I couldn't think of a good title.
The following is one Michael C. Molta’s brief encounter and conversation with the Christian lord and savior, Jesus Christ, son of God.
The rain was coming down in sheets. It bothered him. Everything had grown to bother him in the past few years. Nothing was simple. Nothing was true. Nothing was easy for him to comprehend. Michael was a floating shell of shit, in his own view of himself. In reality he was a very well-to-do teenager, born into a moderately wealthy suburban family in upstate New York.
“I have this one problem, what you could call my only real problem,” he explained to himself one night, all alone in his room. In his mind he was speaking to someone very dear to him, if, even at that point, anyone could be considered dear to him, “My life is perfect. Nothing is wrong. Nothing could be wrong. I have trouble with school, but that’s bullshit compared to what some people have to deal with.”
“So?” she would say in his mind, “How is that a problem?”
“I can’t handle it,” he would reply, “It’s just…too much for me; to have everything so easy, so good. My mind can’t cope with it. So I make up problems. I don’t really know whether or not they can be considered real anymore. But they’re real to me, when I’m not willing to acknowledge that I just made them up.”
“Like what kind of problems?” she would ask. Her emotions would always be ambiguous in his imagination because Michael is incapable of comprehending how anyone else could possibly feel when faced with different scenarios. Michael is also, for the most part, incapable of comprehending how he could possibly feel when faced with different scenarios, at least until those scenarios happened.
“Well, paranoia seems to be my favorite,” he would reply, “Since I’ve had that one for the longest.”
Michael thought that was very witty.
“I think I’m a sociopath right now,” Michael would continue, “A very close friend of mine whom I’ve never met and probably doesn’t even remember my first name told me to disconnect myself from my surroundings. He told me to become a nihilist. I listened to him. At least, I either listened to him or made up in my mind that I listened to him. I can’t tell anymore. My friend also told me to do drugs, but I’m a coward.”
The day dream goes on for much longer, and some parts have been cut out or altered, but that’s all that’s really relevant to the story.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the rain was coming down in sheets. His feet made a sort of squishy crackling sound as they touched the wet grass. He sunk down onto his knees, immediately staining his jeans with water and grass, turning them a slightly darker hue. The cold seeped into his knee and up and down his legs slightly. He noticed. It annoyed him. It bothered him severely.
The clearing was dark. The moon was full. I tell you this because both of those things make the scene very dark and climactic. If this ever really happened there is a good chance the moon wouldn’t be full, but the clearing would probably be dark. It takes place during the night. Oh yeah.
It was night.
“What?” he screamed into the night. The scream didn’t come out very loud, because Michael had never been a good screamer. He was too shy and his voice was too out of his control. His friend who told him to do drugs also told him to learn how to sing. Michael didn’t know what that meant, as he had always though singing was a natural talent. According to his friend, it wasn’t. But his friend did cocaine, so he found it hard to believe quite a bit of the stuff his friend said.
“What?” he screamed again. He thought it was a very fitting question to pose to the nothingness all around him.
He was talking to God, even though he didn’t believe in the man. Woman. Whatever Michael sometimes communicated with the Christian diety, even though he didn't think he existed. He didn’t know why he did this; he just felt the need to sometimes. He supposed it was better than talking to nothing at all, since that’d make him look much less insane in the eyes of society and not being viewed as insane as he thought himself to be was one thing he could feel slightly less paranoid about.
Michael also supposed he did this because he honestly wanted to believe in God. Sometimes he thought it might be a little bit of both. It didn’t matter much to him in the clearing. He was talking to God at the time.
“You’re fucking omnipotent,” Michael screamed, “Answer my questions when I say what?”
I’m not putting any exclamation points into this story because I don’t like how they look.
Lightning struck on the horizon in a very beautiful way. It didn’t mean much to Michael. He was kneeling in the middle of a very intense storm. Lightning was to be expected.
Lightning struck again twenty feet ahead of him, and just stayed there. Unmoving.
Michael noticed this.
His eyes opened as wide as they could, which wasn’t very wide. His eyes had never been very large, and it had always been something that bugged him. Mainly because everyone thought he was squinting when he was looking normally and closing his eyes when he was squinting. For some reason, this made him angry.
But he wasn’t angry at the moment. He was scared, unhappy, and wet.
When the lightning had struck, and had fallen backward onto his back. Now most of the back of his clothes were the same dark hue as the knees of his pants, and the water was soaking through. Michael would have cursed if he wasn’t so scared.
