"Fools make fun of guilt, but the godly acknowledge it and seek reconciliation (Proverbs 14:9 NLT)."

Guilt is something that has bothered me even as a child, and I always feel bad when I come up short or upset someone. I tend to overdo this, but I try to be quick to apologize and make things right. I want to be someone that uplifts and owns up to mistakes, not someone that brushes it off and ridicules others. Like any great venture, I do stumble at times, but I will continue to recognize my own guilt, apologize and work on righting the wrong, and work on making better choices in the future. Lord, it is a weird thing to give thanks for today, but thank You for guilt. Please help me to utilize my own guilt in a productive way - by repairing relationships and doing right by others. Please forgive me for my failings as well. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen.

........................

January winds bit as Micah stood on top of the cliff, ocean breeze blowing through the fringes of his locks, and caressed him, the way his mother did, with palms and fingers made of sea-salt. A storm had passed through the town and left in its wake electric skies hazed in purples and pinks, turning the rotting weeds around him into distant cousins of lavender, and painting the sea foam with hints of mauve as if gallons of grape slurpees were dumped by the shore. His brain waited for some gas-station lavender or a sickly grape scent to hit but all he processed was the live-wire stench of a power transformer that exploded in the rainstorm.

Seagulls screeched overhead with the sounds of waves lapping against the rocks, their silhouettes against the purple sky like the lines children would draw to show birds in flight. Just as the tide ebbed and flowed, a quiet wave of peace would wash over him, each exhale and inhale in sync with the rythmic breath of the sea. He would close his eyes, cradling the urn in his arms, his fingers tracing the aluminum exterior, and let everything fall by the wayside. Right as he’d gone to some place where only waves against rocks existed, this woman’s voice crawled through, came from someone who lit fresh cigarettes with the embers of dying one’s.

“Ma always said ‘Only time Castillo’s do reunions are at funerals’.” She shambled towards him. ”That woman was always right huh.”

Micah swiveled and faced Tess, bags drooping down from tired amber eyes rimmed with blackened paintstick, vertical wrinkles lining the edges of her pale lips, cheekbones flared amethyst from the sunset. Her brown hair was drawn back, held by a rubber band. “How you holding up?” Her breath carried a six pack and a carton of cigarettes.

“I’m...” Micah tried to find the words as he was checking her eyes for signs of dilations or constrictions. ”... I’m alright. You?”

“Could be better.” She cracked a faint smile. “How long has it been...’bout three?”

“Four years.” Micah turned towards the sea. “Good to see you Tess.”

She nodded reluctantly as a still moment enveloped the two, before she dug a crumpled pack of Camels from a jacket pocket “Want one?”

“I quit.”

A small gust of air rushed out her nose “What, since today?”

“Been four months.”

“Even the drink?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm. Well - kind of late now don’t you think?" She joked "Needed that more when Gab and I were youn-”

“Tess.” He hugged the urn and shook his head.

"Right." She lit her cigarette, savoring the first drag, and blew out a stream of smoke, capping it with a perfect ring. "How’s ma.” she drawled, changing the subject, and ran her fingers through her hair as she eyed the urn.

“Well.” His hands waved the purple ghosts away. “She can’t complain.” said Micah as he tapped the lid.

She tried to smile before slumping down to tired lips. “Sorry we couldn’t...y’know... make it earlier.”

“Yeah, it’s alright... Probably better that way.” Micah turned towards her again, scanning behind. “Gab uhh... where’s he at?”

She tilted her head down the hill. “He’s in the car. Told him to take his time.”

“Hm.” He gave a slight nod before looking down at the urn.

“Family all know about this by the way?”

“No.” His fingers played with the lid. “Didn’t tell them you guys were coming down either.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Told them what you wrote in that letter. Gab’s stand-up gig, you and your - uh - what do you call it?”

“My barista thing?” She tilted her head with a sly smile.

“Yeah - that.”

“It’s just a fancier way of saying ‘I make coffee for minimum wage’.”

“Hm.”

“Seems like you need one too.”

