Set 1, #1. Abraham’s Story
You still here?
Knowing God is not easy.
Are you adequate?
This is why I would not have parents. [Shaking index finger]
Kids are props in making some feel better about their sorry states.
Kids are not drugs, but plenty of adults need them to forget life.
Abraham’s story would translate different if told through a visual translation of a ghost-girl? [Displaying like a princess]
So, once upon a time, there was a man named Abraham and an angel appeared to him and asked him this. “If you love God, take your only son up to the mountain and sacrifice your only son.”
Now, I am not sure what happened but, you know, people are messy. Good books should never be weapons. Somehow, and I really don’t know how, but somehow, Abraham was not paying attention.
You need to pay attention.
God is not patient, but here is my attempt at adulting.
If I understood the angel correctly as to provide a certain directive, I would like to summon this. Oh, I forgot, angels are nothing more than repackaged ghosts that don’t scare people, that is their Halloween in reverse, “Let’s act all nice and stuff, and not scare the people; rather, give them hope.”
I am so proud of myself; did I tell you; I know how to use adverbial conjunctions! I guess I’ve been hanging with the proverbial truths too much! You know what they say, formality is an asylum.
Oh, so, like here’s my, the real version:
“Abraham, if you love God, take your only son up the mountain and hug him because your great journey in life, if done with heart, love, and compassion brings you a mountain-length closer to heaven, to nirvana.”
You may fail and fail often and that is good that you did your best, but killing the living is never your best.
Not even for God.
The bliss of heaven is never paved with blood. To kill is too common, even for you messy little humans. A lion has a reason. He cannot do takeout. You have not a damn one, and don’t dare put my name on it for justification. [glaring eyes, shaking finger]
Oh, OMG, I forgot if I am playing God or a Ghost. [Rolling eyes]
Don’t make your weaknesses God’s excuse for glory.
Hannah Nirvana … [addressing herself, then looking at you perplexed]
Hey, pay attention. Don’t be like Abraham.
God’s word is not man’s perception.
That boy is part of me.
That boy is part of you.
He was part sperm once, and an egg in one’s loins.
Could have been licked up by the dog if such drops to the floor, but even the dog would not be a murderer.
He knows no better. Like, it’s a treat on the floor for doing a “good job” like peeing outside instead of the carpet. But humanity should know, even little ghost-girl girls.
And to kill him is to kill an intimate part of God. Not the dog! Don’t be a butthole!
If you kill your child to prove your love, you never loved?
But, you know, LOL, what would a “ghost-girl” know?
I think you perceive your weaknesses as positive fantasies: the weak man becomes the strong man, blood christens hope, but in truth such brings only flies to decay.
In this case, my messy little dots become stinky. [Frowns, wrinkling nose]
I am very angry when glitter-supernovas become placeholders for spilled blood.
I prefer sperm. It glistens, momentarily, then runs like the water giveth life.
Just don’t eat too much meat because life just tastes nasty. [Grimacing]
Would you have sperm or blood?
Please ponder if God can be one with a virgin girl and the giver of life. Then nothing drops on the carpet for a dog to lick up. You’d be naked with God, though, you are.
But I have to tell you a little secret before I tell you stories, a Canterbury Journey of a pain-battered God. Oops, I mean girls’. Can a girl be your god?
Oh, you know, I like glitter, but not the sticky stuff that gets hard later. Like you know, look up when you are at your darkest moments and you will find you’re stuck between the sparkles.
Stuck so, not glued to the dirt that made you, but squeezed, like when your gross uncle gets a little too close to “niecee.”
Taste depends on who’s eating what. Morality is an aftertaste, a burp or a fart.
Come closer, to my puffy little lips, close enough that yours tingles just before they touch.
Would you peak when feeling the breath of God?
Whose face would you see?
Would that breath be better if peppermint, or a clean, natural scent?
Should it be better if it stank like the carcass you passed on the street that no one picked up?
To the vulture, such is bliss. To the mom that lost its baby, Dukkha so, huh.
Closer, please, daddy-girl.
Do you feel the breath of life?
No, did I tell you, you have to pay attention. [Glaring at you]
Kids are not patient.
God is trauma.
Sex is trauma.
Because God is the devil?
You deny, huh?
The difference is in knowing when which is which, not in conquering which is not. None of you, not even God, can beat the devil, nor can she, she. You’d call it, hmm, a bipolar eternity. Yin and Yang in eternal therapy, humanity is, as Yoda would say.
If one kills the devil, they kill God, and that is not fun. Heads cannot live without hearts. True?
Questions are deflections, armor that protects the truth all the while such keeps truth from us.
Truth is trauma.
You cannot escape the pain because how would you know pleasure?
I really ramble on, so tell me this you 70’s psychologist, is a neurotic closer to truth?
Then the rest of you?
Who looks for God while texting?
Does God speak to you at Church, a prison, or with algorithms?
Now, lie down and breath. Don’t forget to breath.
It’s not as if I am a hero-murderer with my pretty little knee on your neck.
Why like glitter if it is only one color?
When God is yours there is nothing to fear.
Like, open up, really; you are not tough; you are just human.
Wow! This girl-ghost thing is so fun! Better than daddies that try to kill sons to show love.
Fear is never about love, duh! [Shrugs shoulders]
Let God come to you, so let’s play by telling stories.
You don’t? [pouting]
It’s too hard. Well, so is dying, but you will all do it, so there. [smiles with compassion]
Read other chapters of the Serial Novel here.
Earl Yarington (LMSW) is a social worker and school bus driver. He taught literature and writing for nearly 20 years and spent 3 years working in forensic social work internships with offending populations, including work at Delaware Correctional facilities and the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He has a PhD in literature and criticism (feminism/women writers) from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, Master of Social Work from Louisiana State University, and an interdisciplinary Master of Liberal Arts from Arizona State University, where he studied the impact of visual image and girlhood in media/social media. He also has an MA and BS in English from SUNY College at Brockport. The opinions and analyses that Earl writes are his own and are not necessarily the positions or views of his employers, the agencies he supports, or that of his colleagues. Reach out with comments or questions.