained to her wording accomplishments all while honing her baton twirling skills. I feel if I watched this movie simultaneously with either of the Trekkie documentaries I would come to a moment were the same person appears on both screens at the same time. If I was high and played The Wall at the beginning of this experiment my eyeballs might suck back into my skull and vacate my head through my ears.
Most Confounding Moment
I was on break from my Genealogy class (yes, genealogy) and had made my way to the cafeteria to get some coffee. Classes are being held at night in a local technical high school that oddly enough sits on the same property as a shooting range and one of the world's largest composting facilities (another story on to itself). I enter the cafeteria to find a dog obedience class being held. I counted fourteen dogs, the same number of hapless handlers and three piles of poo. Fleas and dog smells filled the very room that food and beverage were not only being provided but also prepared. I wanted desperately to jot this moment down but I didn't have any paper or writing utensils as they were back in the classroom that was now locked for the duration of the allotted break time because we are apparently all seven years old inside and cannot be trusted.
Best TV:
Toss up. Top Chef on Bravo aired the first part of the two part season finale. My wife and I are big fans of the show because even though it is Reality TV they don't spend too much time on the drama and leave 90% of the air time to the food. This first part of the finale lived up to all expectations so it's gets a nod. The other nod goes to Robot Chicken. Voltron gets served and Mongoose: Nature's Assassin is all I need say.
The Week In Music:
Coley's Pick - Rocco Delucca and The Burden: I Trust You To Kill Me
I also found out this week that anyone who performs or wants to perform and claims over and over again to be "unique" generally either sound bad or are about as original as Cheerios.
Best Food:
Whoopie Pies. Mom makes'm you love'm. They have nothing to do with washed up comics dropping a deuce.
Worst Food:
Fontina cheese on a bagel chip while driving. My wife and I are lucky to be alive.
Most Surreal Moment:
Passing by an open fire hydrant filled with garbage that easily could have been set ablaze. Then imagining the confusion of firefighters having to find another fire hydrant to put out the flames in a fire hydrant.
Fat Coley Weight Watch:
This Week - Charmingly Chunky
Last Week - Slightly Sloppy
Down ten pounds and in a whole new category!
McGod Passage of the Week:
It's not that the grass is always greener on the other side, it's probably just browner on yours.
Clothing:
Blazer and replacement button - $11.00
Brown leather saddle shoes - $6.00
Blue jeans - $4.50
Finding more excuses to hit up thrift stores and look great doing it- priceless
Movie of the Week:
Wordplay (documentary)- Actually it was the only movie I watched all week so winner by default. The most notable moment was watching a former crossword champion struggle with social angst and yet brim with self confidence as it pertained to her wording accomplishments all while honing her baton twirling skills. I feel if I watched this movie simultaneously with either of the Trekkie documentaries I would come to a moment were the same person appears on both screens at the same time. If I was high and played The Wall at the beginning of this experiment my eyeballs might suck back into my skull and vacate my head through my ears.
Most Confounding Moment
I was on break from my Genealogy class (yes, genealogy) and had made my way to the cafeteria to get some coffee. Classes are being held at night in a local technical high school that oddly enough sits on the same property as a shooting range and one of the world's largest composting facilities (another story on to itself). I enter the cafeteria to find a dog obedience class being held. I counted fourteen dogs, the same number of hapless handlers and three piles of poo. Fleas and dog smells filled the very room that food and beverage were not only being provided but also prepared. I wanted desperately to jot this moment down but I didn't have any paper or writing utensils as they were back in the classroom that was now locked for the duration of the allotted break time because we are apparently all seven years old inside and cannot be trusted.
Best TV:
Toss up. Top Chef on Bravo aired the first part of the two part season finale. My wife and I are big fans of the show because even though it is Reality TV they don't spend too much time on the drama and leave 90% of the air time to the food. This first part of the finale lived up to all expectations so it's gets a nod. The other nod goes to Robot Chicken. Voltron gets served and Mongoose: Nature's Assassin is all I need say.
The Week In Music:
Coley's Pick - Rocco Delucca and The Burden: I Trust You To Kill Me
I also found out this week that anyone who performs or wants to perform and claims over and over again to be "unique" generally either sound bad or are about as original as Cheerios.
