On God's Own Kingdom

Sorry if the story below, God's Own Kingdom, is a bit on the long side at ten pages. Or, in this case, a forever of scrolling down. I have loved the material so much, and it answered what I couldn't answer.
One day I woke up, and I couldn't feel God's presence. Then I woke up again another day and God was there.
I got confused, so I did this story. I loved this story. This one, I did not rush, or anything. The concept had always been there, in scratch papers, at the back pages of my notebooks, once on my hand,on my computer, on my friends' computers, then I finished it in my own computer, and added a picture, and deleted the picture, and read it, and I loved it.
This one's about you, visiting God.
This one's for you, God, whatever you may look like.
Maybe you even look like the YOU I imagined.

God's Own Kingdom

Video monitors line the walls, and each monitor shows a creature. No two monitors display the same living things, except, of course, when the living things interact. An example of an interaction would be, a Venus flytrap eating an insect.
The screens are grouped according to what kind of creature they display. The first group is PLANT, and in the monitors, you can see trees and shrubs and bushes. PLANT is then divided according to area, then age. The second group is ANIMAL. ANIMAL is subdivided into INSECTS, TWO-LEGGED, FOUR-LEGGED, and HUMAN, then according to country, then gender, then age. HUMAN has an additional subcategory. A gauge is set below each human screen. Death says it’s for measuring a human’s morality. HUMAN is also grouped according to morality. There are no gauges below the screens for plants and animals, because Death says they cannot commit sins.
Oh, and Death says welcome to God’s Own Kingdom. God is waiting to talk to you soon. Death says please make yourself comfortable and would you care for a drink of wine?
You don’t know how you’ve arrived here. What’s important is you are here now. Could be, it’s a car accident. Maybe you’re sleeping, and then you don’t wake up, and then you find yourself here. What’s important is that you’re here, which means Death has switched off your monitor. “Every time I switch off a monitor, it turns itself on, and it shows a newborn.”
The cries of a newborn wake you up, and you find yourself lying naked on the cracked asphalt of the road that leads to God’s Own Kingdom. It is the only road in the place. Behind you, a brick wall, and beyond you, a speck glowing neon green. Look around you, and all you’ll see are stars, and nebulae, and darkness. If you try walking off the road, well, you can’t. This is the road that leads to God’s Own Kingdom, and there’s nowhere to go but forward.
As you walk, listen. You might hear your mother’s lullabies. Your father’s laughter, if you have a father. You might hear your own laughs, and your cries, a staccato of footsteps—all the steps you have taken throughout your life. A juxtaposition of noises. Cries and laughter and screams and moans and then, silence. Then you hear the sound of your own heart, then the sound fades away, and you are in front of a derelict structure.
Now playing: Four thirty-three, by John Milton Cage, Jr.
The structure is a tall building with no windows. It is made of layers of hollow bricks, making it look like the kind of stacking tower kids play with. You know, the ones where you take bricks from the bottom and then place them back on top. That’s how the building looks like. A sign dangles at the top, glowing in neon green, saying, GOD’S OWN KINGDOM.
The only entrance to the building is a wooden door that looks like termites have eaten the insides of it. There is no doorknob. The door is open, and the lock is busted, but you press the doorbell anyway. No one answers. Maybe the doorbell is broken, so you knock on the door. No one answers, so you push the door open, and inside, there’s darkness. Just darkness, and silence, the way we think the insides of black holes are just darkness and silence. Then a light appears, a tongue of fire, and someone says, “Coming.”
A bearded man appears, holding a candle in one hand, and a rooster in the other. The candle is spurting with flames, while the rooster is sleeping, limp. The bearded man greets you, “I’m Saint Peter. What can I do for you?”
You don’t know.
“What’s your name?”
You tell him.
Saint Peter puts the cock down, between his legs. It rests there, and Peter takes a list clipped on his belt. He unfolds it, and you can see that the paper is crumpled, and full of ink blots and erasures, like a slob’s shopping list. Saint Peter holds the paper close to the candle, and he squints so hard his eyes are just slits. Then, he says, “Ah. Yes.” He tucks the slob’s shopping list back in the belt, and he sits on the doorway, giving just enough space for you to squeeze in. He produces a cigarette and holds it near the flame. He smiles, and you can see that his teeth are all rotten and crooked, swirls of blacks and browns. “Smoke?”
No, thank you.
Saint Peter puts the cigarette in his mouth, and he bends down, petting his cock. He says, “You don’t have an appointment with God, but he’s not busy anyway, so I’m sure he’ll see you.”
God?
“Sure,” he says, exhaling smoke. “This is God’s Own Kingdom.”
