hlfogarty
Created thing. Sometimes hairy, sometimes not. My creature sits at home, naturally, and quite unnaturally lies on a chair and sleeps. I too am a creature but not that sort. Sometimes I wish I were. No worries or responsibilities - nothing to taste but my own fear and joy, the hot blood of my prey in my mouth. No guilt for wounding others; there is no morality in nature. No one questions the king of beasts, who starves and enjoys the wind in his mane on the savannah while my little beast purrs, fat, content, and bored, on my lap. It's the most unnatural thing for an animal to be domesticated, and yet the most natural - we humans conquer and use what we conquer for our own pleasure.
Hope is an anchor for the soul. The sunset was so bright, golden, crimson, an array of flower blossoms glowing in the sky and flowing into each other, but my heart was so dark, flooded over by despair. I had let go of my anchor. A sea of evil foamed, roaring, swirling up over the sides of my heart's boat, salt water spilling over from my eyes. I gave up to disobedience, to darkness. But Jesus calmed my storm, like He did so many years ago. He pulled my boat back to shore, whether I liked it or not, reminded me of His overarching love and He guards me jealously still. My soul is anchored.
Wohlstand. Staatliche finanzielle Hilfe. Dies ist ein sehr ladenes Wort. Ich habe gerade ein Essay darüber getippt. Ich kümmere mich um den Wohlstand anderer Menschen, obwohl nicht viele es als hilflich versteht.
"Staatliche finanzielle Hilfe hat unser Land ruiniert, verrotten! Wegen der Demokraten gehen wir nieder! Alles geht schlecht. Die Politiker verstehen gar nichts." Sie bietet mir ein säftiges Stuck Kuchens. "Und du, du willst Pfarrerin werden? Du willst keinen echten Job? Du willst, dass andere Leute dir dein Lohn schenken? Und mit diesen wirtschaftlichen Zuständen!"
So still wie möglich seufze ich. Ich beiße den Kuchen. Die Hälfte eines Erdbeers darin ist braun, übersüß, verroten. "Mutti," sage ich leise, sanft. "Gott hat mir das befohlen. Selbst wähle ich nicht. Gott wird mir alles nötiges geben. Ich werde die Welt verändern."
Sie schüttelt den Kopf und nuschelt. Sie weiß nicht, dass die einzige verrotten Sache ihr Kuchen ist.
Welfare. Well-being. Government aid. That is a very loaded word. I just now typed an essay about it. I am very much concerned about the welfare of others, though not many would see it that way.
"Government aid has ruined our land, made it rotten! We're going under because of the Democrats! Everything's going bad. The politicians don't understand anything." She offers me a juicy piece of pie. "And you, you want to be a minister? You won't get a real job? You want your salary to come from other people's money? And in this economy!"
Silently as possible, I sigh. I bite into the pie. Half of a strawberry is brown, oversweet, rotten. "Mom," I say quietly, gently, "God told me to. I'm not choosing this myself. God will provide everything for me. I'm going to change the world."
She shakes her head and mutters. She doesn't know the only thing that's rotten is her pie.
Hipsters always preaching: "Buy local." I can't. Sorry. I like this earth and the people in it, don't get me wrong. I love green trees, bright flowers, healthy animals, clean oceans. I want the farmers just out of town and my neighbors Juan and Donovan to keep steady jobs. But I can't. So I'm here, where it's cheapest, selfishly balancing my budget while eating away at their livelihood. I try to straighten my back proudly, but half my burden rolls off my arm. I don't owe the hipsters, hippies, liberals, eco-freaks any apologies. Why would Don't know why I'm thinking of hipsters now. My arms and mind are full enough of broccoli, substandard-quality ground beef, canned soup and a crying baby.
conceptually, it was a great design. Smooth, flowing, flawless, curved like ocean waves, the building seemed to whip in the wind like a flag of stone. Practically, there was a lot of wasted space on the inside where desks, shelves, telephones, beds, and refrigerators simply did not fit against the wall. Conceptually, he was a great guy: gave to charities, worked with the homeless, brought his wife flowers once a week. Practically, he was on his way to hell.
Red, yellow, blue. All glittering phosphorescent in vials and beakers. Volatile substances in my uncle's laboratory. At least, since they were locked away in the dark, I assumed they were dangerous. I was filled with curiosity about what he might be doing. Until a low, throaty growl vibrated through my heart and hot reeking breath heated my back. Then all I was filled with was senseless terror.