sow in peace

.

Clarence plodded his way down another side street at his lumbering pace, he kept glancing upward like a scared animal, the soaring towers above him like birds of prey circling their catch. He was a short, middle aged man with a graying beard, weighing sixty-five pounds more than his doctor recommended. An attempt had been made at making himself presentable, but it was debatable whether his shirt, or the scribbled note of directions in his sweaty palm was the more crumpled. He had dug through the back of his closet in the dark of early morning trying to find the single button down shirt he knew he had stashed away years prior. He had uncovered it at the very bottom of his wardrobe minutes before needing to leave the house. He did not own a tie. He was bound for the Admonition Office and was already late for his morning appointment. 

Clarence was stationed at a small branch on the edge of a town that did not have a memorable name, on the edge of the city he had never cared to visit. A few weeks prior however, he had received an Examination of Competence from the city center headquarters and a notice that his presence was required at said headquarters in two weeks time to submit it. He was not an employee of note and his work practices had always slipped under the radar which he preferred. It was much easier to be passed over than expected to climb corporate ladders, but perhaps they had finally uncovered the fact that he wore flip flops to the office, played video games for most of his work day, and regularly stole office supplies. Despite an initial flash of alarm upon receiving the notice, his natural state of disinterest returned quickly. His listless gaze had passed across the questions regarding his professional life and with a bored sigh he had begun to formulate his responses. He had worked hard to complete the Examination of Competence or at least it had felt like hard work to him to attempt to summarize his lackluster work ethic in an inconspicuous way. While he was not particularly attached to his low level position, it would be great trouble to have to find another job and he was not at all interested in the exertion that it would require. He hoped that the uncharacteristic effort he had put into completing the examination would be enough to settle the matter quickly. 

He did not like to walk the main roads, preferring the shadowed, if circuitous, side roads, but eventually he arrived at the headquarters of his employer. With a final glance at the directions in his palm he completed its crumpling and tossed it to the ground, turning to behold the strange amalgam of modern and historical architecture in front of him. Most of the building was constructed with a variety of bleak stone slabs that had been fitted together in an unremarkable way, but the uninspiring palette was interrupted in a visually uncomfortable way by gilt columns that lined the front and towering spires that stood at each corner of the structure. Blocking out the rising sun almost entirely, the silhouette of the castle, or perhaps temple, like monstrosity loomed over the sidewalk. Some large birds had begun to nest in the top of the towers and their loud cries echoed out into the still morning air. Clarence pulled his wrinkled dress shirt down in an attempt to make it appear better fitting and trudged forward to the entrance. Glistening marble floors, skylight windows and another collection of columns that supported the 50 foot ceilings met him in the reception area. If Clarence had been more astute he would have immediately picked up on the pretentious and preposterous nature of every part of the space, but he neither noticed that nor the judgemental stare the receptionist gave him as he asked for directions to the Admonition Office and was pointed to the basement level. 

There was no elevator that descended, so Clarence walked the dimly lit staircase that led down. The weight of the building above seemed to compress down on him as he walked underground and the stifled air urged him to unconsciously unbutton the top button of his shirt in an attempt to lighten the feeling of suffocation. The room he entered when he opened the door from the stairwell was nearly empty and lit with rows of LED lights along the walls that had all once shone bright white, but now had a collection that emitted only an odd purple glow as their coatings had gone bad and had not been bothered to be replaced. At the center stood a small booth-like structure with a circus tent roof. The red and yellow stripes of the tent clashed unfavorably with the purple light and a large black and white sign hung crooked above the window of the booth that declared it the “Office of Admonition.” Clarence could not see anyone inside the booth when he entered, but as he approached it a chair swiveled and a wide eyed, smiling mannequin in a pinstriped suit sang cheerfully, 

“WELCOME to the Admonition Office, 

We’re so glad you’ve come to see us, 

Mistakes made right with just a jeer

Please insert your form right here.” 

At the final line it gestured mechanically to one of two slots built into the base of the booth. Clarence glanced around wondering if this was a practical joke, but after a moment of waiting to see if anything else would happen, and with a distinct desire to simply have the disruption to his comfortable lifestyle over with, he slid the papers into the slot. The mannequin spun around in his chair in a state of reverie and a low clicking in the background commenced as it processed the form. Clarence thought perhaps he saw its smile grow a little more wild as it evaluated, as if it particularly enjoyed the position of authority it occupied, but the lights were low and he was not in the habit of careful observation, so the thought came and left his mind with little evaluation. After a minute or two the excited voice rang out in song once more, 

“Your worth assessed by your own mind 

Rings true to you, but we must find 

That we as well see your potential 

Is still intact, corporeal and mental. 