If it isn’t obvious to you, you should ask, “I’m dead? How did I die?”
“I don’t know,” Saint Peter says. “You’ll have to ask Death about that. You’ll find him inside. Later. No one’s supposed to enter during God’s sleeping time. Just a few more minutes to go, anyway.”
Saint Peter puts the cigarette back in his mouth, and he continues stroking the rooster sleeping between his legs. You say, “Your cock looks bad.”
Saint Peter chuckles, and he says, “Old age. Happens to everyone.” He shakes the cock’s head and says, “It might as well be dead. It never crowed since the Great War. Never even raised its head.”
Why don’t you bury it?
“No,” Peter says. “It’s been a part of me.” Saint Peter looks at his wristwatch and says, “Time. You coming in? I’ll come after I finish this,” he says, pointing to his cigarette.
“Are you sure he’ll have time for me?”
“Tell you what,” he says, “If you believe that God will have time for you, then he’ll have time for you. Simple as that. He used to have time for everyone, but the people didn’t pray to him, so he sulked in a corner until he fell asleep, and that was the only time people tried talking to him.”
He figures, if he doesn’t seek the people, the people will seek him, so God always sleeps on the seventh day.
Saint Peter exhales smoke and tells you to go ahead. You ask, “Aren’t you supposed to open some magical door with a golden key?” Saint Peter smiles, and he says, “Look at the door. The lock’s busted for when Science came in. Lunatic. He says he’ll kill God. He hasn’t found God yet, but he’ll be back soon, that’s for sure.”
Saint Peter tells you, “Go ahead. Go inside.” In God’s Own Kingdom, there are no Pearly Gates. There is no magical key. “Inside, there’s just me, and Death, and God, and the tenants. You may talk with the tenants, but you’ll just forget them the moment you part with them. You’ll be living with them soon”, Saint Peter says, and he tells you, “Go ahead. Inside.”
So you go inside, and inside, there’s darkness. Just darkness, with no stars to light your way. You see a door shining bright in front of you, and you walk towards it real slow, in case you might trip into something invisible. From outside, Saint Peter says, “Don’t worry about falling off. The lower you fall, the higher you fly.”
He says, “Just keep straight.”
Saint Peter says, The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
Says, In God’s Own Kingdom, if you believe that there are no tests, there won’t be tests.
He says, Run!
Run!
Run!
Run, until you reach the door, and his voice fades away. In God’s Own Kingdom, there’s a room where the walls are lined with video monitors. You are in a round room with a floor that shines under the light of a million or so fluorescent lamps. A hooded man sits on a swiveling chair in the center, spinning in place, looking at the screens, sometimes moving close to a wall, then back to the center. Death?
And the hooded man turns to look at you, and inside the hood is darkness. He says, “Aye, that I am. Death. To the Egyptians I was a jackal, and to the Greeks I was a god. To the Mexicans, I am a saint, and to God’s disciples, I am a villain.” He lifts the veil, and you see a skull coming out of the shadows of his hood, the way a rubber ball surfaces from the water. “I wasn’t always like this. I mean, I used to have a face. The people say I’m bad, because I take away the ones they love, so they turned me into a skeleton. Don’t they know what will happen if I don’t kill?”
You ask is that why he killed you?
No, Death says. “It was an accident, but what are accidents but incidents that happen under strange circumstances?” He shakes his head, and he says, “What’s important is that it had to happen. Do you see this baby?” He points to a screen, and you see a newborn girl still covered in blood, crying, surrounded by nurses dressed in coats and gloves and goggles and masks. “She took over your place. Whenever I switch off a monitor, someone dies, and someone takes over. She’s the one who took over your place. Sooner or later, she’ll have to die, and someone will take her place, so why let her suffer…” and Death pushes a button, and the screen is turned off. “There. One of the nurses will drop her, and her head will explode into blood and brains and bits of cartilaginous skull.”
What does God say about it?
“Nothing,” Death says, and he sips red wine from a stemmed glass clutched in his white bone fingers. He looks up and says, “I was here first. I’ll be here last. I am more powerful, but he has more believers. Result. Boy, I can tell you, after the Great War, he came out on top, and that angered me, and I refused to work, so that it threatened the balance of life. What God did, He employed me as the caretaker of souls, and I agreed, on the condition that he won’t comment on my work, and that’s the end of that. Just don’t tell him I told you about that.”
Death continues sipping his red wine. Silence, except for the humming of engines, the cries and laughter that sound like the noises down the road to God’s Own Kingdom. A man is having sex with another man on screen three million. Death says, “Sodomy.” A woman takes a necklace from a drawer on screen two hundred thousand five. “Theft,” Death says. “Bestiality on screen eighteen million and one. Murder. Idling. Anger.”
