A Vision

Leaves rustled in the breeze and the old man rocked back and forth in his hickory chair. The porch boards creaked beneath the shifting weight of the rocking chair. The young man watched intently from his chair a few feet away. The old man stared out across the dusty plain beyond his dirt driveway.

"I remember it like it was yesterday," the old man began in a shaking voice, "though it was over sixty years ago." He paused to sigh deeply. The young man didn't move.

"When I was a little boy, Sunday school teachers used to tell Bible stories by reading them printed off the back of big pictures. There'd be two or three pictures per story. I don't remember any other pictures from those Bible stories. Just the one.

"I was about ten years old, and the family was struggling quite a lot. My mom in particular was taking it pretty rough. I was just an extra mouth to feed, and I used to hear my mom cry a lot because she couldn't feed us well enough. We had plenty of money coming in - enough at least - but she didn't ever think so. I don't know why she thought she needed more, or if that was the problem at all. Anyways, I was just another mouth to feed. I'd hear her cry day and night, and think it was over me because I was just one too many kids in the house. I tried to keep out of the way, but that didn't seem like enough.

"I didn't know what else to do, so I went into the kitchen one day when my mom was out getting groceries. I stood just a few feet from the knife block and reached my hand out. It was one of those cinematic moments when I planned to walk forward with my arm out, but I couldn’t move my feet any closer and I felt something holding my arm.

"That's when I saw it - the Bible picture. It was all I could see. The knife block wasn't there; I wasn't in the kitchen. I wasn't anywhere, I just saw the picture of Abraham raising a knife to kill Isaac on the altar. A flaming angel held his hand back from killing the promised son. I shook my head. I knew it wasn't real. I knew what I was seeing wasn't real, but I knew what I was feeling was. Something was holding my wrist the same way the angel held Abraham's.

"I don’t know for sure, but I think my jaw dropped. I knew that moment that I needed to stick around. God had placed me on the earth for a purpose, and I was more than an extra mouth to feed."

Nightmare

I saw your sweet face clearly in the night. It was a dark room, but I saw your pale skin illuminated in the moonlight. I thought I was standing in a corner. Your eyes - sparkling blue, and playful as always - locked with mine and you walked directly towards me. Something wasn't right.

You told me you wanted to be reconciled as your hand caressed my face. You gently took my hand and moved it to your own cheek. We were meant to be together and you had come back for me. The words "I'm sorry" formed on your lips, but they never came out of your mouth. Something wasn't right.

You told me everything would be alright as you moved your mouth closer to mine. I took a step backwards and discovered the wall. You held me in the corner, and you told me you wanted my soul. Something wasn't right.

I tried hard to think what had ripped us apart before and how I managed without you. Somehow I managed to remember that happiness with you was only a dream. Reality with you was living a nightmare.

Get back from me, incubus, you can't have my soul!

I threw off your ghost with ease and watched it wither instead of flee. I opened my eyes and sat up in bed. Was that only a nightmare?

A Thought

My head holds stories that I think I ought to be told, but my hand is sluggish to let the narrative unfold.
Why is that, do you think?
Do you know, dear reader,
how lucky you are that these words were released from their prison through my pen?
I'll venture a guess that it has something to do with success.
Michal taunts from above each time I'm stirred by a Dove.
Well, watch my pen dance!
I may be self-conscious, but I have another Conscience too, and between Him and you I'm better off snubbing you.
Don't quiet me down; listen up instead:
I'm not a poet, but I'm a stone and a vessel; a priest and a branch. So watch me grow, nourished right from the vine.
I rant and I rave and with each line I grow brave. So come out, little stories, don't let criticism hold you back. Take it in and grow strong. I won't be far away to mend what I  can and send you back out for more. Promise me this: don't lose sight of what we're fighting for.