Short Stories

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Also
it causes
all,
both small
and great,
both rich
and poor.....
to be
marked
on the
right hand
or
the forehead,
so that
no one can
buy
or sell
unless he
has the
mark.....
of the beast...
its number is
six-hundred
and
sixty-six.
[Revelation 13:16-18]
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The Army of the Saints,
and their white horses,
and the Angelic Host,
led by the Lord Jesus,
are slowly making their
way into the top layers
of Earthly Atmosphere.
It is the Big Day:
the Biggest Day in
Earth's History.

All the Saints' horses
are shining bright: mostly
white, or off-white with
a spot, here and there. Due
to their Heavenly natures,
none of the horses have to
eat; only one horse has
been continually snacking
from her feed bag of
red-delicious-apples,
oats of whey, fresh plums
and peaches, carrots, and
Purina Horse Kibble-Chow
and Fresh-Hay-Flavored
Nibblets.........
since the Long Trek, to
Earth's Second Coming
of The Lord,
has begun.

While the Army was in
the midst of Heaven's
Three Layers, there hasn't
been a problem. But, now,
as the Host of The Lord
is entering down....down,
and down, into Earth's
imperfect Atmosphere,
the Heavenly-born horse
is experiencing something new:
quite new.

And, it doesn't seem to
be bothering Daisy, at all.
The plump, off-white horse....
with the brown heart-shaped
spot on top of her long nose....
is mane-over-hooves-
in-love, and wearing the
red and gold velvet bridle
sash of her beloved
Majestic, the Archangel Michael's
Magnificently Winged, Warrior Horse,
who's riding up front with
the Lord's Mighty Stallion
(whose name is not yet,
to be known.) The sweet-
tempered, plain little
lady-horse is as happy as
an equine-clam. Daisy,
pulling a white wicker cart,
gives a contented whinny
as her loving human saint
pets her soft, golden mane.
The mild-spirited, uncomely
equine-servant of the Lord
continues to follow the
others, clomping slowly along,
through Earth's cool,
misty clouds.)
___________________
"WHAT was..... THAT?"

"HAROLD!
LOOK!
SOMETHIN' just.....
LANDED on your ....... HEAD!
Oh, my.......GOD!
What..... IS THAT?"

(Harold's freshly sunburnt,
and windburnt face
turns into one huge grimace.
Taking a deep breath, he
slowly reaches his free
hand up to his bald head.)
"What IS..... THAT?"

"I TOLD YOU TO WEAR
YOUR HAT! YOU SUNBURN,
SO EASILY, HAROLD!
YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT,
BY NOW!"

"THAT'S IT!
TOMORROW....WE'RE
GOING TO GET THOSE
TATTOOS! I CAN'T
STAND LIVIN' THIS WAY!
NOT BEIN' ABLE TO BUY
ANY FOOD!"
(Grimace.)
"I'VE HAD ENOUGH, MARTHA!
I GIVE UP!
I JUST GIVE UP!"

(Martha looks, rather wearily,
at her own fishing pole.
The long wiry contraption is bent,
and cracked in one place:
being held up at the
moment, with several lengths
of duct-tape.)
"MAYBE YOU'RE RIGHT,
HAROLD!
MAYBE, YOU'RE RIGHT!"

(Something lumpy, and
clumpy, very warm,
and very, very smelly,
begins to slide down Harold's
left, sunburnt ear.)
"WHAT THE.........?"

"HAROLD!
IT LOOKS
LIKE DO-DO!
FROM SOME.......
BIG BIRD!"

(Harold stands up, in
the swaying boat:
the old, wooden floor boards
creak under his weight.
All day he has been fishing:
with very little luck.
He has never fished
in his whole life,
and so far, he hates it.
And........ now, THIS.)
"BIRD!
..BIRD!
...BIRD?"

"YEP!
THAT'S what it LOOKS LIKE!
SOME BIG BIRD!
SOME HUGE.....BIRD!
YOU BETTER GET DOWN
BELOW,
AND
WASH IT, OFF!"