Is that part of your job?
Death says, “Of course, I’ll have to figure out who should die. Who deserves to die. Ah. Cancer patient on screen seventy-two.” He swivels in his chair. “Then, I’ll hand a list to Saint Peter, and he decides who gets to live in God’s Own Kingdom.”
So do I get to live here?
“Sure. They let you in. We don’t let in those who won’t get in. They don’t even find themselves on the road where you woke up.”
Where do they wake up?
“Under this road. How the road works, this is God’s Own Kingdom. Under the road is Hell’s Real Kitchen. Marriage on screen fifty-four. Between them, God’s Own Kingdom and Hell’s Real Kitchen, there’s a dimension, that’s the Waking World. If you find yourself in one place, you won’t be able to get to the other places.”
So when do I move in?
“Soon as you meet God. Vandalism on screen five.” Death drinks the rest of his wine and he puts the hood back in his head. He says, “Seventh floor. Take the elevator.”
You walk towards the end of the room, and you enter the elevator. Press seventh floor. Press close. Please enjoy your stay in God’s Own Kingdom.
The elevator doors begin closing. “Hey!” You call out, “Death.”
What is it?
“I thought Science wants to kill God?”
Death turns around, and he says, “Birth on screen thirty. Sure he does. Why do you ask?”
“How come there are televisions, and neon signs, and elevators in this place? Isn’t that supposed to be the work of Science?”
“Because Science is taking over this place,” Death says. “Science will be the new god. I’m not so sure for how long, but he’ll die. They all die,” and the elevator doors close.
The elevator gives a lurch, then it moves up, making a humming sound. The floor is made of linoleum, which has a fading design of black and white tiles. Above, a light bulb dangles by a string on the ceiling. The metal walls are rusted and dented and full of holes. Near a hole, you can see a message scrawled in black ink, “SCIENCE WAS HERE.”
The elevator stops moving, and the doors open. Darkness. Not even darkness. Oblivion. You step into the darkness, but the darkness does not engulf you, and you can see yourself in it. You feel sluggishness in every movement, as if you are wading in molasses, or some sort of film held together by osmotic pressure. And you call out, God?
Nobody answers.
In God’s Own Kingdom, maybe nobody’s allowed to see God, after all?
God?
Your voice echoes, and each echo echoes, until the whole room is filled with your voice. Echoes, of echoes, of echoes.
God?
A sound of rubber against tiles. “I am here.”
Where?
“What’s important is that I am here. Welcome to God’s Own Kingdom.” You know that feeling, like someone’s watching you? The way someone focuses on a specific body part, and you don’t know why, but you hold that body part, as if you’re trying to protect it.
George Orwell: “Big Brother is watching you.”
“You are joining us,” says God. “Would you care for a little talk? Maybe you have some questions in mind?”
Yes, you say, like, why are you in heaven? “I mean, I’m not real good, or anything.”
“Yes, my child,” says God. “You may think that you aren’t good, but who is, anyway?” God lets out a cough, a long, rasping sound from his throat that sounds like he’s dying, and he says, “It’s not a matter of morality. It’s a matter of what you believe.”
God says, “The Catholics go to God’s Own Kingdom or Hell’s Real Kitchen, depending on what they believe more. The Brahmans and the Buddhists return to the Waking World. The pagans go to Hades or Valhalla or wherever. The atheists, they go to nothingness.”
But you never really believed in God, you say. “I mean, I never really saw you, and I doubted you were…you know, real.”
God snorts. Maybe it’s a snort, or maybe it’s a chuckle. Maybe it’s somewhere in between. God says that is not important. He says, “You’ve tried talking to me once and you’ve seen what’s wrong with religion, and it disgusted you that you turned your back on my church. You may say you turned your back on me, but that never happened, did it?” In the darkness, you can hear the sound of crumpled paper. Paper that’s maybe ready to crumble. Like a long lost shopping list. He reads from the long lost shopping list. “Help me, Lord.” God says, “How about let’s you and I strike a deal?” He says, “I’ve turned my back on your followers, but I can’t turn my back on you.” Says, “I don’t want to be bound by your rules. I know what’s right, and what’s wrong, but please, still help me.”
Big Brother is smiling at you. You aren’t sure of it, but you can feel, in God’s Own Kingdom, Big Brother is smiling at you.
You do remember saying that, you say.
“Of course you do,” God says. “Everything that’s happening here is all taking place in the mind. I am embedded deep in your memory, for memory that springs from childhood lingers the longest. I am your childhood memory. I am the first step for you to remember everything. That is how powerful I am in your mind.”
How powerful are you?
“How do you imagine me?”
Perfect. Powerful and all-knowing and all-seeing.
“Then that is how powerful I am.” Because God is a manifestation of the imagination, like Zeus, and Jupiter, and Odin, and Allah. How you imagine God is how he appears. Perfect. Nothing is as perfect as it is in the imagination.