After a few moments, he finally got up the nerve to look straight at the bolt of lightning standing motionless in the clearing. It was bright; amazingly bright. As in, brighter than the sun bright. But it did not burn his eyes or make him squint or blink when he looked at it.
At this moment, Michael truly believed that he had finally gone insane.
All in all, it was a pretty big disappointment.
Michael had always thought that, if he ever went insane, which he was beginning to realize was becoming less and less likely, much to his dismay, that it would bring with it a great deal of closure and answers to all of his questions. The lightning bolt twenty feet away only confused him.
Although, he had to admit, it was a rather stylish way of first realizing that he had gone insane.
“No, this is not a dream,” boomed a deep voice, a voice that sounded much like the wizard of Oz, that seemed to come from the direction of the lightning bolt.
A few minutes went by.
“I…I didn’t think this was a dream,” Michael finally managed to stutter.
“Oh...” boomed the deep voice a few moments later, “Of course you didn’t.”
“You are not dead,” it boomed.
“I didn’t think that either,” Michael said, managing to keep his voice from squeaking, “But thank you for the assurance.”
“Well…” boomed the voice, seeming to get a little frustrated, “What do you think is going on then?”
“Actually,” Michael said, “I was under the impression that I had finally lost it.”
A few moments pause.
“Figures,” the voice seemed to mutter and boom at the same time, “Michael Molta, son of David Molta-“
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Michael interrupted.
“What?” the voice seemed rather surprised.
“Michael. I wish you wouldn’t call me Michael,” he clarified, “I’ve always hated the sound of it, especially how it clashes with my last name. Mike isn’t much better, but its preferred.”
“Well I can’t call you Mike Molta,” the voice boomed.
“Why not? Most people do,” Michael tilted his head slightly, and then realized he didn’t know what he was tilting his head at, “Actually, most people call me Molta; or just Mike, if they don’t know me that well.”
“You’re in the middle of a clearing, staring at a lightning bolt frozen in place, and speaking with a voice from the heavens,” the voice growled, “And you’re talking to it about your name?! If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you have finally gone insane!”
I lied about the exclamation points.
“So…you’re from the heavens then?” Michael squeaked.
“What?” the voice sounded surprised.
“You said ‘a voice from the heavens’,” Michael pointed out, “I take it that means you’re from the heavens.”
“Well, yes…”
“So is it safe to assume,” Michael continued, “That, given my knowledge of what’s happened so far, you are God; or the equivalent of?”
“It is.”
“May I ask which religion’s God?” Michael asked.
“Always to the point,” the booming voice muttered to itself, “Sometimes I wonder why I created humans in the first place. I am the Christian God.”
“Oh,” Michael paled considerably.
“Oh come off it,” the voice snapped, “You’re not going to hell.”
At this point you may have noticed that the two characters I’ve introduced so far, Michael and God, seem to have hints of a British accent. In fact, God just used a British slang phrase. I wrote them this way because I think British accents are funny. I apologize to all British people who ever read this, but I can’t help it. You’re hilarious.
“I…I’m not?” Michael stuttered, completely taken by surprise.
“No,” God boomed, “Not unless you do go insane, and rather violently. Or some other really terrible thing happens because of you.”
“Say I grow up to be a member of a bomb squad,” Michael reasoned, “And there is a bomb about to go off that will level an entire building full of innocents. I’m capable of defusing it in time, but something distracts me and it goes off. Would I go to hell?”
“Shut up,” God said, “Jesus may appreciate that kind of stuff but I certainly do not.”
“I take it you don’t mean the resident Puerto Rican angel,” Michael knew it was a stupid thing to say.
“Oh for the love of…”
“You?” Michael offered.
“If I had a face, my eyebrows would be narrowing,” God hissed.
“Sorry,” Michael apologized.
“Listen, I’m going to make things easier on both of us,” God said, “I’m going to let you talk to my son.”
A moments pause.
“Well?” God boomed.
“Well what?” Michael asked.
“Oh never mind.”
Michael got a sudden urge to close his eyes that he found he absolutely could not resist, and when he opened them again the lightning bolt was gone, but it wasn’t the only thing. The rain was gone, the darkness was gone, the clearing was gone, the dark hue on Michael’s clothes were gone, even the cliché full moon was gone.
Michael was standing in the middle of his old elementary school playground.
I'll finish this later if I feel like it.
