Jan 2015
The latest issues of Tales of Horror, is perfectly positioned in my bible. My eyes gleam with satisfaction as I read how a werewolf ekes out just deserts to a mass ******. A small chuckle slips through my lips. Barely perceptible but in church my mom has eagle ears. With swiftness that would leave the wolfman in awe the comic is swiped from my bible, and I take a smack to the back of my head.
My eyes get heavy. I lose the will to stay awake. Elbow safely secured on the pew, I lean forward as if I am enraptured by what the preacher has to say. Then let go, so close to sleep, a way to get away from the doldrums. The old man drones on in a monotone. Suddenly, he raises his voice. My arms collapses causing my forehead cracks against the pews. A red mark starts to form inching its way across my face like a mutant birthmark. Now I am awake. Eyes glaring forward.
The brown baptismal curtain reminds me of nutty buddies. My mouth waters with the fantasy of devouring the whole curtain, like some giant trucker. A swelling stomach riding over my cliché buckle, until my fat explodes into some sort of creepy communion wafers and wine. It splatters my fellow church goers in some sick form of salvation. The pale parishioners panic then succumb to some unknown hunger feasting upon the remnant of me like a bunch zombies. Freed from the need to be rational they rage on. Dead men and women begin to leave the church ready to infect the world with their form of living death.
A hand smacks the back of my head. Mother glowers, the intensity of her gaze is meant to put the fear of god into me, ironically. The preacher carries on. Some **** about the armor of gods and the denizens of hell oozes out of his dry voice.
My ears ***** up. The sound of mighty warriors ring through the church. Savage blows bounce off the shields of saints. Angels scream, as demons pluck their feathers, plunging them into the furnace that is hell. Smoke fills the pews with the noxious fumes of burning flesh. The **** moan for mercy. Fingers try to rise from perdition only to be chopped off by the razor sharp wings of the Archangels.
“Back to hell you vermin.” The Angels scream.
The recently and expensively redone floors now wear a masses of ****** bodies, some corpses are demons, some are angels. However, all bodies bleed the same color.
Satan’s sinister grin fills the stain glass windows. A fury of wind shatters each pane, causing shards of glass to rain down upon the parishioners. My fellow church goers scream and run away. Their flesh is marred by bleeding scratches. Beneath their feet other parishioners are trampled. Moans of agony rise from the ground, followed by the rising white ash. Puffs of dark smoke swirl around and….
and my mother smacks me in the back of the head again.
“Pay attention.” She growls.
Looking at the clock, I smile devilishly. It is time for the last prayer. The preacher passes it on to one of the deacons. A small stout figure brushes back his black thinning and greasy hair, and begins to pray.
“What a relief.” I think.
Fifteen minutes later the deacon is still praying. He has cycled back to the same **** over and over. I swear sometimes the deacons think it’s a contest. They are trying to see who can pray the best.
A hand slams down from the heavens smashing through the ceiling and crushing the Deacon. His obese frame is flattened causing it to explode like a popped pimple. Red juices and slippery viscera paint the aisles.
A heavenly voice scolds, “knock it off. People have things to do.”
A laugh pierces the pew.
I get another smack to the back of my head. My mother scowls.
“That is it you’re grounded.”
“Awe ****.” I moan and take another smack to the back of my head.
My eyes get heavy. I lose the will to stay awake. Elbow safely secured on the pew, I lean forward as if I am enraptured by what the preacher has to say. Then let go, so close to sleep, a way to get away from the doldrums. The old man drones on in a monotone. Suddenly, he raises his voice. My arms collapses causing my forehead cracks against the pews. A red mark starts to form inching its way across my face like a mutant birthmark. Now I am awake. Eyes glaring forward.
The brown baptismal curtain reminds me of nutty buddies. My mouth waters with the fantasy of devouring the whole curtain, like some giant trucker. A swelling stomach riding over my cliché buckle, until my fat explodes into some sort of creepy communion wafers and wine. It splatters my fellow church goers in some sick form of salvation. The pale parishioners panic then succumb to some unknown hunger feasting upon the remnant of me like a bunch zombies. Freed from the need to be rational they rage on. Dead men and women begin to leave the church ready to infect the world with their form of living death.
A hand smacks the back of my head. Mother glowers, the intensity of her gaze is meant to put the fear of god into me, ironically. The preacher carries on. Some **** about the armor of gods and the denizens of hell oozes out of his dry voice.
My ears ***** up. The sound of mighty warriors ring through the church. Savage blows bounce off the shields of saints. Angels scream, as demons pluck their feathers, plunging them into the furnace that is hell. Smoke fills the pews with the noxious fumes of burning flesh. The **** moan for mercy. Fingers try to rise from perdition only to be chopped off by the razor sharp wings of the Archangels.
“Back to hell you vermin.” The Angels scream.
The recently and expensively redone floors now wear a masses of ****** bodies, some corpses are demons, some are angels. However, all bodies bleed the same color.
Satan’s sinister grin fills the stain glass windows. A fury of wind shatters each pane, causing shards of glass to rain down upon the parishioners. My fellow church goers scream and run away. Their flesh is marred by bleeding scratches. Beneath their feet other parishioners are trampled. Moans of agony rise from the ground, followed by the rising white ash. Puffs of dark smoke swirl around and….
and my mother smacks me in the back of the head again.
“Pay attention.” She growls.
Looking at the clock, I smile devilishly. It is time for the last prayer. The preacher passes it on to one of the deacons. A small stout figure brushes back his black thinning and greasy hair, and begins to pray.
“What a relief.” I think.
Fifteen minutes later the deacon is still praying. He has cycled back to the same **** over and over. I swear sometimes the deacons think it’s a contest. They are trying to see who can pray the best.
A hand slams down from the heavens smashing through the ceiling and crushing the Deacon. His obese frame is flattened causing it to explode like a popped pimple. Red juices and slippery viscera paint the aisles.
A heavenly voice scolds, “knock it off. People have things to do.”
A laugh pierces the pew.
I get another smack to the back of my head. My mother scowls.
“That is it you’re grounded.”
“Awe ****.” I moan and take another smack to the back of my head.