To prove to us make it your mission 

Make a complete Act of Petition.”

The song concluded and from the second slot in the booth came a single piece of paper. The strangeness of the circumstances was beginning to exhaust him, as he was not one for theatrics, but Clarence reached out to pull the paper from the slot. It swiftly dawned on him that the ordeal was not over yet. An Act of Petition, not just an assessment of competence this time, but a personal plea to preserve his position at the organization was now required. He had just 3 hours to submit this new document. He was not in the habit of recommending himself and his shoulders drooped in a dejected state of despair. With a last look at the delighted expression of the inanimate employee, he trudged out of the scattered purple darkness, past the disapproving receptionist and back onto the streets of the city, now in the midst of its mid morning bustle. 

In his lethargy he was caught up in the unrelenting crowd and carried off wherever the crashing tide of people flooded. They led him to a park and deposited him on a bench facing a large oak tree full and brilliant in its summertime dress. He crossed his arms in a sullen manner and gazed upward into the canopy of green leaves and the sunlight that intermingled with them. He did not spend much time outdoors these days, but this picture of serenity, of light and leaves, made him recall a time of life when he had been more adventurous. Rebekah always loved nature. Her enthusiasm had been enough to encourage him to join her. More than half of their relationship had been spent outside, he winced as he remembered it was also where it had ended. Her zest for life had sustained them for a while, but then she had begun to expect things from him. He didn’t like the oppressive feeling that it had aroused in him and had often acted on an instinctual need to push back on what he had considered unnecessary pressure. He would have followed her anywhere, why couldn’t that have been enough? He had felt assured of his innocence in the matter at the time, but thinking of it now, alone, on a park bench 15 years later he felt a new emotion surrounding it, remorse. Normally this was not a feeling he would have entertained, if he had even been able to discern it at all, but today it seemed to soak into him like the sunlight coming through the leaves. Clarence stood up, perhaps if he moved the conviction could be left behind on the park bench. He began to follow the scent of a collection of food carts that was reaching its way throughout the park as noon approached. He passed corporate giants in high powered suits and hardworking lines of pavement ants. Expensively dressed socialites and those with only the clothes on their backs. He saw ravenous pigeons and rats and delicately particular bees and hummingbirds. And he saw all the children with their parents. He had never wanted children, the ultimate commitment to long term expectations, but as he watched the children run to their parents with their treasures and tales, there was a sense of loss that rose from his core. Why he should feel sorrow over something he had particularly chosen to avoid he wasn’t sure, but he was impressed with the sense of lacking a legacy he could be proud of. He thought of his own father, and the funeral he did not attend, and the reality of being a disappointing legacy in his own family line incited his growing awareness of the consequences of his life choices. Moving away from the park bench had been a mistake it seems, for the internal turmoil he was battling now was far worse than he had felt there. It did not seem that many of his familiar escape routes of apathy were going to work this time. He was not without recourse yet though. If sloth was slipping away, gluttony was a fair replacement and he descended on the food carts with a voracious appetite and spent the second hour of his allotted three hours time to complete his task in a state of delicious consumption. 

The sun overhead was getting hotter and the sweat began dripping down Clarence’s back and underarms causing conspicuous dark patches to appear. He surveyed the variety of empty wrappings strewn across the picnic table he sat at now, the one in the corner of the park, the outskirts of anything always suited him best. Empty. Empty. Empty. He looked directly down at the tray of the final hot dog he had consumed. A splash hit the sauce stained sides and then another, and another fell into the paper basin. Clarence wept. He was not sure when the habits of his lifetime had ceased to satisfy him, but he did know it was only now that he realized how littered with vice his personal history had been. He pulled the Act of Petition out of his pocket and flattened it across the tabletop, being abnormally careful to avoid any bits of food that might stain the glistening white page, and for the next while he thought. Thought about things he had never thought to think before and when he had thought all he had needed to think, he wrote a single sentence on the sheet and then read and reread it, concluding that while it certainly wasn’t impressive, it was honest, which satisfied a deep longing in him that he had not known he had needed to satiate. 

