“HEATHENS IN THE GALLERY”

BY SHEB SCHEBELLA

There I sit in wind swept frost; the gods above proclaim their cost. The fees are paid upon their thrones while demons in the gallery cast out the heathen bones.  The temperature rises and I find myself alone, the bed is cold, and my window is a mile away from the nearest place of rest.

I stumble down an icy hall, I find a shadow there that is not my own but I don’t stop to wonder. The bath is running over onto the floor I don’t remember the water being red before but, it has been so long since I have been down to the sea, perhaps it is the moon tonight that makes it all seem this way.

All I know is that I suppose I am bound; bound to pay the fees. All I have to do is order now but, wait there’s more; 17 Ginsu Knives and a Gideon’s Bible hollowed out to store them in. It is another apocalyptic deal and if I can get three more souls to sign up for the offer then they have promised me a set of radial snow tires for my Oldsmobile. Like a chariot of fire I shall heat the street.

I suppose it is the living that keeps me from going out at night and ammunition for the soul is getting tougher to come by in the village at the late night café.

The neighbor’s dog is clawing at door, the coyotes are on the prowl and they want his flesh; I can only imagine they ate his owner as he preached the scripture down on the corner while wearing his Sunday’s best. All arms flailing and gibberish in tongue must have lured them in from the slums.

The sinners seem to have no problem keeping up; it is the ones that lose their faith that fall behind; I assume by looking around to see where they have dropped it in the pitch of night and then there it is that jealous hate, that spooky little phantom they love to negate with a prescribed pill times nine and a box of white wine.

 The clocks have stopped ticking, the chimes have grown dusty, and the parlor is never anymore filled with dance. The cable man stands outside looking in; he wants to sell me a Wi-Fi package. I give him the finger and just stare back at him. I know he is Big Brother’s nephew Floyd, Prick.

The Gods are here for tea, so I have to go now and hang up their coats, I am still not clear why none of them wear hats. I see their followers waiting outside; I won’t invite them in because I know they are with the cable guy. But wait, there is so much more, perhaps another time.