You ask, “So why did you let all those misfortunes happen?”
God chuckles, and this time it sounds like a chuckle, and he says, “I am not in control of your life. I am not in control of anyone’s life. I am merely here to take the blame for every misfortune that happens.”
Ambrose Bierce: “Bacchus: a convenient deity invented by the ancients as an excuse for getting drunk.”
Whatever happens to you, God says, Get drunk, knock someone up, kill…
Get AIDS…
See an aborted fetus…
Get involved in a war…
Die...
God says it’s not his fault. I am not the reason why people die of breast cancer, He says. He says, I am not the reason why Hitler ignited war. I am not the reason why Elvis Presley died. “But go ahead. I’m here to take the blame.”
Take the blame, you say. “You are powerful. You are a god. Is that the best you can do?”
Again, the sound of rubber against tiles. God sighs. He emerges from the darkness the way Death’s skull emerges from his hood. The way a ball surfaces from water. God looks at you and he says, “Yes, actually.”
In God’s Own Kingdom, God looks at you with compound eyes, like a fly.
God has compound eyes. He has compound eyes, two large halves of a sphere resting on the sides of his head, split up into a million or so smaller milky white eyes with pupils in the centers. The eyes blink in unison, and they look in different directions, in all directions. God’s head is bald, and it shakes like a plate of Jell-O, and it’s so large it looks like it’s ready to explode. The head of someone with hydrocephalus. Water quivers from inside his head, and the skin on it is full of blue veins and throbbing arteries. The sutures of his head, you can see them, so wide apart that his brains are visible against the skin of his head. You can see the wrinkles of his brain against his forehead. God has long, flowing beard, the way the Greeks say that Zeus has long, flowing beard. He has giant bitch tits, the way we think of God’s tits as huge. God has giant muscles throbbing with arteries and twitching with every contraction, and his biceps are so huge he can’t even bend his arm to support his head that’s threatening to fall and explode any moment. Explode, the way Death describes how the baby’s head explode. His hands have holes, God, and his head has scars shaped like thorns, and his chest is full of scars from whiplashes.
God has no legs, and the sound of rubber against tiles, that’s God’s Own Wheelchair. God is sitting on a chrome wheelchair that’s too small for him. He’s huge. Huger than life, God. Because that’s how you imagine him. Only, he has no legs. You ask God, “What happened to your legs?”
“The Great War happened to my legs,” he says, and with every word, his head quivers. Waves come from the bottom of his head, going up, until they reach the top of his head, then they reflect each other, back to the bottom, until they disappear. “The battle of ideas between people of different religions. I have killed Odin, and Zeus, and the rest. All of them, except Time, who only watched the battle, and Death, who was immortal. I only won because I emerged with more believers, because I promised them eternal life, and it made Death weak because no one believed in him anymore.” He says he has to employ Death to prevent imbalance of life.
You ask God, “What about the rest of you?”
“This is how you imagined me, remember?” reminds God. “I am all-seeing, and all-knowing, and all-powerful.” The compound eyes, the water-filled head and the giant biceps. Omniscient, omnipotent. Omnipresent? “Omnipresent. Yes. Of course.” Omnipresent.
You ask him does he appear like this to other people?
“Sometimes I appear even worse,” and he goes back into the darkness.
You’re sorry, you say.
“It doesn’t matter. No. No, it doesn’t,” he says. “Here, let me get your key. You’ll just have to find your room, between floors two and six.” The sound of rubber against tiles, then, silence.
“So, there’s nothing we can do?”
“Please,” God says. “I’m going to die anyway. What we do is we stay in God’s Own Kingdom. And we sit. And we wait.” God’s hand emerges from the darkness, old man hands full of veins and white hair and bony knuckles. “Hold out your hand,” he says. You hold out your hand, and he makes like he drops the key, only, nothing drops.
“There is no key.”
“Exactly,” God says. “Science busted all the locks here. Just pick a room.” He goes back to the darkness. “Take the elevator, and choose any room you want. Doesn’t matter what you choose, since they’re all the same anyway. And there are no windows, so forget that ambiance thing.”
You turn towards the elevator and walk, and again, there’s this feeling like you’re wading through a film held by pressure. You enter the lift, and you press a button. Choose any floor you want, close the doors.
Big Brother is still watching you, you can feel, so you call out, Science… Will he be back?
“Oh, he’ll be back.”
And what will become of you?
“We can’t tell, but for now, we stay at God’s Own Kingdom. And we sit. And we wait.” And the doors close.
Thank you. Have a nice day. Please enjoy your stay. In God’s Own Kingdom, while waiting, please try to enjoy your stay.