This time, when Clarence passed by the receptionist upon reentering the monolithic building, he noticed her sneer. She looked especially monstrous wearing the expression with the backdrop of all the false grandeur and he wondered how he had missed such a blatant display when he had arrived in the morning. Delicately holding the neatly folded Act of Petition in his hands he descended again into the corporate depths. The mannequin’s posture lit up as its sensors became aware of activity nearby when Clarence approached. It did not sing this time though, but stared with its shiny, almost hungry, eyes in anticipation of the sustenance it was expecting in the form of Clarence’s plea. How an inanimate thing could communicate such an unnerving expectation Clarence did not know, but he did not feel concerned now and with more assurance than he had known himself to have for far too many years he slipped his petition into the waiting slot of the booth. The robotic dictator began to wind up ready to process the response, but slowed down before it got the chance to make much of a show of its eagerness. After a moment’s silence, it read the sentence written on the paper in a slow, incredulous, tone. 

“I am sorry.” it quoted  

“I am.” Clarence confirmed. 

The head of the dummy clicked from side to side as it struggled to compute the plain honesty of the statement and finally, in a strange and desperate tone, it called out, 

“What can a simple sorry do?

There must be more we can get from you!”

As it sang it flung its body forward and its gritty wooden hands grasped in front of it as its agitated system begged Clarence for more, more regret, more shame. It was obviously used to a greater display of desperation from its patrons. Clarence watched the charade with an ever growing awareness that his desire for integrity, to face his guilt with honesty so he could then move forward in a different way, was not going to appease his interlocutor and as the booth’s resident began to compute that it was not going to receive what it had been expecting; it began to divulge into its own version of the judgement that permanently resided on the face of the receptionist above and in a crackled voice it belted out, 

“Your last chance to be allowed

To stay with us, don’t be so proud

Reveal to us your deep ambition

Leave your worthless personal mission!”

In response to this call to action, Clarence straightened his shoulders, turned from the belligerent hysterics and walked away leaving the mechanical mocking to echo in the dim underground with only itself. 

Clarence walked on the main road to the train station that would take him out of the city and on his way home, he bought himself a tie. 

♰

.

The walls of windows that made up the main offices were glistening and clear, giving everyone on the street the perfect motivation to cast their gaze, and their ambition, towards the sanctuary that soared above them. Inside the corporate paradise a vast collection of employees worked out their salvation from anonymity and on the 40th floor a cart of interoffice mail was being bumped along unceremoniously by a youth who had likely gained his position through a charitable act of nepotism as his attentiveness, or lack thereof, to the responsibilities of the job were clearly not of a high enough quality to have achieved the opportunity on true merit. While many pieces of mail were misplaced or forgotten throughout the short time he had occupied the role, on this day he made no error in delivering the large manila envelope to a luxuriously decorated office and even, uncharacteristically, noticed the flash of surprise that ever so briefly crossed the face of the stylish woman of around 50 years of age on the receiving end of the formal piece of mail. Just as the item left his hand, however, his watch beeped the reminder that the work day had ended and, abandoning the mail cart in the unnatural habitat of the office hallway, he began whistling a carefree tune and did not notice anything more than his own desires as he walked out to fulfill them.  

For a moment Sibyl held the manila envelope out in the exact way she had received it, her mind too stunned to communicate with her body that she could, of course, move. Shaking her head in an effort to clear the intrusive thought of what might be inside of it, she placed the envelope on top of her desk and ever so slowly pulled out the single sheet of paper held within it. Her breath caught in her chest and she began to tap her long fingernails on the hard marble of her desk, repeating a variety of her favorite centering mantras under her breath. Recovering for the moment, she placed the paper into an expensive leather briefcase that sat perfectly in an illuminated alcove of the built in bookshelves standing behind her, pulled the case from its perch and her heels began clicking promptly on the smooth floor as she made her way to the elevators. The ride down the 40 levels to the ground mirrored the decompression she forced onto herself, perfecting it a little more each time a floor passed. By the time the doors opened she walked resolutely onto the sidewalk, her stride and composure convincing enough to fool anyone, including herself, that she hadn’t a care in the world.