A curl formed at the end of his lips “Yeah, brain’s pretty zapped Tess.” He coughed.

“So... how ’bout them? Still fucked I guess?”

“What’d you expect?”

“Dunno, like Uncle Trev finally winning the lottery? I mean, he’s been going at it since - what - since we were kids.”

Images of the Castillo Santa came up; a drunk, always babbling about the deep state, spending hours in lines to buy a lottery ticket. “He’d win some and lose some, you know how it goes.” Micah would then recount the Castillo family’s latest activites: Uncle Greg’s newfound hobby for coin-collecting, Aunt Mara and her whole schtick with healing crystals, Red getting married for the sixth time, Erynn getting divorced for the fourth time, Jake on meth being detained by cops two nights ago, and the whole fight about gun control between Uncle Kent and Aunt Anne’s second husband at their mother’s funeral - a Castillo eulogy.

“Jesus Christ.” Tess dropped the cigarette, grounded it out with her heel, and sat on the edge, letting her feet hang. “Should’ve stayed, like watching a train ’bout to crash.” she snickered, “You sure you alright?” She looked up at Micah.

“Could be better.” He said, and sat right next to Tess with a grunt, carefully hugging the urn in his arms “Jesus.”

“What?”

“Fucking knees.”

She chuckled “Getting old Mikey.”

“Hm.”

“Your birthday’s coming up soon.”

“Hmhm... 38 soon enough.”

Her lashes fluttered “What you getting?”

“Dunno.” He seemed to speak from a distance. “Sober for six months, maybe.”

She smiled. Or as much as she could anyway.

“Hey...” Micah looked back. Dead trees, his Sedan, and the dirt path that winded down were all there was. “Gab’s...uh... how is he?” he whispered, a swallow punctuated the question.

Tess took a deep breath, dug out another Camel filter, and lit it. “We’re bounded by blood Mikey,” she shrugged “Only reason he’s here cause it’s an obligation, so don’t expect too much. You’ll be disappointed.”

......................................

Gabriel’s head was a matchstick, dark hair cut in a rough shag covering it. He’d gotten bigger, Micah thought, shoulders widened and back built like a silverback’s, enough to mistake him for a fighter instead of a standup comedian. His eyes cut through Micah, adding violence in the electric air. “Let’s get this done yeah?” He grunted.

Micah nodded. “Who wants to start?”

“Jesus - Mike, just start. Don’t need to make us think like we actually matter man.” Gabriel cut in. “We aren’t kids anymore.”

“Alright...” Micah met the amber eyes rimmed with blackened paintstick. They were staring at the ground, avoiding his. “Uhh...” He moved his gaze towards the horizon, the sky in darker shades of purple now as the sun started die off, like some forlorn evil was all there was in this world. He dug in the pocket of his coat, coming up with a crumpled piece of paper, and smoothed it out, before clearing his throat.

Gabriel scoffed.

“One... Corin- Corinthians-”

“Tess what in the fuck are we doing here man. Wasting our time - he’s going to take an hour to read a fucking line.”

“Let him finish Gab.”

“No - honestly - all of a sudden we’re supposed to be family? Just cause ma died? Huh?”

Tess closed her eyes “Gab-”

Gabriel pointed at Micah, and took a step towards him “After all the shit you pulled?”

“I’m sober now Gab.” Micah pleaded “Four months-”

“Yeah fuck off with that Mike.” He cleaved “You can fuck off with that sappy shit.” Micah’s hair formed needles and his skin turned into orange rinds as the electricity in the air jumpstarted Gabriel. “Four months...” He scoffed “And how long is that going to last.”

“Gab. Just... just let Micah finish reading if you want to leave so fucking bad man.” Tess took out another fresh Camel filter.

Gabriel shook his head, and turned towards the poisoned nightshade sky. “Liked you more when you were an angry drunk man... Least you had balls instead of this gay shit you’re doing.” His words bit like the January winds.

Micah felt a hand that dragged his heart down, and coughed, trying to open up his clogged throat.

“Jesus...” Tess massaged her temples. “What the fuck Gab.”