Shit Sessions

Inhale. Close your eyes. Don't breathe out while you listen. Don't worry. This too, shall pass.
Now listen.

My clammy hands were, for the first time, not clammy. I kept inhaling sweat, and sweat kept falling into my eyes, making all those eye muscles contract because of the sting. The orbicularis oculi and levator palpabrae. The, there was a rumble deep down in my guts, a rumbling and a bubbling, and I knew, this wasn't because of the heat anymore.

Now, I was in a formation, and it would have hurt my dignity, asking to be pulled out. It would have hurt even more if I didn't ask, so I made a salute, and asked to be pulled out, only, they didn't allow me, on account of the formation about to end soon.

Long story short, more sweat dropped into my eyes.

After the formation, I ran as fast as a man on the verge of shitting could run, and dammit. Someone else beat me to it. I knocked on the door of the men's restroom, but it was locked. The lights inside were on, and the door was locked. Someone beat me to it.

If you'd care to know, CMSHS has only one fucken toilet bowl. The other one was closed, oh, a million years ago, when they found brown soup in there and the brown soup almost flooded the floors, because they couldn't flush it.

I went to my classroom to leave my bag, because I haven't heard of anyone shitting with a backpack. So I went to my room, and I kept dripping sweat on the floor, and I returned to the restroom. I wished I'd seen the last guy who went in. I mean, REALLY!

The toilet bowl, there's no brown soup in the water. The water's clean, but the rest of the bowl isn't. It's coated with shit, and I mean, coated, like, the shit a baby would shit: fibrous, brownish, yellowish, stinking real bad I swallowed spit and my spit tasted like vomit.

On the walls, there were swirls. The kind of art a kid would make with his fingers. You can tell the swirls were made by fingers, because each swirl is a distorted fingerprint. Each distorted fingerprint, it rubbed the butt of mister whoever and wiped some swirly brown painting on the walls.

On the floor, a pair of underwear. Socks. Both of them soggy and coated yellowish, coated brown, coated with shit.

The water container has water that looks like mud, only the smell diffuses and it doesn't smell anything like mud.

The shit's piling up in my guts. If you'd care to know, the utility people, they left the mop in the restroom. No brooms.

When this sorta thing happens to you, close your eyes. Inhale. Do not breathe out. Reach out for the mop and lock the door. With the mop, sweep off the shit, and sit on the cold porcelain crawling with shit and germs.