The tedious dance between winter and spring had recently relented and the springtide breeze carried with it a variety of petals that the carefully curated city trees were proudly showing off. It was that lovely time of year when urban nature put up a gentle fight in an attempt to offset the artificial structures around it. Even the most immersed resident could be affronted with visions of tranquility as the warming air reached its way through the city and to the souls inhabiting it. 

The streetlights, flashing green, yellow, and red, controlled the streets like little dictators situated high above the people. Some submitted to their rules without contention, most balked at the authority the contraptions held, others outright ignored them, rationalizing their certainty that they were the exception to the rule for each of their own, self-assured, reasons. Lights flashed, horns honked, voices shouted and feet traipsed the ways of intertwined existence and on the corner of one road that met with other roads was an old man preaching a young man’s gospel, the sort you could tell he had taken up in his youth but, due to either substance or application, had not served him well in life. Despite its obvious failings however, his fervor to evangelize the ‘truths’ of it spilled out of him like a compulsion. “Come to your senses!” he screamed at those passing by, “Can’t you see how much you need this!“ Sybil brushed past him, barely discerning him from the collection of other faces on the sidewalk, and strode across the road to the one on the opposite side while the light facing oncoming traffic glowed green. 

The ride up to Sibyl’s penthouse apartment was the antithesis of her ride down at work. Her projected composure came gradually undone as she floated upwards and retreated to the safety of her empty home, the only place she felt was appropriate for a show, however brief, of vulnerability. She slipped into the darkened entryway and called out to the automated companion to set the lights and music to match her current disposition, the first step to giving her senses the care needed to insulate her reality. She set her briefcase onto a modern credenza and removed her sleek black heels, shaking a pink petal or two from them as she did. She stepped barefoot to the expansive space that housed her wardrobe, what she considered her most powerful assets, her closet, a veritable Batcave of potential paraphernalia to crush opponents and win allies. Primly, she set the shoes alongside a barely indistinguishable pair that merely began the row of footwear that lined the entire lower level of the closet. After a moment of repose, surrounded by her favorite things, she chose a particularly luxurious athleisure set that accented the parts of her body she had paid for with either money or sweat, decided on a, yet unreleased, pair of designer sneakers and left her apartment to visit the building’s shared gym. She had personal fitness equipment in her home, but the opportunity to flaunt her status and physique was not one she readily dismissed. Despite her present state of distress she would not abandon the code of intention and routine that had gotten her to where she was now, a position and appearance enviable by so many that it only made the satisfaction of having them more visceral for her. She ran on the treadmill soaking up every ounce of attention she pretended to ignore. 

It wasn’t until the sun had fully set and she had consumed a dinner made up of, mostly, liquified fruits and vegetables that Sybil turned her attention back to the contents of her briefcase, the specified mood music tinkling quietly in the background and a popular blend of essential oils diffusing to help keep her breathing stable this time. The windows of her penthouse had no blinds or curtains, an intentional choice, and from beyond them the city lights flashed like camera shutters desperate to capture Sybil’s display of life. She had been settled in this metropolis for the past 40 years and worked at the same business for nearly all of them. She had never married or had children, nor owned so much as a pet fish, and had never regretted that choice. She had committed her time to the ideals, and company, that had promised her actualization and had relished the attainment of financial independence and being the singular benefactor of her efforts. Women could be anything they wanted to be and Sybil had made her choice to become what she was and had succeeded in every aspect of it. She had placed her trust in herself, as she had been catechized to do, created an existence that inspired nothing but confidence and today, she had been fired. 

