JOSH MYERS WEEK IS NOW OVER!

This concludes our special Josh Myers week here at The New Flesh. We hope you enjoyed dancing around inside his brain for the last few days. More of his stories will be appearing on The New Flesh in the near future. As long as he sends them, I'll post them.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

*Editor probably altered the author's photo a bit.

O! and they did burst into our homes with all fire and bleating, and O! did they tear from our arms all so merciless, the little things which we would hold dear! And it was a bad day, I think we seen it written, yes, we did sculpt it all into our memories, them cold awful bastards, them Devils all fire, did rip us asunder and tear to like ribbons.

And like they appeared all up in our homes like a bad dog all up from hell, they did vanish as quick and as gone without notice. And we was left there on our floors all bleeding in cold to piece back together some semblance on whatever that was what we had. We tried our best and we retained all our sanity and most of our organs. Some was privy to cough up all blood and stain our tattered carpet, but these things they became of such little consequence.

And we did clean it up and try to forge forward, remembering them treasured things what was lost and to patch up them holes in our minds, we did try.

We moved on, yes, we plodded on forward and told stories to cheer a fainting mind. We kept ourselves awake and alive in hiding our thoughts.

And it came that we one day I think we did forget them. We remembered, O yes, we remember what went on, the carnage they sowed and the things they did take, the treasures and things that they tore from us screaming, but then for the life of us could not remember just who what done did it. Them Devils all fiery came up from hell, but we couldn’t place it in our minds. Them things what ruined us turned faceless demons, we left out a name and left out a face.

We knew what did happen, we didn’t knew who.

Ha! Those were the days they were. But them Devils evidently they knew us and our thoughts and they took none too kindly to us all forgetting.

And so, while we slept, up from hell they come back.

Our world been repaired from previous torn asunder been ripped once again and burned to smithereens. Them Devils, they stood there before us and made us remember. They did ensure we could never forget. They did go and put nails in. They ensured in their silence we would always remember, and look back in terror forever and ever.

Them Devils up from hell did set us ablaze then. And like to carve their screaming image to our screaming flesh.

They did it all unspeaking the whole while we melted and formed like new creatures, detestable beasts with them in our skin. And to look on each and other was to see all again, and I think that we may have died then.

Surely though, this is not we.

This crispy burned and carved up flesh.

This thing crucified all on one another.

Cannot be, no.

And we do turn our heads and as crispy flakes off, we see Devils in our skin.

And we always remember them just as they stood there.

And sometimes we scream.

"Devils"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.

Scattering about and looking like as chickens all what with no noggins. Searching all up and down we did, but no avail. All happiness and joy and not in our time.

Ground went thick and sloshy, yes it did, all squishing up and out ‘tween our toes and like staining our feets. It’s all and everything like they said it would, and we ache in our cringing. Looked all about and eyed us a rock which for us to climb onto and save us from this detestable mud what we done writhed about it.

And look at that, would you! What would be carved into that stone but words from our own majestic and all joyous savior, that Tim what we savor, him and that fat brother, him weepy all detestable Jim, for shame, for shame.

But alas, them words! We known them words by heart, we did! And carved in that rock there all ten miles high:

“Brave sun shines on me on my own it’s only for me

As cold as can be in and English sea

Which could mean something other…”

Says us to all and to other and it, “Say, I remember you!”

We climb all up on it and do we shake hands and pat us on our backs, remembering these words as we do
from another time, another more happier place in this land (and in the sea).

We trenched up our muddy footies all up on our rock and it did leave its mark, we tried to make it vanish but the filth just wouldn’t have it. So we offered instead our sincerest all sorry, to make them amends to our rock, our buddy, and to him our words from sweet, sweet Tim, living on out there, so we hope, in his house and doing so quite happily, we also do hope.

We love him so. We miss him all terribly.

O, and for shame, Jim.

He have an upper hand now, with Tim gone all struck down.

But we think he wouldn’t have it.

Jim’s too fat and is going to die probably.

And in this we find solace.

O, but it make us sad to think of him there…not knowing just where out there does he be, our sweet Timmy. Somewhere in his home, we hope, maybe making amends and fixing all up to save us all over.

We’d like to think so, and we do.

We weep for him in our thoughtful hearts and it does stain us unto our feet again.