Tell yourself, this too shall pass.

Because that's what I did.

It hasn't passed yet. The moment's frozen in time. To be sure, this too, shall pass.

the marriage of eddie sparkles and belladonna swan

Eddie marries me, and he makes a big deal out of the marriage, calling it the marriage of vampires or something as mundane as that. Only, I’m not a vampire. Not yet. And we get married in this Catholic Church, holy water and crucifixes and all, and Eddie doesn’t die, and you can tell he isn’t a real vampire. Still, all those teenagers, all those fans he’s got, they all believe Eddie’s a gaddamned vampire, because he sparkles under sunlight. They believe vampires sparkle under the sun. Eddie says that’s because vampires have skins made of diamonds. To be sure, though, that’s just a layer of sweat on his pale, pale skin. And, like, don’t vampires die under the sun?
Shades are enough, Eddie says. He won’t die under the sun if he has shades. Everyone believes him. His fans would believe him if he told them he’s part werewolf, and he transforms every time Pluto crosses over Neptune’s orbit. His fans would believe him, and if you’d ask them why, they’d tell you, Because Eddie Sparkles is a superstar!
That’s his name. Eddie Sparkles. He calls himself that. It’s stupid, sure, but that’s how he gets known, and besides, that’s still a better name than, like, Cullen, or something like that.
I enter the church, only I have a hard time entering because of all these press reporters taking pictures. Not mine. They aren’t allowed to enter the church, the press, so they’re taking pictures of Eddie from the door, and I have to squeeze in to enter. I squeeze in, and everyone looks at me. The cameras stop flashing, mouths hang open, and silence cripples the air with deadly precision. Suddenly I feel everyone looking at me. The ones in front of me turn their torsos to get good looks at me. It’s a hassle, being married to a celebrity.
How Eddie becomes famous, he writes this book about himself. Telling he’s a vampire and all, that sort of thing. It’s his ticket to Hollywood, that book, so now, he sings, and he acts, and he dances, and it’s real ridiculous, because he can’t act to save his life. But that stare… His voice is so edited, he can’t do concerts. But that deep voice… And those dance moves? Body doubles. But those delicious muscles… He’s way gorgeous, so no one notices that he isn’t talented. It doesn’t matter, anyway. That’s why the moment he gets down on his knees with this ring, and he asks me if I will marry him, I don’t think anymore when I answer yes. A lot of people say I don’t think anyway, but that ain’t the point. I enter the church, and there he is, Eddie, waiting for me, standing by the altar. He’s wearing a black suit that makes him look like a mortician, and it contrasts so well with his blond hair fluttering in the wind, whipping him in the face. The hair is whipping him, I mean, not the suit. Such beauty. His black eyes are rolling down my body, making my heart burn with desire. Or maybe this is just indigestion. Anyway, those black eyes, that soft, feathery blond crown, that mouth painted crimson to make him look like he’s just drank blood… Perfect, he’s just perfect. Like a Greek god. Like Apollo.
I approach him, wearing this real thick gown. I can only make out Eddie’s silhouette, but I know it’s him by the altar, because I can feel his radiance. The gown is a white number decorated with lovely laces. It’s a real lovely dress. Eddie says he made it himself. it’s his dream, he says. To be a designer. I take a step forward. My heart beats faster than usual, and my breathing becomes harder. Another step forward. I can feel everyone still looking at me. Behind, there’s the sound of cameras clicking again. Another step forward. I am holding a bouquet in my hands. Red and white roses entwined with small buds of flowers I don’t know. Another step forward. The carpet I am walking on is fuzzy, and as I drag my feet on the carpet it makes my hairs stand on ends. Another step forward. I take a swallow. The spit lingers in my throat, and I have to grunt to force air out, and the spit isn’t there anymore. After a few more steps, I finally reach the altar. I raise the veil and look around. The church is decorated with balloons and drapes and everything, but there are gothic overtones everywhere. The balloons are black. The drapes are decorated with shreds, like moss on a brick wall. In the cage by the ceiling, instead of pigeons, there are bats. Eddie is taking this vampire thing too seriously. At least he’s hot.
I look behind me, and I whisper to Eddie, “Cuckoo?”
Eddie says, “No, I don’t know those people, hon. Maybe they’re fans.”
That much I can tell, the way they’re all looking at me as if I’m a murderer or a rapist or something. They’re all just sitting there, looking at me real silent, their mouths closed tight, eyebrows almost meeting in the centers of their foreheads. More than half his fans are teenage girls. There are some teenage guys too. Some girls are crying, their faces covered by their hands, the tops of their arms moving up and down.