As the manufactured oil, like a hundred springtimes in a single bottle, circulated into every corner of her apartment, Sybil held the succinct notice of her termination in her hand and considered the incident that must have inspired her release. Her track record at work was near perfection since she had been hired, partly in truth and partly due to a bit of charisma applied at the right time to rectify a wrong before it was known. She had not gotten to where she was in life without a healthy dose of hubris to solve her shortcomings, but she had stumbled on a client contract recently, missing an important detail, and was not quick enough to apply her normal procedure. A younger employee had noticed and had taken the opportunity to exercise her own career goals by managing the client relationship herself. In the end it was she, and not Sybil, that had retained the client and even secured a more complex contract with them despite the original cause for the connection. A simple mistake, Sybil had thought, nothing compared to her established reputation at the company. She had not let the small cloud of defeat hang over her head any longer than it had taken to purchase a new pair of shoes and get a mani-pedi. These unexpected circumstances had brought all of it back to her however and they turned around in her mind in an uncomfortable way. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, with a flash of inspiration she pulled out her laptop to check her emails with the client. She didn’t recall signing out of her corporate inbox, but she typed in her password and felt her faith rising as she formulated her purpose. The loading page shifted to white, but in less than a second halted and returned to the login page with the message her password was incorrect. Sybil tried again, she was sure she had written the correct password. The same loading attempt landed her back on the login page even quicker this time and it struck her. She had already been locked out.  Something within her faltered, a structural crack in the plausibility of her reality, a deconstruction of her worldview against her will. The feeling of being out of control was infuriating and she crumpled the sheet of paper in her hands, throwing it away from her as an act of defiance against its authority to have decided her fate. Sybil felt nervous and agitated and made a mental note to acquire a different brand of essential oils from now on as this current selection was obviously faulty. Desperate to save herself, a new plan of action began to form in her mind. Along with its brief communication of her discharge, the notice had also requested her presence at an exit interview the next morning. An opportunity that could certainly be claimed in her favor, Sybil reasoned. She methodically completed her 12 step evening skincare routine, a  manifestation meditation and, in a bed made up with lavish sheets and expensive linen blankets, fell into a melatonin pill induced sleep dreaming nightmares that were forgotten the moment she awoke. 

In the morning, as the sun commenced another model spring day, Sybil, wearing her most expensive Chanel suit, sat in the office on the highest floor of the glistening skyscraper. Everything appeared small from this height, the traffic light’s dictatorship minuscule, the people on the streets even smaller compared to the looming observation of the office situated so far above them. Sybil was in the office, but she felt small too. She had been convinced of the quality of her plans the night before, but things were not going the way she had expected. “We feel that it is in everyone’s best interest that you spread your wings and use your potential to find another opportunity elsewhere.” her CEO said, her dazzling white veneers, contrasted behind hypnotizing red lips, fully revealed themselves as she smiled broadly and finished speaking. Her smile and tone incited unmistakable closure on the situation. In the past, when Sybil was on the other side of the situation, she had never wavered in her assurance that the right thing had been done. She was surprised at how unjust it all seemed today. The office seemed stuffy and claustrophobic despite the 15 foot vaulted ceilings. Sybil was not accustomed to seeking anyones favor, as she had always been assured she was receiving it without question, but, ignoring the sense of humiliation it aroused in her, she gave a final plea for her salvation using every method of flattery and appeal in her arsenal. The smile stayed sure on her boss’s face as she listened with rapt attention and then stood and began to walk from behind her desk. “Endings are merely new beginnings. Don’t think of this as a reflection of your capability, it’s clear you must have outgrown our little company here and there is so much more waiting for you if you will find your truth and rise to the occasion!” Her short walk ended at the office door which she opened with a flourish and gesture outward with her hand, still smiling. The sense of dissonance between word and action resounded in Sybil’s mind as she walked out, turning around just in time to see the door close quickly behind her unceremoniously.

Less than an hour later Sybil was standing on the street holding a box of various office paraphernalia. She had kept her office tidy and uncluttered and it mirrored her sense of internal loss as she packed up the things in the office that truly belonged to her and realized how little she would actually be taking with her. Despite the work day having begun two hours ago as she stepped out of the revolving doors to the street she was passed by the poor excuse for a mail boy who looked pleased with his conquests from the previous night and unconcerned with whatever might lay ahead of him that day. Sybil couldn’t help but cast a bitter eye towards him and raise her head in superiority as she turned her back on him and walked away. 

Heedless to the circumstances of Sybil’s day, on the streets, the same rhythm of lights and sounds and souls pervaded the city.  Nature’s springtime reverie had had its chance, but it was no match for the constant demand the city laid on its inhabitants’ attention. Her heels clicking in a less than rhythmic pattern, Sybil began her walk back home at a sedate pace, even allowing herself a glance at the old man still vigorously preaching his gospel, somehow even more animated in his message than the day before. She continued a block away from him and reached the cross walk just as the lights above glowed red and the vehicles came to a halt before them in deference. She glanced upwards towards the little yellow towers swaying slightly in the springtime breeze and then, with absolute conviction, took a step back, set her box down onto the street corner, climbed onto it and began to preach the gospel of the ways of life she had chosen for herself. Pink petals descended poetically upon the newest addition to the city’s corner prophet population, christening her with their fallen nature, tumbling into the gutters and grates along the road and trodden under briskly passing feet. 