But no, we wipe away our tears and struggling though, celebrating happiness and joy as he gave us, on land and in the sea. We take this rock to be a help of his hands, his sweet giving hands and we crawl up and lie down atop them to sleep now, O please.

And we thank him for it.

Once as is waking, we pitch about and start up with creeching as we see the sea from atop our great rock, all carved with his words. Our mud done all gone, and now here in this dim and dank time we see the sea all rising up around us and dispensing with the filth we crawl in!

(As crawling is my world, it dispense with my world.)

(And I thank him for it.)

All water comes rising, we hear it go sloshing, we hear it all there and of forever, might never stop. Could be we won this time. Is a very good possibility, but we’re all too bad ‘cause we just can’t remember.

Maybe, and likely, but possibly not.

And that sticky and shiny atmosphere it did change itself while we was dozing. Used to be it was all awful hot, what did melt at our skin and make us sweat it and leak down our faces, our backs, going dripping along in the filth and trace patterns on our dirty flesh. Was very hot, yes.

But now gone all cold, yes I should think so. Chilly in its worst way and blows now all freezing on our faces to wake us up while we slept.

So very cold now, a welcome change. And it stings on our sweated flesh, in glue in the muck as it freeze to our being.

And now we becoming all, as it does freeze so, we to become some like new creatures, and we take it as commonplace. These small little changes on us now and again, we take in stride and accept it as so. O yes, we scream some and like as to tear at our skin, but we accept it, yes.

And in our new flesh, we look all around and did come to agreement, we leapt from our rock with its beautiful carving and into the sea to live as we might. Our new freezing likeness does open up to the sea and let it in and we soak in it, accepting it as us and it take us up and take us down, and once and twice and all over again.

It turning all gorgeous.

And maybe…

Yes, this is very good at that.

We’ll be very content, yes.

Happy at that, yes.

O, praise him, do.

And our toes do scrape on the filth way down there, it squish through our toes.

"Up and Down Like Stupid Toys"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.

And we ran so fast and so far, all feet going THUD on them smacking the ground.

They gone all THUDDING and crashy on the dirt, it was so hard, so thick and so very very awful. And like it we continued, on and on, so far and so good.

We did, we hid past the daylight and far from the night, we went running and THUDDING and CRASHING and CREECHING as our legs would not stop. We did try to convince them, but our heads was too quiet, our legs was too stubborn.

O, so fast and so far, and some of us like as to die, I should think. We couldn’t to stop and to save them, I shouldn’t think, for that would entail us stopping our tracks and to freeze on the spot, dead like a doornail, or walk like a loosefish.

We couldn’t remember, I shouldn’t think, what it was we was running from, not all entirely, maybe hideous noises or bastards then, probably.

O, but then…yes, I’m afraid it was, then. When the earth split wide open and we saw us reflected in his skin, it did make us turn and retreat, yes. All screaming and yelling, our feet going all THUD THUD THUD as we turned and beat feet.

O, and ha ha! We do try to forget these things, as they tend to so poison our mind.

We instead we do memorize cheerful happy tunes, good tunes with lots of fiddly bits and happiness and joy. We whistle them in our frightened heads and hum all long:

“When they who to the sea go down and in the waters ply their toil are lifted on the surges crown and plunged where seething eddies boil…”

It give unto us poor filthy retreaters and great and grand and magnificent comfort, them we words seen, what we heard written and passed down from such many generations, from fathers and so on.

We repeat them in our heads we do, as we kept on our running, our THUDDING of feet on the filth. And we did run, and it did cost us our breath.

We all to take pleasure in finding something pointier.

We hit upon a house out there in that distance, rose up on the horizon and shone out in the darkness like a silvery space-dog out amongst the constellations. We did though keep running so, and as we passed it and glimpsed him inside, a frowning little man, we made motion with hands to signify him to move on along like us there, the smart ones, but he couldn’t get it I don’t think.

Poor him, though let us never say that we didn’t try.

I think maybe the house and him, it may have erupted way back there where we left it, but then again, we hope not. He did seem to tired there, that little man and a house. Maybe it gone all quiet for him, the days all gone and his body retreated back home where it like to belong.

We tried to keep thinking like these things, maintaining a positive mental query and holding with both hands the neck of our sanehood.

And THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD gone our feet on the filth! O, I remember it as though yesterday, yes!

We hated it, O didn’t we? All full of fear, of course we ran. Any lesser soul would’ve crumbled right there on the spot, but we did beat feet and we kept right on running from there where it split open and up he done came, right down from heaven and up from hell.

We did run on, propelled like forward by them sights and sounds and knowing our reward should we reach it.

We did though, didn’t we?

Yes, and we like it very much thank you.

Our absolute freedom as we found it, all spectacular, yes.

And we found ourselves at the top of the hill, despite we probably didn’t climb it. We not to complain, as it was welcome change and what we had looked for. Down there at the bottom we saw our waiting salvation, the water in all its glory, beckoning with its dripping arms open, tossing itself all up and down and calling us to it.

And we came running down the hill, feet THUD THUD THUD, all aching gills, and did we collapsed into the sea, to our everloving joy to forget what we seen and what did done rose up out there, back behind that house what’s probably all gone now, poor thing. We ran straight there into the water and under the waves, drifting on down all lazy and soft like meadow-grass under the flood.

We went and we hid down there as we knew we should, maintaining a distance and joining the plankton.

"Loosefish and Fastfish"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.

He come stepping through grass ever so slow as he does, passing over and granting indifference to a cluster of ants swarming in an ants’ nest.

He look up with face smiling all glistening solitude. All shaky hands and spittle resolving and lining his quaky foundation.

We hope on him to line his pockets.

He keep go along and we do watch him in silence. We to observe him and see what to repeat. His actions all glorious, though we do hate him. This bastard oppressor, he suck at our doors. He do not know what we feel out toward him and likely he won’t never will.

Our doors is all locked, we watch from out window. Him who does step through as slow as like snails, he so careful to never step and harm a small being.

Him ever so careful, he is. We seeing his hands as they jibber and twitch about his cold body, check now his cufflinks, check now his buttons. He wipe down his brow, he scratch at his nose, him to never let fingers a-come to a rest.

Though we may have mis-spake, for now once now or twice so he does stop his fiddling and bark out in sing-song syllables:

“3. 1. 18. 4. 9. 1. 3. 19.”

And we dare not to question it.

While in general we do as instructed and scrawl out scribblings about his behavior, in this we reject. It have gone now too far.

We do not write it down, we do not dare translate.

We been so mistaken.

Him out there, he checking all cufflinks and snappy lapels, he turn head and he eye us, he spy through our window and give us a grin.

It shake to our core as our day here is there and it lies out there with him.

As we sits weeping he out there is dancing and blasting his grin up there onto the sky.

Arms gone straight and fingers done twitching, he hold his face up and bark like a bad dog. It give us a scare and it give us a start. We to jump out our skin if we wasn’t sealed it.

He dancing and singing like it say he would do. We consult we do our scribbly scrawls and we search for a purpose. We quiver in our sick discovery.

And then here come Organ, down from heaven and up from hell. A blasting all screechy and beautiful noise it is, shaking our silence and to cheer a fainting mind. He make us all to wipe at our eyes, to stare out our window into the Whole World.

Now living out there is our Organ resplendent. He live and he breathes all same air as we do.

Everyone laughed we were all so happy.

Jim came running down the hill.

"Tattered Title in a Different Time"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.

Him all smacking and shake it against his little home, he beat it on the bars and cry out with injustice. Him there in his home, smack with his fat fingers, our dear little him, never dreadful and monstrous, him delightful him.

He lift up his little toy what we won him at the outside and he grin with his big shiny tooth. Him to hold it up with beaming sincerity and mumble a word what could very well be a great hearty thank you.

We do not and could not would ever reprimand him. Sweet sticky thing down there in his little home, scrawls on the walls some words we can’t fathom and can’t dare muster up.

We mumbles out words and our him he goes:

“Yes.”

We mumbles out more and more and he lift up his face:

”Yes!”

He show us in his damned fat fingers his precious what we won him. We grin all down on him and he hold it in abundance.

In nighttime him lie there, breathe silent and plunging off into that dream town.

We stand all around him and stare at fat body. The toy what we won him does fall from fat fingers and we each and all of us do so admire it. We scoop it up slightly and watch its sweet magic.

With sacred patience and a short silence, we retrieve our majesty from that little toy and we keep careful monitor that him does not awaken and see us as we do it.

