Unearthed remains

Heap many moons ago, I used to write. Not just movie reviews and other sundry opinions but actually tell stories. This is a snippet of something from what would have been a book called “Ring of Fire”.


He had been praying for hours. The first hour was the easiest, and therefore, didn’t really count as praying. God did not hear those easy, flowing words. God would not turn his ear to you until you were broken – truly broken – and only then would he deign to listen. Only when you had been stripped to your core, when you had been reduced to your bare, gibbering essence of your being would he listen.

And when you were broken past that, he would speak to you.

The candle, whose light he’d been praying by, had been reduced to a guttering stub. There was a dark, sticky stain on the floor where he beat his head, imploring, begging, beseeching his lord to hear him.

And the Lord heard his servant.
And the Lord spoke to his servant.

He had been waiting for years for him to speak, and at long last, he did. He stayed on the floor, his head tucked under his arm, and he cried. His tears fell to the floor in large drops, his sobs shook his body. Abruptly, he rose up, his body almost bending backwards, and he screamed, howled.

Relief.
Joy.
Triumph.

He had waited for so long through the slow trickle of years that his life had been, but now it was time. The Kingdom of God was at hand. Now was the fullness of prophesy. He had heard the thunder on the wind. The first seal had been broken – opened by the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the Root of David. That was when it came upon him: the Spirit of the Lord.

And salvation.

He’d waited so long for it.

Seven blood red horns, seven searing eyes, burning into his mind.

For the angels of wrath do not know the time nor do they know the words. They simply wait.

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