“What. I know it’s in your head too. You just don’t have the balls to fucking say it.”

Micah looked away from Tess’ gaze, as if ashamed of being alive, then focused intently on the piece of paper. “I’m umm... I’m sorry Gabriel.”

“Yeah... Just get it over with man.” He scoffed

Micah hugged the cold dead urn for some semblance of comfort, to fill some hole in his gut. “One Corinthians thirteen. Verse. Eight to thirteen...” He bit his lip “Love never fails... but where there are proph-prophe...prophecies. They will... Cease. Where there are - tongues... They will be stilled. Where there is... um... there is knowledge... It-It will pass away.” His voice cracked, a few drops of salty tears blotted the letters “For we... uh... know in part and we... um... prophesy in part, but when comp-complete...ness comes, what is in part dis...disapp-”

Light footsteps interrupted him, Tess was holding her hand out, with a trying smile. He wiped the tears away and handed the paper to her.

She flicked the ember stub away as she walked towards the cliff, “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. At the end of my childhood, I put these ways behind me.” She motioned for Micah to follow. “For now, we see only a reflection as in a mirror...” Her hand laid on Gab’s shoulders ”...then we shall see face to face.”

Gab stared at Tess for a moment, before looking at the urn. His jaw edged like Damascus steel, then softened up and relaxed. “Now I know in part, then I shall know fully... even as I am fully known...” His gaze went up to Micah, “And now... now these three remain... faith, hope, and love... But the greatest of these is love.”

Micah laid the urn on the ground, and pried the lid off gently. It was hard to imagine their mother, the vibrant Castillo glue, be reduced to a few pounds of sand-like material, encased in an urn, the exterior’s shade of ethereal white being tinged with purple. “You guys want to add anything else? Before... we-”

“No.”

Tess shook her head, and dug out another Camel filter.

January winds bit as the three siblings stood on top of the cliff, ocean breeze blowing through the fringes of their hair, and caressed their faces the way their mother did, with palms and fingers made of sea-salt. A storm had passed through, and left in its wake, grief, loss, and pain, hazed in streaks of deep magenta.

And now these three remain.

...

The nuclear flash was from God taking a blinding screenshot of the global suicide. Wanting to commemorate one of his creation’s milestones, and frame it on his wall, titling it the ‘Language of Violence’ or maybe the ‘Colors of Guilt, Shame, Despair’, but both of them would suffice. The former highlighted this genocidal impulse He had wired in all homonids, this universal language that wasn’t confounded the same way speech was at the Tower of Babel, and left it untampered because of His curiosity on how far man would take it, how many syllables they would utter in this language before the very last punctuation. The latter title was the answer to His curiosity, an image that depicted the ultimate repercussion of man’s biological coding. Three shades of grays and blacks painting all men in the same colors, and unifying them, even for a millisecond, under one banner before being washed away by atomic fire.

What was left in the rubble and the undying blaze was a world encased in an irradiated snowglobe, where ash fell instead of snow, and soot lined the glass instead of bright crystal flakes. On patinas of restaurant tables, on the walls of kindergarten classrooms, on the frostbitten steel chairs found in dreams of hospitals, a thin film of guilt and shame would be filtered all over them, reminding the walking ghosts of what had been, and what they had murdered.

..........

“Drop that.” Judeau tugged at his daughter’s arm for her to follow “C’mon now, we’re running out of light, have to get back to camp.”

“I can make space.” Ida said as she dropped to her knees, scrounging about her pack, the tattered red power ranger by her side. “I can fit it.”

There was bitterness when he saw her taking out cans of food, this unsatiable longing for times he took for granted. For times when Ida’s future boyfriends were the only worries he had for his kid; when his boss trying to chew him out was the only thing biting his ass; when Audrey’s nagging was the only sound that would send his heart rate skyrocketing. Not rabid Toronto dogs or their dwindling supply of gasmask filters, not the radiation or frostbite or starvation, not the howls of the Hanged Men.

