“Of Him in Whom We Had Faith”

After one of the worst winters ever, the air mixed effervescently with the water, the uncompromising curl of the chill’s horror now unfurled and smiling, hovering in the mesosphere, the festivities chiding alive with contact.

I was down in North Carolina, but I saw the broadcast. He in whom we had faith. Somehow, it worked.

“God,” read the pinion I saw on the ground, “grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

We’d come down from a line of revelators, the firsts to do things. Our kitchens were modern. Sometimes outside, we’d see the dust bunnies. We were fellating them with our own sterility. Correct, we saw incorrection.

Bodies were stockpiled, monitored as we scrutinized the economy numbers. Industries for antidepressants soared, because it’s better not to feel, it’s always better to be in a city, in the thick of things, liming your worth to the attribute team. They’re the ones in the uniforms, and you’ll identify them in yourself, someday.

When the broadcast came on of the one in whom we had faith, everyone knew him, and everyone knew what to do. Outside, craters acted as modules for our travel. Mushrooms grew in these craters, and killing took place routinely in delicatessens of grocery stores. The nerve, as the shock absorbers of the corpus callosa gave way.

Blood fueled the movement toward the one in whom we had faith, and as the stink of the streets permeated like mustard in a crematorium, we laughed at our TV’s, because we had been taught to do this.

I saw the one in whom we had faith, and saw how he would divinize me, as well. I was prepared to live in this day and age. I knew exactly whom to look at, and who not to, and then, I’d talk to my boss at work about the one in whom we had faith, and he would accept my small talk with a resigned, frowning nod, toward his payroll program.

It had been federally mandated that no two team members make the same amount of money, as a move toward individuality. Stereos usually broke down after three days, that were shipped here from Japan and purchased for $300 each, but a new fad was DIY spark noise, from an electric conductor.

“How long’s that one been broken?” asked Anne, a patron of the bar near the knoll.

“Sh**,” said the guy, “it’s been broken since we got it!”

“Beats listenin’ to music.”

“Tell me about it.”

“How long you been conductin’?”

“My Dad taught me when I was four. I used to get shocked so much.”

Anne sipped her beer. She was perched like an amphibian — having living within the realm of alcohol’s entirety, and half without. She was thinking, These guys at this bar are always so entertaining, but she chose not to vocalize this, for obvious reasons.

Dan, the bartender, was conducting at the stereo’s bowels, when his cook walked around the corner.

“You think this is rotten?” he asked, about a portabella mushroom.

Dan just kind of stared at the mushroom for a while, then SWATTED it down to the ground with a rapacious zeal.

“K,” said the cook, and walked away. Dan started stepping around in the mushroom, soaking his shoes with its juices. Anne just kind of chuckled, disarmed. Dan’s fellow bartender saw him. “What up.” Dan nodded. Life came to a screeching continuance.

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