The following is one Michael C. Molta’s brief encounter and conversation with the Christian lord and savior, Jesus Christ, son of God.
The rain was coming down in sheets. It bothered him. Everything had grown to bother him in the past few years. Nothing was simple. Nothing was true. Nothing was easy for him to comprehend. Michael was a floating shell of shit, in his own view of himself. In reality he was a very well-to-do teenager, born into a moderately wealthy suburban family in upstate New York.
“I have this one problem, what you could call my only real problem,” he explained to himself one night, all alone in his room. In his mind he was speaking to someone very dear to him, if, even at that point, anyone could be considered dear to him, “My life is perfect. Nothing is wrong. Nothing could be wrong. I have trouble with school, but that’s bullshit compared to what some people have to deal with.”
“So?” she would say in his mind, “How is that a problem?”
“I can’t handle it,” he would reply, “It’s just…too much for me; to have everything so easy, so good. My mind can’t cope with it. So I make up problems. I don’t really know whether or not they can be considered real anymore. But they’re real to me, when I’m not willing to acknowledge that I just made them up.”
“Like what kind of problems?” she would ask. Her emotions would always be ambiguous in his imagination because Michael is incapable of comprehending how anyone else could possibly feel when faced with different scenarios. Michael is also, for the most part, incapable of comprehending how he could possibly feel when faced with different scenarios, at least until those scenarios happened.
“Well, paranoia seems to be my favorite,” he would reply, “Since I’ve had that one for the longest.”
Michael thought that was very witty.
“I think I’m a sociopath right now,” Michael would continue, “A very close friend of mine whom I’ve never met and probably doesn’t even remember my first name told me to disconnect myself from my surroundings. He told me to become a nihilist. I listened to him. At least, I either listened to him or made up in my mind that I listened to him. I can’t tell anymore. My friend also told me to do drugs, but I’m a coward.”
The day dream goes on for much longer, and some parts have been cut out or altered, but that’s all that’s really relevant to the story.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the rain was coming down in sheets. His feet made a sort of squishy crackling sound as they touched the wet grass. He sunk down onto his knees, immediately staining his jeans with water and grass, turning them a slightly darker hue. The cold seeped into his knee and up and down his legs slightly. He noticed. It annoyed him. It bothered him severely.
The clearing was dark. The moon was full. I tell you this because both of those things make the scene very dark and climactic. If this ever really happened there is a good chance the moon wouldn’t be full, but the clearing would probably be dark. It takes place during the night. Oh yeah.
It was night.
“What?” he screamed into the night. The scream didn’t come out very loud, because Michael had never been a good screamer. He was too shy and his voice was too out of his control. His friend who told him to do drugs also told him to learn how to sing. Michael didn’t know what that meant, as he had always though singing was a natural talent. According to his friend, it wasn’t. But his friend did cocaine, so he found it hard to believe quite a bit of the stuff his friend said.
“What?” he screamed again. He thought it was a very fitting question to pose to the nothingness all around him.
He was talking to God, even though he didn’t believe in the man. Woman. Whatever Michael sometimes communicated with the Christian diety, even though he didn't think he existed. He didn’t know why he did this; he just felt the need to sometimes. He supposed it was better than talking to nothing at all, since that’d make him look much less insane in the eyes of society and not being viewed as insane as he thought himself to be was one thing he could feel slightly less paranoid about.
Michael also supposed he did this because he honestly wanted to believe in God. Sometimes he thought it might be a little bit of both. It didn’t matter much to him in the clearing. He was talking to God at the time.
“You’re fucking omnipotent,” Michael screamed, “Answer my questions when I say what?”
I’m not putting any exclamation points into this story because I don’t like how they look.
Lightning struck on the horizon in a very beautiful way. It didn’t mean much to Michael. He was kneeling in the middle of a very intense storm. Lightning was to be expected.
Lightning struck again twenty feet ahead of him, and just stayed there. Unmoving.
Michael noticed this.
His eyes opened as wide as they could, which wasn’t very wide. His eyes had never been very large, and it had always been something that bugged him. Mainly because everyone thought he was squinting when he was looking normally and closing his eyes when he was squinting. For some reason, this made him angry.
But he wasn’t angry at the moment. He was scared, unhappy, and wet.
When the lightning had struck, and had fallen backward onto his back. Now most of the back of his clothes were the same dark hue as the knees of his pants, and the water was soaking through. Michael would have cursed if he wasn’t so scared.