♰

.

The glowing sphere was sliding down like honey between the towers of windows that reached high into the sky like hands in worship. Bugs were picking their way along the dirty streets between passing feet. Feet plenty enough to stamp out multitudes of crawling varieties, and yet, against the odds, the insects always found a highway of tranquility among the threatening pace, their existence continuing on in hordes in spite of the dominant species. The sun slipped below the horizon. The final moments of golden hour glinted off the lowest windows and off of the glassy eyes of a man lying at the same level as those tiniest creatures of the earth. They traveled towards him with purpose, knowing he belonged to them now, like they had always known he was coming to them. Attracted by an intrinsic appetite for decay, the minibeasts steadily took ownership of the body; they knew it was irrevocably empty now and time for it to receive its inheritance. 

.

Savior Saul flicked the mosquito off his arm as he climbed aboard the 5:30pm train that would take him back to his apartment on the outskirts of the city. It always seemed like the mosquitos liked him best and would single him out no matter where he was. His aunt used to say it was because they knew he was such a sweet boy, but he felt disgusted by their assumption that they had a right to any part of him. It was true that he had been a sweet boy. Generous with his friends, respectful to his parents, polite to those who preceded him in age, and kind to those who were younger, but as he grew it was as if the mosquitoes drained him of more than just his blood, for his sweetness emptied as well and, contrary to popular belief, the bugs only seemed to like him more with each passing year. 

The train car that had been crowded at the start gradually emptied as it jostled along the track further away from the city center, stopping here and there along its expected route allowing figures to pass on to their next destinations. The air was thick with worship, as it always was this time of day, most everyone having suppressed offering any throughout the daytime hours and, now having completed their work, were finally preparing to bestow it on each of their chosen altars. Those lucky ones that could offer their worship at work alleviated some of the rush hour burden, but most everyone was practically smothered in the worship they were desperate to surrender. 

It was Autumn and the sun was setting earlier. Savior didn’t mind. He preferred the gloom and would even offer a bit of worship to the clouds any time they might appear and promise that the sun would not be visible for a time. That shining sphere always called out to the hollow in his chest and he didn’t appreciate that it seemed to want to give something back to him or, worse yet, expect something in return. Even now, moments before the conclusion of the sunset, the little rays of light bounced off the train, doubling up and presenting themselves to those that sat along the rows of seats that lined the edges of the train car. Savior sneered at the rays’ willingness to go to anyone who might cross their path. How pathetic to have such little preference as to who they would fall upon. Even those little flecks of luminescence felt imprudent to him. He turned a wary eye towards the glistening circle that cast them out and took in a deep breath, this production of life the best way he could think of to mock the invitation of the sun and prove how capable he was without it. 

Savior directed his eyes away from the aureate glimmers and his expression dulled so as to not betray the manner of the hollowness in his chest. As he watched a spider slowly crawl its way up the darkening train window, he recalled when his chest had only first begun to empty. He had accomplished something he had been told he would need assistance with, but he had done it on his own with completely satisfactory results. He had realized that those around him were dishonest with him about what he could and could not do and that he was actually far greater than they ever suspected. This brought the first surge of something that fell in his chest as a mighty wave. He relished its power so much that he barely noticed, as it retreated, the wave took with it a bit of something that had been placed within him from the moment of his conception. At first this side effect of the waves appeared inconsequential, but eventually it seemed like the waves had become necessary perhaps to erode that something that had once been wholly situated in his chest. Had he even asked for it? Wasn’t it actually an unwelcome guest? Willingly he allowed himself to be emptied over the years and now he couldn’t even remember what it was that had once been there. Now it was simply empty, free from any kind of artifice or constraint. He surrendered to the waves from the start, fashioning their presence into an altar, combining the waves and his worship into something new he could savor within himself. Unfortunately, no matter how strong the waves, or contribution of worship, they would not last and eventually retreated, emptiness all that remained. But Savior even protected the emptiness vigilantly now for it always seemed there was something threatening it. As he judged the light flitting about the train a small wave lapped at his vacant chest, just what he needed to bolster his resolve that he was doing what seemed right to him. As he considered these thoughts he enjoyed some of the worship he had reserved for himself that night.  