Filthy fingers of ours slip over the toy and unlock the crying chorus that will sing us to sleep.

The sound what it comes out does lift us on high. It like nothing before and we weep as it sing us, with cosmic projection and sound of constellations spinning in time with silvery space dogs.

It will sing us to god, to sweet him if we are lucky.

“Holding these things in my hand, and I end up seeing everything.”

When him awaken he see us all smile, we stroke his fat face.

Him reach for his toy, what we won for him on the outside and he hold it near and dear. He grinning up and we spy a shiny tooth, slick with hours of timeless life living.

We watch him crawl around on all fours like a good dog and we praise him for it.

Him cuddle down in his little home and run fat fingers across the bars we put for protection.

Them, they may want him but we do protect it. Our sweet little him, we love him so, we do. They’ll never have him, for this him is ours. We found and we bore him, we made and shall raise him. We was it, yes, who won him that toy from out there on the outside, and with it shall we be, and through us shall it be to him. Our precious protection and the glory of the cosmos. We love and protect him, our sweet little Jim.

"Jim Parades a Toy"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers writes things like a good fishy and he eats and sleeps mostly. He's too fat and is going to die probably.

My name is Jim and I am the Antichrist.

You may be sitting there thinking, “Oh, this guy’s cool, he’s so hardcore and evil and shit” but that just isn’t the case. I’m not the type of guy you hear about when people mention the Antichrist. I’m not all pentagrams and inverted crossed. I don’t have a “666” birthmark, although I did have a mole removed that some folks used to say looked like Tchaikovsky. I don’t even wear black that often. Sure, I have a couple suits, and a big black overcoat I wear when it’s really cold out, but so do lots of people. So if you’re expecting I’m some Marilyn Manson-esque crazy-looking dude, I’m not. I try to look nice when I go out. I am 250 pounds with balding grey hair and a droopy face. I live in a little house and I go to work every day.

I live my life just like anybody else, and one day I suspect I’ll die just like anybody else. At least I hope so.

You might still be thinking it’s cool to be the Antichrist. Well, yeah, I guess it would be if it really meant anything. I don’t have any special powers fueled by the fires of hell or anything. I’m just the Antichrist and that’s that. I’ve known my whole life. So has my family, and my friends, and many, many therapists.

See, when I was very young I just felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere. Something was always missing. I kept to myself, I would cry at very small things. When we realized that I was the Antichrist, it didn’t make my psychologist very long to figure out what was wrong.

The trouble is there’s no God. And as there’s no God, there’s no Christ. And as there’s no Christ…

But here I am. Nobody can figure it out. By all standards, I shouldn’t exist. I’m an opposite of a nonentity. That type of thing doesn’t really work in a world where physics and reason are major factors. But reason and physics took a short break for one moment in time, and I guess I’m what leaked through.

An Antichrist to a nonexistent Christ.

And that’s why I never felt like I fit in. It’s because I don’t. My place in existence is moot. There’s no point to me. I’m not being melodramatic. I’m not striving for attention. Far from it. There’s just no reason to me. You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to wake up every morning knowing that you literally have no purpose in the world. It crushes you, every instant of every day.

I shouldn’t exist.

And yet, I do.

Oh, sure, I tried to kill myself. I tried it a number of times. But I could never really do it. I eventually gave up on suicide and decided to try and live my life as best as I can.

I got a job in a bookstore. I’ve worked there for twenty years. It’s not much, but it’s a living. I read a lot anyway, so it’s not a bad fit for me. Every once in a while somebody will come in who might recognize me from the occasional cable documentary. You know, the metal-heads or faux-Satanists who think it’s so “brutal” that I’m the Antichrist and want me to sign their demo-tape or drink their blood. Sometimes I’ll give them an autograph if they seem like sane enough people. They think it’s cool, and if it helps them get by, hey, why not? But never the blood stuff or anything. I very politely decline those offers. I don’t think those folks really understand that I’m a human. Yes, I’m the Antichrist, but I’m also human. I’m not a bad guy, I’ve got feelings, and I don’t particularly enjoy getting offers to host sacrifices or “drink a chalice of virgin blood”. In fact, a few times when the people proposing these things seemed a little too sincere about it, I’ve notified the authorities. I think it’s the least I can do, particularly if these folks claim to have been inspired by me.