Best Food:
Whoopie Pies. Mom makes'm you love'm. They have nothing to do with washed up comics dropping a deuce.
Worst Food:
Fontina cheese on a bagel chip while driving. My wife and I are lucky to be alive.
Most Surreal Moment:
Passing by an open fire hydrant filled with garbage that easily could have been set ablaze. Then imagining the confusion of firefighters having to find another fire hydrant to put out the flames in a fire hydrant.
Fat Coley Weight Watch:
This Week - Charmingly Chunky
Last Week - Slightly Sloppy
Down ten pounds and in a whole new category!
McGod Passage of the Week:
It's not that the grass is always greener on the other side, it's probably just browner on yours.
1.23.2007
Pig Egg
The British, in a rare moment of culinary brilliance, have corrected one of God's biggest blunders, one of evolution's largest mistakes. They have replaced the inedible, frustrating and useless eggshell that the creative forces of the universe saw fit to inflict upon us with a far more practical and delicious substance . . . sausage. Then, in a fit of gastrogenius, they had the admirable audacity to bread and deep fry this new and improved chicken egg. The ingenuity! The creativity! The sheer cheekiness of the idea! Rule Britannia, and rule proudly over the tiny corner of the cooking world in which you shine so bright.Without diminishing the accomplishments of our deposed forbearers, I would like to say that I feel capable of improving on this idea. In the near future you will find, on this very site, a recipe that takes this scotch egg to new caloric heights and further undermines the questionable line between unfertilized chicken ovum and swine.
1.22.2007
Angeline - Part 3
The rain was moving dark across the flatland. A great shadow seemed to proceed it, broken only by the jagged, tortured hands of the lightning that snatched occasionally at the brown earth. The old cat, who lived off field mice and crickets in the surrounding fields, had long since scrambled beneath the dilapidated porch. Above were the bones of a dog, nearly cleaned of flesh.
It would still be some time before the rain came. The land granted foresight for weather defeated only by darkness. Storms that rose in the night were the most dangerous. They came like bad dreams howling out of the deep forgotten mind and set horrible twisting winds down in backyards with only a low rumble for a warning. Day storms were not as bad. They announced themselves. They knocked before entering.
She was in her chair, rocking in the backyard dust, watching the great cloud bank roll in. She sneered at it and spit a great brown gob onto a nearby anthill. She smiled like a broken fence at the apparent success of her expectoration, watching the panic of the ants with shining eyes. She looked up again at the foreboding sky. Bet that siren’s goin’ off in town, she thought and took a long pull on her whiskey. Bet all dem folks is goin’ to ground. She smiled again.
In the front of the house a crow fluttered down like the last black leaf of fall and landed heavily on the bones of the dog. The sharp beak grabbed a tiny bit of flesh that hung from the empty ribs and tore it away. One last meal before the weather takes it all. One last bite before the ragged bird finds shelter wherever crows go to weather the storm.
The storm began to make itself known in a throaty, complaining, old man sort of way. As it drew closer that almost comforting facade would drop away to reveal the snarling beast inside, but for now she could still sit, drink and spit. S’gonna be a bad one, she thought and knew from long years. And, even as she thought it a long dark finger of cloud dropped to the ground and scrapped up a swirling trail of dust and distant debris.
She groaned as she stood and turned away from the storm with a sort of disdain unusual in the face of such weather. The wind was already singing low tones through the old barn and she could taste dust in the air waiting for the rain to beat it down into a short lived mud. In one hand she held her jug, in the other she dragged the chair. These were her prized possessions, the only things that would cramp the musty space of her cellar as she sat and waited out the scouring wind.
She smiled a dark, jagged smile and thought about the storm stripping everything. This wind’ll be the last a that old bitch on the porch an then I kin have it back. Deep down she hoped the bones would still be there. She hoped the storm would take the stink and the flesh and the dark birds feeding and leave her the bones. In another place, at another time she might have fashioned a crown or armor from those bones, but here, now, she would be content just to have them curled there like a statue of a dogs death in the corner of her porch.