The train halted at its final stop and Savior, along with a few others, passed on through the doors. He still had several blocks to walk before he would reach his front steps, so he began the journey down the freshly illuminated sidewalks. The street lamps were lit with man made lights that came alive as the sun expired, just the sort that Savior preferred. He passed many figures as he walked, all of them flushed with delight to finally be offering their worship. The drinks flowed, the music played and the bodies crowded each other interwoven with worship. Some directed their worship to particular altars, other worship was released with abandon, given to whatever altar might be the most willing to accept it. Above the hum on the street, in the many rooms of the buildings, screens buzzed, food was prepared, and lights were turned low by those who preferred to offer their worship in private. Despite the volume of public worship his path home was normally clear, so Savior walked with his head down making his way by habit but noticing the roaches communing with each other in the corners of the sidewalk. 

Because of how consistent his commute so often was he could not have expected the group of people walking neatly alongside each other filling the sidewalk in front of him and he nearly collided with the back row as he made his way up the street. He looked up with a flash of indignation to see a sort of procession before him. High at the front there was a tent-like structure slowly bobbing up and down leading the way. Another wave began to grow within him and he was acutely aware of the volume of focused worship amongst this group. Worship he was familiar with, of course, but to find it in such quantity all directed towards a single end was almost unsettling. He was unsure if it was curiosity or desperation with which he began to push his way toward the front of the procession, all the time the wave in his chest surging out of a growing certainty that this was an uncalled for event that was intentionally set on disturbing his path.  

Savior stepped hastily into each small unoccupied space between the members of the march and in doing so propelled his way to the front. While it would have been simpler to have stepped out of the crowd and gone around them in the empty road, the thought did not cross his mind as it seemed more correct to him to move about as an obstacle in their midst. He could see the ornate canopy getting closer and soon the back of a man underneath it. He was clothed in handsome regalia, layered and intentional. Savior pressed past the last of the marching members and rounded on the man at the front, the wave in his chest at a reliable height now and, with complete assurance, prepared to rebuke the entire assembly for their display. Before he could begin his speech, however, he noticed that the man held something before him. Savior stopped short in his crusade, causing the entire procession to halt before him. He stood still in astonishment and then looked towards the dark horizon and then back at what was held by the robed man’s covered hands. How had he collected the sun and set it in those golden clothes? 

Transfixed, he gazed at the pale circle in the resplendent fixture and a realization began to fill his chest. It had become near effortless to disregard or offend the light of day, but this one, like infinite suns combined, illuminated the memory of what had been washed away in his chest. His soul. It had been his soul that had been swept away so long ago. That considerable treasure that had been granted to him before he was conscious, that which was meant to be his inheritance for all time to come. That gift that had been given him and was designed to be reciprocated with duties of practice and reverence. Understanding flowed in his chest with the warmth of mercy, and a divine invitation requested entrance to his core, but the wave that had been building, and the pattern that had been habitually tended to for so many years, would not retreat quietly and it viciously lapped at that which had begun to occupy his chest once more. He closed his eyes to block out the sun and the wave began to break, some distressed worship even finding its way to it to strengthen it. When he opened his eyes again he knew in his wisdom what this actually was– it was dishonesty again. When had he asked for a soul? How trite that his inheritance should be something that was not solely his own. How cruel that he might be convinced he should give anything in return for this unsolicited gift. The wave struck faithfully in his chest, emptying it once more and assuring him that his true inheritance would be wholly of his own making. It was his choice and he would not accept anything that attempted to persuade him he must go any certain way. With this resolve he became placid and stepped aside to allow the procession to continue. As the members passed it was only then he noticed their singing. The chanting of some holy melody. He looked around more closely at them as they passed on and saw their souls filling their chests, practically bursting from within them, all of their worship unified, being poured out by way of sacred tradition upon the sun that led them. ‘Pitiful,’ Savior whispered under his breath. 

By the time the last of the procession had gone, the upset had been forgotten. The invitation to offering blotted out and the emptiness situated neatly again in Savior’s chest. The sky had darkened to its deepest shade and he walked the final steps to his residence and did not notice the flies that had begun to follow him. 

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