That stuff really weighs on my conscience.

And while most of the people who approach me knowing who I am are Goths or metal-heads or whatnot, there are the very rare philosophers who think they know all the answers and want to know all about me because they think they can solve the mysteries of the universe through me. Honestly, sometimes they piss me off more than the blood-donors.

But once, just once, there was someone who actually seemed to genuinely care. I don’t know who he was. He didn’t stay around long enough for me to ask.

It was normal day, I was arranging books in the new arrivals display when I hear a man’s voice behind me ask, “Jim Smith?” and I turn around and there’s a tall man maybe a couple years younger than me with short, wild white hair and glasses, wearing a big black overcoat with a white dress-shirt and tie underneath.

I say, “Yes, can I help you?” and he steps forward and hugs me and he whispers, “I’m so sorry.” When he lets go and steps back he has a sad, concerned look on his face. He nods at me and walks out of the store.

Like I said, I don’t know who he was. But I felt like he understood. He could’ve been anybody, a crazy person, I don’t know. But it made me feel a little better for a little while.

And so, I keep going. I know there’s no purpose for me. And it’s still a terrible feeling, every day. But I push past it best I can and live my life for what it’s worth. It doesn’t feel like much, because it isn’t much, but I’ll live with it as long as I have to.

Hell, I’m too fat and going to die soon, probably.

"Poor Jim"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers writes things like a good fishy and he eats and sleeps mostly. He's too fat and is going to die probably.

Lee stumbles down the street in a daze, arms pleading outward, revolver dangling from a limp finger. The blood on his shirt matches the blood on his face, the mess in his hair. Words form and escape from his passive lips with no one outside yet to hear them.

A neighbor catches sight from within his home. He sees the gun, sees the blood, and calls the police.

The officers arrive and gently remove the gun. They lead Lee to the back of the car. With humans in range, Lee’s words are heard, softly, slowly, with dignified purpose and careful confusion:

“I have killed god.”

Lee makes the headlines while he sits in a cell. The lawyer appointed has given up hope. Lee says, “I did good” and says nothing else.

The people outside, the people in the country, put Lee’s words onto t-shirts, emblazoned on lighters, collectable handguns with laser engraving. Lee gets mail from his newfound admirers.

The people out there, the people on TV, feign shock and point fingers in the other direction. The people read Lee’s notes:

“They said I could, so I thought I would.”

The outrage on TV is Lee’s best defense.

Lee doesn’t get it. Lee is bought for interviews. Lee opens his mouth, looks up, says, “I did right.”

The kids don’t get it. They wear Lee on their t-shirts. The hungry and scared quote Lee to feel strong.

Lee tried to feel strong, and Lee felt accepted. Lee saw the faces and Lee heard the words.

Lee was condoned and Lee pulled the trigger.

His head exploded, and Lee became real.

Lee gets the news that it’s time for a transfer. Lee is in handcuffs, head down, and led away. Guards open the van and Lee steps out between them. They make their way through the crowd to the door.

Jack steps forward, holds his gun to Lee’s belly. Jack pulls the trigger and speaks in Lee’s ear:

“I have killed god.”

Lee dies in acceptance and Jack goes to prison. Jack is a monster with delusions of grandeur. Lee is a martyr, a sign of the times.

"Acceptance"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers writes things like a good fishy and he eats and sleeps mostly. He's too fat and is going to die probably.

The Colonel woke up and placed his feet on the floor. When he stood, he found himself plummeting through the floor, through the ground below, through the many layers of the planet. The Colonel went careening straight through to the center of the Earth, passed it, and kept falling.

As he approached the opposite side of the planet, which for cliché’s sake we’ll call ‘China’, the Colonel’s rate of descent dropped by the mile until he came to a brief complete stop. Then gravity kicked in and sent the Colonel falling back the way he came.

And this sort of thing continued for quite some time, hurtling toward ‘China’ then back toward home then back toward ‘China’ then back home and so on and so forth. With every reversal of gravity, the Colonel’s trip grew a little shorter until he was falling in twenty-foot increments to-and-from the center of the Earth.

After a good long while of flying back-and-forth from the core, the Colonel, nearly bored with the process, came to a stop. And there, sitting in an armchair at the center of the world, was the Major, who had spent all night digging a Colonel-sized hole through the planet.