The priest looks at us. He is a fat man wearing glasses, and his head shines under the reflection of the church’s ceiling lights. A few hairs rest on his sparkling scalp. Maybe he’s a vampire too. I don’t know. The priest makes a fist with his right hand and puts it against his mouth. He coughs. Then, he looks at the bible, and he looks at us, and what he says next are not from the bible. “We are here to witness the holy matrimony of two loving souls, Mister Edward Sparkles and Miss Belladonna Birdbrain. If any of you has an objection, please tell it now, for once these two are united by God, they can never be separated by man.” He looks around, and I look around too, turning my neck to look behind me. All the girls look ready to rise and object to the marriage, but before one of them even gets the chance to open her mouth, the priest follows up, “Since no one is objecting to the marriage, let us proceed.”
He looks at Eddie. I think he sighs, the priest, when he looks at my boyfriend. He sighs with a slight smile forming on his thin lips. He says, “Do you, Edward Sparkles, accept Belladonna Birdbrain as your wife?”
Eddie nods, and he smiles. I look at him. He doesn’t have fangs. For all I know, vampires are supposed to have fangs, but Eddie says he files them, since he doesn’t need them anymore, now that he doesn’t drink human blood. He says he only drinks animal blood, says it tastes like tofu. I can’t imagine myself always eating tofu. That would give me a real horrible flatulence.
The priest leans closer to Eddie, and his nostrils flare up. He closes his eyes, taking in Eddie’s intoxicating scent of flowers and beauty. Then he whispers, “You have to say ‘I do.’”
“Oh,” Eddie says. “Of course. Pardon me.”
The priest stands straight again, looks at Eddie and repeats, “I repeat. Do you, Edward Sparkles, accept Belladonna Birdbrain as your wife?”
Eddie nods, and he says, “I do.”
The priest then looks at me. I swear I could see his eyebrows twitching as he says, “Do you, Belladonna Birdbrain, accept Edward Sparkles as your husband?”
I feel butterflies fluttering in my stomach. My heart beats even faster, and I could feel my bosom rising without rhythm. Rising, then falling. Behind me, I could feel a million eyes burning holes in my gaddamned back. I take a deep breath, then I say, “I do.”
Someone I don’t know hands Eddie a ring. Then someone also don’t know hands me a ring. To tell the truth, this whole wedding, Eddie has it planned all by himself. I don’t get involved until now. Eddie slips his ring in my finger, and I slip my ring in his delicate candle-like fingers with manicured nails. Clear nail polish painted so perfect and smooth against that layer of keratin on the top of his finger. I look at the ring in my hand, and it sparkles like Eddie’s sweat. From this far, I can smell him. Even though he smells fragrant, there’s a hint of sweat in it that only makes it even sweeter. I look at Eddie. His skin has no trace of a wrinkle. All smooth and pale and…perfect. Shining blond hair made of perfect straight strands sticks to his forehead because of the sweat, giving him that rugged handsome look.
Eddie looks like he’s about to kiss me, and he opens his mouth, closes his eyes. I do the same as our faces approach each other. Then he whispers to me, “Are you sure you’re a virgin?” I giggle, because in our house, we can’t even say the word… Hee! Hee! The word sex. He smiles, and how I can tell with my eyes closed, I am not sure. Next thing I know, his nose is kissing my neck, and I giggle. It tickles, him breathing against my neck. I could hear all the girls in the audience bawl. Eddie kisses me on the neck, then…
Next thing I feel is pain. He lets go a few throbbing heartbeats after my crippling scream, and I feel my neck with my right hand. I could trace his teeth marks on my skin, and when I look at my fingers, there’s the sight of glistening crimson. I look at Eddie, and he’s smiling. His teeth are all bloody. “Welcome to the family,” he says. After that, I don’t quite remember what happens. I think everything goes dark at this point, then, I wake up in the bedroom shivering from cold, and I learn that I am naked save for my pink underwear. I cover myself up, but then I realize, I am already married.
I tell Eddie, just for the record, I don’t feel quite like a member of his family. Also, just for the record, I’ve never seen his family.
Eddie sits beside me on the bed. He kisses my wound, and he licks it as he unbuttons his mortician suit. Eddie says it takes time, but really, I can’t tell the difference since that time he bites me in the neck. I don’t think I’ve turned into a vampire. I mean, I still feel like a human. The only thing that’s changed with me is I got scars.
I don’t really feel like I am afflicted with vampirism, but I’m worrying about rabies. I hope I’m dead before Pluto crosses over with Neptune.
If not, I might turn into a gaddamned werewolf.

