The Hanged Man

I found his body hanging in a grove of pine trees as the light filtered down from the wooded canopy deep in the dense forest far outside town. He had tightened the noose around his neck and jumped from the highest branch that would not snap under his weight. He was a dedicated man to the end. Had the branch been too thin or the rope too loose, he would have crashed to the ground bruised and shaken but alive.

That would simply not do.

He had bought strong rope and tied the noose carefully. He had chosen a sturdy tree with thick ancient branches that had probably supported generations of black bears climbing its limbs to reach the honeybee hives at the top. This would be done right, a quick short 'snap!' No lingering, gasping death at the bottom of a bottle of pills, no messy gun blowing out the back of his head for someone else to clean up, no bloated drowned corpse washing up outside the tallest bridge in town; only a quick clean death would do.

Why he picked such a remote location I've never been sure. Maybe he simply wanted his body to never be found. To erase his existence off the face of the earth; hoping that no one would remember he was ever here. Wiping their memories clean of his fastidious but pointless life. Even for the event of his own death, he wore a carefully pressed suit with a equally carefully knotted tie and carefully shined shoes. I think he was a careful man in life and thus planned his death with equal attention to detail.

I sat among the sun dappled pine needles and woodland grass and stared into his glassy eyes. The dead hold more truth than the living ever will. I lifted my eyes to heaven and let the drifting clouds fill my vision. I felt the late summer sun dance over my face. The wind carried the gentle rustling of rush weeds and the twittering of small brown sparrows hunting for beetles in the thorn bushes. A small stream babbled a gurgling song near by and crickets chirped a chorus of longing across the fields.

I stood and turned to walk away. When I looked back his mouth fell open and a mass of shiny newly born black flies flicked their wings open for the first time and took flight into the sweltering swarming heat.

I was right. There is no more truth than this. With that parting thought, I put one foot in front of the other and walked back home.

"Then later on that day about a quarter mile out of town,
I found his body hanging in a grove of pines, swaying in the wind.
And as he swang that rope sang another hymn to Jesus,
And this time though I don't know why,
I somehow felt inclined to sing along." Still Waters, Jim White

Run From My God

Your face is bleeding. The blood thick and shiny like red pomegranate juice running down your cheek and painting your lips like a perverse rouge. Your tears have mixed with the blood as you fold in half and collapse onto the platform. You were right; you knew this is where you would fall with all these glassy-eyed hordes looking on in vague horror. You were right.

Only I would bend down to clean the fear off of you face and close up the wounds. You, however, would not let me touch you. Held your hands up over your face and screamed. Closed your eyes like looking upon my face was looking upon the sun. Like you were breathing in my hair and it was fire. Like I would burn you if I touched your bare skin. You screamed, "You are the dawn! I saw you creeping over the horizon and I have feared and hated you! I will run from your blinding god! Your shining face of god..."

I am not of the treacherous sex but I think you believe I am. Why else would you not let me brush the blood from you eyes and cradle you in my arms? I could stop this but you will not let me. I could drive these hordes away. Force them from the circle they have formed around you to hold you here. They enjoy watching you bleed. Licking their lips for a taste you; they are going to consume you if you turn your back to them. These are sharped-teethed devours hiding in the crowd; circling for a chance to strike. To lick that blood from you forehead until you can no longer move. This is a trap.

If you will not let me touch you I have no choice. I have no choice but to walk away. To leave you in the hands of these giggling psychopaths who will stroke your hair, whisper sweet sugar into your ears, kiss your eyes and drive their fists into your chest searching for your heart. I could have stopped this but now have no choice but to walk into this dawn of my god and become the fire that lights the world with the shining eyes of my soundless devotion to your salvation. I have no choice.