“Gotcha motherfucker,” said the Major.

“What is this?” asked the Colonel.

The Major grinned and leaned in. “Take your fucking dog inside.”

The Colonel could do nothing more than gape at the Major, sitting like a smug demon in his leather armchair at the Earth’s core. It was enough to go through the whole ordeal of arriving there in the first place, not to mention the physical impossibility of the whole damn situation, but now this? This was why he fell through the fucking Earth? To be taught a lesson?

“”That’s it?” asked the Colonel. “That’s why I fell through the fucking Earth? To be taught a fucking lesson?”

“It barks all day,” said the Major, “and it howls all night. I. Get. No. Peace.”

“You’re nuts.”

“You’re inconsiderate!”

“I…” The Colonel stopped and considered this.

Shit, maybe the Major was right. It was true, he did leave his dog outside all day and all night. And it was also true that it did bark and howl quite a bit. He could see how that would grate on someone’s nerves. Maybe he was being a tad inconsiderate to his neighbors. The Major was right, once he got home, the Colonel would take his dog inside, and maybe send each neighbor a small card offering his sincere apologies for any stress caused by the dog’s barking, and -

Hang on. Hold the fuckin’ phone. The Major spent valuable time digging a perfectly Colonel-sized hole through the earth. The Major just sent the Colonel flying through the fucking planet, and was now sitting in an armchair at the center of the earth. With no apparent means of escape.

Something is not right.

“How do we get out of here?” asked the Colonel.

The Major’s grin dropped.

He had failed to think that part through.

"The Colonel & The Major"

Copyright: © 2010 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers has spent the past three years selling hot sauce in New Hope, Pa. He lives in Lambertville, NJ where he spends his time alternately reading whatever he can and griping about the state of things.

Part I

(with love and regards to the late Bill Hicks)

Kevin walked deep into the woods with the baggie of mushrooms his friends had given him in hopes of experiencing a spiritual awakening like so many others had. He’d heard the stories and he wanted in on the fun.

He picked a good spot where he felt he could be one with nature, sat down, and commenced to what he believed would be a profound spiritual experience.

Kevin shut his eyes and let the effect take hold. When he opened his eyes, the woods around him had vanished and from the sky came a huge, indescribable object. Seven beams of light emanated from what must have been the center of the craft, and a calming voice began to speak from within Kevin’s head.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice said, “there is nothing to fear. There is never anything to fear. All matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration. And we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There is no such thing as death. What we think of as life is merely a dream. And we are but the imaginations of ourselves.”

Kevin’s eyes grew wide, and he was filled with a feeling of joy, knowing he was hearing an incredibly advanced being who knew the secrets of existence.

The voice in his head continued:

“We are all God, and we are all children of God. And God’s love is unconditional. There is never any reason to be afraid or to worry. Ever."

Tears ran from Kevin’s face.

“Is this all true, O great one?” Kevin asked, “Am I simply a vibration in the collective consciousness of God?"

The craft shifted in the air.

The voice in Kevin’s head said, “Nah, just fucking with you.”

A hole appeared on the huge craft. A mass of tentacles launched out, grabbed Kevin, and pulled him inside. The hole sealed up, and the object vanished into the sky.

Part II

A group of friends was sitting around in a forest clearing, discussing the different experiences they’d had on psychedelic drugs.

“I looked into the loving eye of God and saw my true self reflected,” said one.

“I danced on beams of pure energy with Buddha and Jesus.”

“The earth opened up and I felt Mother Nature at the core, Her eternal love emanating within and without everyone and everything on the planet,” said another.

“I was kidnapped by extra-dimensional beings and impregnated with the spawn of Cthulhu,” said Kevin.

"An Awakening"

Copyright: © 2010 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers has spent the past three years selling hot sauce in New Hope, Pa. He lives in Lambertville, NJ where he spends his time alternately reading whatever he can and griping about the state of things.

So, there we were. Camped out there in the middle of the goddamn desert, dog-tired after a full day of wandering around looking for the enemy in any cave or hole we were unlucky enough to come across. Dozens of fucking caves, a couple empty villages, not one goddamn spook in any one of ‘em. We were getting restless, cagey, we had all this built up energy and day after day there was no fucking release. Just wandering in the desert, getting more and more disparate and god-fuckingly tired every minute.