swansong

he would walk on the toes of his pincushion feet, making himself lighter, bunching up his body to make him smaller. His tail is pointed upwards, his whole body is straight. In the darkness he would hide, concealing himself through his black stripes that blend wll in shadows. He is one with the shadow, and all that are visible are twin orbs of light green. Pupils are dilated.

He prepares for the attack.

At the last moment, he would jump with a growl, his claws out, fur standing on ends. He would cling to my nearest foot, scratching me, biting me,mewing with that same mew that he first gave me. A mew of pity. Asking for food, perhaps. Maybe attention. I didn't really know.

All I knew was, I could get used to that. My skin all sore and scarred, bloodied and wounded and possibly infected with rabies, I'd just laugh that off.

Really, I could get used to that.

I just couldn't get used to my cat being dead.

***

I was supposed to make a swansong for him, only now he's real dead. It was supposed to end with We miss your moonwalk. We miss your career.
The king of pop is dead.
He's dead, and I can't believe it.
This ain't one of those I'm-kissing-your-ass-and-blowing-your-dick-because-you're-dead thing. I already did that. When he was still alive.
Such energy.
Amazing voice. Great collaborations. Incredible music videos. Michael Jackson gave everyone their money's worth.
Sad that he had to die as a monster who allegedly raped a kid. Now, all those rumors can be finally put to rest.
Rest in peace, michael. You earned it. You did a great job.

sunshine and children and sexuality,oh my!

rosie calls me sunshine.says i got a very sunshiny disposition.how that happens, i got no idea,because i fall asleep while we're texting, and i forget what we're talking about.
another sunshine moment comes, though, when she says, i don't know what i say that makes her say it, but she tells me, "I'm a feminist. Can't be too strong."
And i say, "You can lactate. The vagina has a thousand (or more?) nerve endings. men are supposed to be weak around you."
I ask her, how does that make you vulnerable?
well,what she says, what she says is she likes my way of thinking. and i tell her, of course, it's just the power hierarchy reversed, so maybe a couple of years or decades from now, men will be back in power. gays will be shunned, women enslaved.
and she calls me sunshine.

i got this crush on a kid.not a major crush,but the kid's real pretty.you ever see people so beautiful you know they're gonna grow beautiful, that's how beautiful she is. that small frame, that young skin, her hair, her eyes, her smile full of milk teeth...
she's gonna grow into a beautiful woman.
it's good to play sweet child o' mine by guns n roses.
oh by the way, i hope that aint to creepy.
and i hope this aint too creepy,but...no, never mind.it's too creepy.

cherry calls me gay.
what's wrong with the word bongga?or ever?or chenes?
hell, i picked that up from paulo!
and no i aint gay. im bisexual.
i dont find anything wrong in being gay though.my idols are gay.freddie mercury is gay.chuck palahniuk is gay.
surprise though,is what i've read in the dictionary.gay man, that used to mean womanizer.
so i definitely aint gay.

WORD SALAD (a poem)

horse stomp stomp whip neigh
cat claw meow meow
dog run fetch jump stay
chicken fly peck crow

clouds high white fluffy sway
people happy greet hello
children laugh run jump play
people work school go

village small dirt road dust
sky cornflower large blue
bunny hop eat jump fast
beautiful sigh smile true

life simple nonsense slow happy
people old young smile

don't you want this kind of simplicity?
why don't you stay for a while?

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK, PEOPLE. THIS IS VERY EXPERIMENTAL, I MUST SAY, BUT IT WORKED FOR ME. I THINK.