After a few moments, he finally got up the nerve to look straight at the bolt of lightning standing motionless in the clearing. It was bright; amazingly bright. As in, brighter than the sun bright. But it did not burn his eyes or make him squint or blink when he looked at it.
At this moment, Michael truly believed that he had finally gone insane.
All in all, it was a pretty big disappointment.
Michael had always thought that, if he ever went insane, which he was beginning to realize was becoming less and less likely, much to his dismay, that it would bring with it a great deal of closure and answers to all of his questions. The lightning bolt twenty feet away only confused him.
Although, he had to admit, it was a rather stylish way of first realizing that he had gone insane.
“No, this is not a dream,” boomed a deep voice, a voice that sounded much like the wizard of Oz, that seemed to come from the direction of the lightning bolt.
A few minutes went by.
“I…I didn’t think this was a dream,” Michael finally managed to stutter.
“Oh...” boomed the deep voice a few moments later, “Of course you didn’t.”
“You are not dead,” it boomed.
“I didn’t think that either,” Michael said, managing to keep his voice from squeaking, “But thank you for the assurance.”
“Well…” boomed the voice, seeming to get a little frustrated, “What do you think is going on then?”
“Actually,” Michael said, “I was under the impression that I had finally lost it.”
A few moments pause.
“Figures,” the voice seemed to mutter and boom at the same time, “Michael Molta, son of David Molta-“
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Michael interrupted.
“What?” the voice seemed rather surprised.
“Michael. I wish you wouldn’t call me Michael,” he clarified, “I’ve always hated the sound of it, especially how it clashes with my last name. Mike isn’t much better, but its preferred.”
“Well I can’t call you Mike Molta,” the voice boomed.
“Why not? Most people do,” Michael tilted his head slightly, and then realized he didn’t know what he was tilting his head at, “Actually, most people call me Molta; or just Mike, if they don’t know me that well.”
“You’re in the middle of a clearing, staring at a lightning bolt frozen in place, and speaking with a voice from the heavens,” the voice growled, “And you’re talking to it about your name?! If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you have finally gone insane!”
I lied about the exclamation points.
“So…you’re from the heavens then?” Michael squeaked.
“What?” the voice sounded surprised.
“You said ‘a voice from the heavens’,” Michael pointed out, “I take it that means you’re from the heavens.”
“Well, yes…”
“So is it safe to assume,” Michael continued, “That, given my knowledge of what’s happened so far, you are God; or the equivalent of?”
“It is.”
“May I ask which religion’s God?” Michael asked.
“Always to the point,” the booming voice muttered to itself, “Sometimes I wonder why I created humans in the first place. I am the Christian God.”
“Oh,” Michael paled considerably.
“Oh come off it,” the voice snapped, “You’re not going to hell.”
At this point you may have noticed that the two characters I’ve introduced so far, Michael and God, seem to have hints of a British accent. In fact, God just used a British slang phrase. I wrote them this way because I think British accents are funny. I apologize to all British people who ever read this, but I can’t help it. You’re hilarious.
“I…I’m not?” Michael stuttered, completely taken by surprise.
“No,” God boomed, “Not unless you do go insane, and rather violently. Or some other really terrible thing happens because of you.”
“Say I grow up to be a member of a bomb squad,” Michael reasoned, “And there is a bomb about to go off that will level an entire building full of innocents. I’m capable of defusing it in time, but something distracts me and it goes off. Would I go to hell?”
“Shut up,” God said, “Jesus may appreciate that kind of stuff but I certainly do not.”
“I take it you don’t mean the resident Puerto Rican angel,” Michael knew it was a stupid thing to say.
“Oh for the love of…”
“You?” Michael offered.
“If I had a face, my eyebrows would be narrowing,” God hissed.
“Sorry,” Michael apologized.
“Listen, I’m going to make things easier on both of us,” God said, “I’m going to let you talk to my son.”
A moments pause.
“Well?” God boomed.
“Well what?” Michael asked.
“Oh never mind.”
Michael got a sudden urge to close his eyes that he found he absolutely could not resist, and when he opened them again the lightning bolt was gone, but it wasn’t the only thing. The rain was gone, the darkness was gone, the clearing was gone, the dark hue on Michael’s clothes were gone, even the cliché full moon was gone.
Michael was standing in the middle of his old elementary school playground.
I'll finish this later if I feel like it.