See, we’d been trained from day one to find the enemy and eliminate the enemy. Seek and destroy, get out that anger. We knew what they did and it was our job to make ‘em pay. And for a while there, we did. We had a few months of good and proper seek and fuckin’ destroy. We were taught the philosophy that there are no innocents in a warzone. And brother, this whole fuckin’ country was a warzone. Basically, we thought we had it made. It looked like endless days of finding nests of these fuckers, shakin’ ‘em up, mowin’ ‘em down, lettin’ the world know that we will not be fucked with.

It was good to have an outlet.

But times changed. It looked like the enemy dried up some. We did our job a little too well. And then we got the call from up top that me and a couple of my boys were being sent out into the fuckin’ wastelands to look for any rogue factions or recruiting areas or some such shit. Fuck, we were basically just looking for targets. Doing what we were trained to. Find the enemy. Destroy the enemy. We were good at that. Real fuckin’ good. There’s a couple of villages back there in the warzone who’d tell you that if they were still capable of pushing the fuckin’ breath out to make the words.

And that was that. Day after day of not one fuckin’ glimpse of the enemy and our blood was fuckin’ boiling. It’s like breaking an addiction, going that long without killing after having it pounded into your fuckin’ head ‘til it’s like a second-fuckin’-nature. When you’re that good at killing, you start to feel like it’s your obligation to yourself and your creator.

Shit…

So there we were, camped out there in the middle of the goddamn desert, exhausted and going crazy from that goddamn urge in our bloodstreams. No sounds around us for miles and miles, no caves, no tunnels, no holes in the ground. We figured it was ad good a place as any to set up camp and get some rest for the first time in a few days.
I’ll tell you though, it almost felt like being back home before wartime. Me and the boys all laying out under the stars in our standard-issue sleeping bags, talking shit and passing around one of the bottles we took from some town back in the thick of it. We talked about the battles, we talked about home, we talked about our respective girls.

Really, we just talked about stupid shit that held no honest meaning or consequence for any of us since, and we all knew this, at that point there weren’t many real emotions left in us.

That’s when we heard it.

We were all having a fake laugh about something no longer relevant, and when we stopped laughing we still heard someone makin’ noise. I don’t think we had ever been that fast to grab our weapons and face whatever the fuck was out there.

But we waited, and we watched. We might’ve been killers, but stupid mistakes had been made before that resulted in the death of some of our own. So we waited for this babbling fucker to show himself.

And out of the dark, here comes this sandnigger with his arms outstretched, wearing a white robe that I could swear was shining and some kind of glowing headdress, babbling a mile-a-minute in Arabic or somethin’.

We figured the fucker had a bomb strapped to him under that robe, and we didn’t even want to think about what made that headdress glow. Shit, we didn’t really have the opportunity to think about it. As soon as we saw that it was a sandnigger comin’ at us, instinct kicked in and we did as we were trained.

I would be a fucking liar if I was to say that after all that time waiting it didn’t feel great.

We emptied our goddamn weapons into that fucker and he stopped glowing real quick. After he fell, we went and checked out the body and we had ourselves a good laugh when we saw that we had somehow put a single bullet through the center of each hand and foot. He had a real peaceful look on his face though, what was left of it. Kind of like he’d been here before…

Goddamn…

And we were slappin’ each other on the back, riding the adrenaline, and the sky fuckin’ opened up. Like a huge white crack across the night. We saw that and we fuckin’ took off to a good vantage point.

Four horsemen came riding out. Four tired looking figures, riding tired looking horses. And pulled behind them in a funerary chariot was a beautiful Anti-Christ in an impeccable suit.

He left the chariot and looked down on the guy we’d killed. The Anti-Christ shook his sweet head and gathered the corpse up into the chariot’s elongated back.

They took off back into the white. The sky sealed up piss-yellow and faded back to the dark and the stars.

A voice like a chorus of burning pipe-organs said, “There is nothing left to try.”

Things haven’t been the same since.

"All the Same"

Copyright: © 2010 Josh Myers

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Josh Myers has spent the past three years selling hot sauce in New Hope, Pa.  He lives in Lambertville, NJ where he spends his time alternately reading whatever he can and griping about the state of things.