(Harold holds out his
sunburnt palm: it's covered
with an extra-large, brown lump
of something so smelly,
that Harold can feel his
pitiful breakfast of stale
dry cereal coming up in
his acidy bathed throat.
He drops the long fishing pole...
bent and worn with years
of someone else's use...
from his other hand,
and bends over the chipped-paint,
splintered side
of the old fishing boat.)

"HAROLD!
WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?
ARE YOU SICK?"

"NO!
NO!
I'M WASHIN' THIS
CRAP OFF MY HEAD!
DAMN!
ICK!
YUCK!
THIS STUFF IS AWFUL!
AWFUL!"

(SUDDENLY,
ANOTHER BIG BROWNISH
LUMP FALLS FROM THE
GROWING STORMY SKY:
AND,
THEN
ANOTHER.
AND.......
ANOTHER.)

(Big pelting drops
of cold rain
begin to fall
from the sky, also:
mixing in with the
warm, sloppy lumps
of barn-smelling
do-do.)

"OH, MY GOD...
HAROLD!
OH, MY GOD!
THIS MIGHT BE ANOTHER
ONE OF THOSE PLAGUES
THAT EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT!
OH, MY GOD!
WE BETTER GET DOWN
INSIDE!
LOOK!
THE BOAT'S FILLING
UP!"

"AGGH!
AGGH!
WE'RE GONNA DIE!
WE'RE GONNA DIE!
WE'RE GONNA DIE......
MARTHA!"

"I KNOW!
I KNOW!
FIRST, WE CAN'T BUY NOTHIN'
AT THE GROCERY STORE
SINCE WE DIDN'T GET
THAT HORRIBLE TATTOO,
YET! THEN, THOSE AWFUL
BIG NATS WITH THE LONG HAIR....
THAT KEPT FOLLOWIN' US, AROUND!
CHASIN' US!"

"YEAH!
AND, NOW THIS!
NOW, THIS!
WHEN IS IT GONNA'
END?"

"MAYBE, THIS IS
IT, HAROLD!
MAYBE THIS IS REALLY
THE END OF THE WORLD!"

"I CAN'T GET THE HATCH
CLOSED, MARTHA! IT'S
STUCK! ONE 'A THOSE
LUMPS HAS GOT IT STUCK!
WE'RE GONNA DIE!
WE'RE GONNA DIE!
AGGGHHH!"

(Martha suddenly
screams.)
"I CAN'T SEE, HAROLD!
I CAN'T SEE!
THERE'S A BIG LUMP
STUCK TO MY EYE LIDS!"

"OH, MY GOD!
HELP US!
HELP US!"

(Whimper.)
(Whimper.)
(Grabbing, blindly,
for her husband's shirt.)
"MAYBE IT'S TIME
WE CALLED OUT TO
JESUS, HAROLD!
MAYBE, IT'S TIME!
MAYBE, THIS IS IT!
BEFORE, IT'S TOO LATE!"

"WELL!
IF YA THINK IT'LL HELP!"

(Martha, crying pitifully
by now, like a little child,
and picking warm wet
manure off her face,
shakes her unbelievably
smelly, and rain-soaked head.)
"WELL......IT CAN'T HURT!
IF WE'RE GONNA DIE,
ANYWAY!"

(Harold, hunkering down
beside the top of their
boat's old rickety wooden
stairs, grabs his wife's
free hand: it's slippery,
and wrenchingly fresh, with
a new plop of warm manure.)
"ALRIGHT!
GET DOWN HERE BESIDE ME!
RIGHT HERE, BESIDE ME,
MARTHA!
LET'S START PRAYIN'!"

(Martha feels her way down
to the slippery, smelly
wooden bottom of the
old, stolen fishing boat.
She's sobbing pitifully,
and can only barely whisper.)
"JESUS?
JESUS?
CAN YOU......HEAR US?
CAN YOU........
HEAR US?
WE ACCEPT YOU,
JESUS!
AS.....
OUR SAVIOR!"
********************
And,
all the
armies
of Heaven,
arrayed
in fine
linen,
white and
pure,
followed
Him
on white
horses.
[Revelation 19:14]


Copyright 2011.

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