Out front, beneath the porch, the old cat had found a corner in which to hide beneath itself. It would survive the storm there beneath the rattling boards and shivering bones. That porch had had enough of death in its time. It had had enough of giving things over to the other side. Now was its chance to protect, but the old cat didn’t know this. It shook and squirmed with scarcely understood terror in the dusty dark.
The woman grunted in the language of long years as she dragged the old chair down the rickety wooden stair and into the small basement. Her late, late husband had dug the thing many years ago, meaning for it to be a shelter and a root cellar and a place to store all that needed dark cool storage in the long days of heat and light. But, the soil was rocky and uncooperative, and he was short of temper, energy and sober moments. So, the great project ended as a small room with space for nothing more than a chair, an old woman and a jug of whiskey. Even the stair which came down into it rode a slope to the bottom and had no space behind for storage of supplies.
The storm cellar had a door, stolen long ago before another apocalyptic cloud bank, from the face of the old barn. They had slaughtered the last of the horses and could find no more use for a door on the dying structure. This door ended up being her husbands penance for the sad state of his cellar. That first storm it was simply a heavy piece of wood to lay across a small hole, but as time passed and the unfinished cellar gnawed at him, the sophistication and finish of that great door grew. In its final state, reached only days before a fevered death dragged the wasted man down, it lay across the opening of the cellar, fresh stained and riding on two smooth metal tracks. These tracks were fitted with bearings which allowed the door to open and close so smoothly that a child, were one foolish enough to wander into that place, could easily operate it alone. This is the only reason the old woman was able to pull it closed now and pitch her into the darkness of a single fluttering candle and a long wait.
She hooked the two great hooks of the door into their respective eyes and climbed back down, wheezing and muttering. Sitting in the chair again, with candle light playing cruelly in the dark shadowed creases of her face she drew long and hard on the jug, letting fire precede rain, letting the long slow burn come before the quick twist and tear of wind.
Sleep beat the storm and she sank down into it. It was a deep terrible thing fueled by age and whiskey, and each time she succumbed to it she wandered deaths long shore with one foot in the cool water. There she tasted the sour past on the ethereal breeze and spat into the wind of her own undoing. While outside the storm tore the world asunder.
She woke to silence and eerie dark. The candle had eaten itself to the floor and the storm had passed. She stood and made her way stumbling up the short stairs, undid the door and slid it smoothly open. There were vast and shining stars above her as she climbed out into the shadowy wreckage of her house. No wall stood and the roof of long days past was nowhere to be seen. Her meager possessions were strewn about or gone and the moon picked out bits of cloth, tins of food and the shining pieces of glass that once were windows. Turning around she saw the one thing still standing, completely intact. The porch, attached to nothing appeared untouched. Even its shallow pitched roof still hung improbably over it.
She grunted and went back down the stairs for the jug and the chair. She dragged them onto the porch and sat down for a drink. The old cat, rejoicing in the sparing of one of its few remaining lives sprang out from below and into the mouse filled fields with an almost youthful vigor. The woman drank, drank and passed out again.
When the sun rose it caught in its fiery eye the impossible porch, the sleeping old woman and the gleaming, clean skeleton of a forgotten dog.
It would still be some time before the rain came. The land granted foresight for weather defeated only by darkness. Storms that rose in the night were the most dangerous. They came like bad dreams howling out of the deep forgotten mind and set horrible twisting winds down in backyards with only a low rumble for a warning. Day storms were not as bad. They announced themselves. They knocked before entering.
She was in her chair, rocking in the backyard dust, watching the great cloud bank roll in. She sneered at it and spit a great brown gob onto a nearby anthill. She smiled like a broken fence at the apparent success of her expectoration, watching the panic of the ants with shining eyes. She looked up again at the foreboding sky. Bet that siren’s goin’ off in town, she thought and took a long pull on her whiskey. Bet all dem folks is goin’ to ground. She smiled again.
In the front of the house a crow fluttered down like the last black leaf of fall and landed heavily on the bones of the dog. The sharp beak grabbed a tiny bit of flesh that hung from the empty ribs and tore it away. One last meal before the weather takes it all. One last bite before the ragged bird finds shelter wherever crows go to weather the storm.
