Post by sambpoet on Jan 22, 2011 11:04:52 GMT -5
Chuck Burroughs had long since been a fallen-away atheist, a man who no longer railed against God's existence. "God or no God, I ain't wasting my breath," he told the rest of the old men who sat on the boarding house porch, rocking away. "I got me bigger fish to fry!"
His best friend Tom Clay, a fervent Christian, chimed in, "Bigger than where your soul's headin' when you ain't got no breath to waste?"
Burroughs screwed up his lips and fired eye darts at Clay, then he spat on the hot porch steps and watched it sizzle a smoky gray.
"You talkin' Hell again, Tom? 'Cause I tell you right now I ain't gonna get my old ass blue-numb listenin' to your run-on sermons, that's for sure."
The other old men kept rocking in their chairs. Quentin, about as deep into senility as you can get, laughed at anything. Ronny Lee claimed he'd seen his great-granddaddy decked out in his Confederate grays, pay him a visit now and then from the dead.
"Gotta be somethin' after this, Chuck," he said, more to himself than to the once-upon-a-time atheist, now a convert to that agnostic bunch.
Chuck ignored Ronny Lee. Fact is, he ignored them all. What did they know! He had stared down into that dark abyss he called life and saw how horrible those creatures who stared back--those vicious sorrows, the clanking, ear-busting sledge hammers that couls break a heart to smithereens, then come back once that sore heart recovered and smash some more. No, Chuck Burroughs had seen enough. He'd buried all his family and he knew not even the magic of the God folks could bring them back. He gave a hurried thought to Peggy, his wife dead of Cholera. If there was a God, she was an angel sent to him, then yanked away, but good gods wouldn't do that. No, siree.
Then Tom Clay was pulling him back from the wreckage of memory. "God loves you, Chuck."
Chuck spat again.
"He's callin' you."
Senile Quentin glanced around for God's voice.
But Chuck Burroughs had tired of Clay's God talk, tired of spending this July afternoon in the company of sheep when he could be walking off by himself, punished by an oppressive sun.
He stood up.
"Where you headin' ?" asked Ronny Lee. Chuck tossed what looked like a fast wave, descended the porch steps, then turned around to face the old rockers.
"If there is a God, let him do something good for a change. Let him give out joys 'stead of sorrows."
They were all surprised--No, shocked--when Quentin, feeble-minded as they come, called out to Chuck, "He give you breath. Ain't that plenty enough?"
Chuck let his thin shoulders shrug. Then deeply he inhaled the scent of honeysuckle and walked towards the park.
His best friend Tom Clay, a fervent Christian, chimed in, "Bigger than where your soul's headin' when you ain't got no breath to waste?"
Burroughs screwed up his lips and fired eye darts at Clay, then he spat on the hot porch steps and watched it sizzle a smoky gray.
"You talkin' Hell again, Tom? 'Cause I tell you right now I ain't gonna get my old ass blue-numb listenin' to your run-on sermons, that's for sure."
The other old men kept rocking in their chairs. Quentin, about as deep into senility as you can get, laughed at anything. Ronny Lee claimed he'd seen his great-granddaddy decked out in his Confederate grays, pay him a visit now and then from the dead.
"Gotta be somethin' after this, Chuck," he said, more to himself than to the once-upon-a-time atheist, now a convert to that agnostic bunch.
Chuck ignored Ronny Lee. Fact is, he ignored them all. What did they know! He had stared down into that dark abyss he called life and saw how horrible those creatures who stared back--those vicious sorrows, the clanking, ear-busting sledge hammers that couls break a heart to smithereens, then come back once that sore heart recovered and smash some more. No, Chuck Burroughs had seen enough. He'd buried all his family and he knew not even the magic of the God folks could bring them back. He gave a hurried thought to Peggy, his wife dead of Cholera. If there was a God, she was an angel sent to him, then yanked away, but good gods wouldn't do that. No, siree.
Then Tom Clay was pulling him back from the wreckage of memory. "God loves you, Chuck."
Chuck spat again.
"He's callin' you."
Senile Quentin glanced around for God's voice.
But Chuck Burroughs had tired of Clay's God talk, tired of spending this July afternoon in the company of sheep when he could be walking off by himself, punished by an oppressive sun.
He stood up.
"Where you headin' ?" asked Ronny Lee. Chuck tossed what looked like a fast wave, descended the porch steps, then turned around to face the old rockers.
"If there is a God, let him do something good for a change. Let him give out joys 'stead of sorrows."
They were all surprised--No, shocked--when Quentin, feeble-minded as they come, called out to Chuck, "He give you breath. Ain't that plenty enough?"
Chuck let his thin shoulders shrug. Then deeply he inhaled the scent of honeysuckle and walked towards the park.