The storm began to make itself known in a throaty, complaining, old man sort of way. As it drew closer that almost comforting facade would drop away to reveal the snarling beast inside, but for now she could still sit, drink and spit. S’gonna be a bad one, she thought and knew from long years. And, even as she thought it a long dark finger of cloud dropped to the ground and scrapped up a swirling trail of dust and distant debris.
She groaned as she stood and turned away from the storm with a sort of disdain unusual in the face of such weather. The wind was already singing low tones through the old barn and she could taste dust in the air waiting for the rain to beat it down into a short lived mud. In one hand she held her jug, in the other she dragged the chair. These were her prized possessions, the only things that would cramp the musty space of her cellar as she sat and waited out the scouring wind.
She smiled a dark, jagged smile and thought about the storm stripping everything. This wind’ll be the last a that old bitch on the porch an then I kin have it back. Deep down she hoped the bones would still be there. She hoped the storm would take the stink and the flesh and the dark birds feeding and leave her the bones. In another place, at another time she might have fashioned a crown or armor from those bones, but here, now, she would be content just to have them curled there like a statue of a dogs death in the corner of her porch.
Out front, beneath the porch, the old cat had found a corner in which to hide beneath itself. It would survive the storm there beneath the rattling boards and shivering bones. That porch had had enough of death in its time. It had had enough of giving things over to the other side. Now was its chance to protect, but the old cat didn’t know this. It shook and squirmed with scarcely understood terror in the dusty dark.
The woman grunted in the language of long years as she dragged the old chair down the rickety wooden stair and into the small basement. Her late, late husband had dug the thing many years ago, meaning for it to be a shelter and a root cellar and a place to store all that needed dark cool storage in the long days of heat and light. But, the soil was rocky and uncooperative, and he was short of temper, energy and sober moments. So, the great project ended as a small room with space for nothing more than a chair, an old woman and a jug of whiskey. Even the stair which came down into it rode a slope to the bottom and had no space behind for storage of supplies.
The storm cellar had a door, stolen long ago before another apocalyptic cloud bank, from the face of the old barn. They had slaughtered the last of the horses and could find no more use for a door on the dying structure. This door ended up being her husbands penance for the sad state of his cellar. That first storm it was simply a heavy piece of wood to lay across a small hole, but as time passed and the unfinished cellar gnawed at him, the sophistication and finish of that great door grew. In its final state, reached only days before a fevered death dragged the wasted man down, it lay across the opening of the cellar, fresh stained and riding on two smooth metal tracks. These tracks were fitted with bearings which allowed the door to open and close so smoothly that a child, were one foolish enough to wander into that place, could easily operate it alone. This is the only reason the old woman was able to pull it closed now and pitch her into the darkness of a single fluttering candle and a long wait.
She hooked the two great hooks of the door into their respective eyes and climbed back down, wheezing and muttering. Sitting in the chair again, with candle light playing cruelly in the dark shadowed creases of her face she drew long and hard on the jug, letting fire precede rain, letting the long slow burn come before the quick twist and tear of wind.
Sleep beat the storm and she sank down into it. It was a deep terrible thing fueled by age and whiskey, and each time she succumbed to it she wandered deaths long shore with one foot in the cool water. There she tasted the sour past on the ethereal breeze and spat into the wind of her own undoing. While outside the storm tore the world asunder.
She woke to silence and eerie dark. The candle had eaten itself to the floor and the storm had passed. She stood and made her way stumbling up the short stairs, undid the door and slid it smoothly open. There were vast and shining stars above her as she climbed out into the shadowy wreckage of her house. No wall stood and the roof of long days past was nowhere to be seen. Her meager possessions were strewn about or gone and the moon picked out bits of cloth, tins of food and the shining pieces of glass that once were windows. Turning around she saw the one thing still standing, completely intact. The porch, attached to nothing appeared untouched. Even its shallow pitched roof still hung improbably over it.
She grunted and went back down the stairs for the jug and the chair. She dragged them onto the porch and sat down for a drink. The old cat, rejoicing in the sparing of one of its few remaining lives sprang out from below and into the mouse filled fields with an almost youthful vigor. The woman drank, drank and passed out again.
When the sun rose it caught in its fiery eye the impossible porch, the sleeping old woman and the gleaming, clean skeleton of a forgotten dog.
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