A lug of stone sank in his gut as his paternal instinct kicked in; this primal wiring to protect and care shoved a bone down his throat after realizing it couldn’t even promise fulfilling basic duties and obligations. She would’ve been better off dead, he clenched his jaws, not here in this winter hell without any chance of a childhood, where she’d likely end up being taken and-

His breath started to fog up the outsides of the gas mask, masking the salty drop that traced down his cheeks, and rolled off into the scraggly jungle beard on his chin. It was a crappy dad joke - real easy to hide sorrow behind the lens, but you’re gonna have to dance with death to wipe the tears away. He blinked the briny tears and what remained was a deep muffled voice. “Drop. It.”

Ida looked up at her father, still clutching the red power ranger in her hand, Audrey’s turquoise eyes appearing behind those circular lenses. “No.”

“Food-”

“Water. Gasmask filters. Meds. Bullets. Tape. I know dad.” Ida cut him off. “I can make space... I have space.” She pleaded.

Slivers of light managed to slip their way in between the small cracks of rubble from the supermarket’s ceiling, webs of twisted metal barely holding everything together. They basked her in angelic light, giving life to the ashy motes that fluttered all around her, the exposed and frayed ends of her tied up scarlet hair glinting like piano wire. The sight reminded Judeau of the Holy Mary’s statue, covered in ash, surrounded by the corpse of the chapel, snowy and charred remains of pews and confession booths scattered about, some sublime mystery still lingering in the air that surrounded the surviving Old-World symbol.

It was poetic, he thought, picturesque, a miracle. Judeau was never really a man of religion, he’d only go to church for Audrey and her parents, and even when the world did freeze over and he lost everything that he had ever known, he never asked questions from God nor did he ever resent the situation. At times, he did, of course, but he’d shake those feelings and questions away the moment he’d see his daughter, eyes shaped like Audrey’s, carrying his greenish hue; Judeau would then be reminded of his obligation as her father, as her rock.

But, in truth, Ida was more of a rock to Judeau than he was to her. When she’d tell him all about her nightmare as she huddled in his arms by the campfire, the ticks of their geiger counters replacing cricket chirps, Judeau would be reminded of his humanity. When she convinced him that snowmen would make better targets than tincans, mainly because she didn’t want to waste scraps of metal, Judeau would be reminded of his humanity. When she’d poke around corpses or dead dogs with the butt of her rifle, head tilting with innocence and curiosity, Judeau would be reminded of his humanity.

So as the image of the ashen statue dissipated the way a mirage would, and what remained was Ida, eyes shaped like Audrey’s, carrying his greenish hue, clutching the red power rangers in her hand; Judeau would, again, be reminded of his humanity.

“I’ll leave it behind if we need-”

He shook his head, with a smile hiding behind the lens.

Room’s nine meters squared

it’s a box

bed, table, closet, window, chair

if i’m on the bed diagonally - it’s my living room

if i’m on it horizontally - it’s my balcony

eating and studying’s on the same table

closet’s a closet of course

chair and the bed together

could be a couch

window’s a tv

and the wall’s the bed

and the bed’s the wall.

i’m kidding.

the bed’s the bed.

i wish you knew

how much i care,

wish you could see yourself,

from my side.

you'd count your faults

on the fingers of both hands,

i'd trace them with mine.

you'd count your flaws

on the toes of both feet,

i'd file them down;

then i'd count

each reason

of why

i am

so glad

i met you

on the strands of your hair,

on the lashes of your eye,

and on the creases

and the cells

of your skin;

and then after

i'd count myself out,

you'll trace yours with mine

and run your faults

through my hair

too.

Kept in the dark so long

‘Protected’ from the truth,

But they could never save me from my fate.

From who I am.

From the invisible world around me.

My best friend lied to me.

My mother died for me?

And my father...

He would not take me in.

I had no one.

Til I woke to the sight of golden curls and steely eyes.

I know who I am.

I am power and I am hope.

I am prophecy foretold.

I am strong as riptides.

The last hopes of my world

I preserve or raze.

My life is not easy.

Unanswered questions and danger.

But I fight for peace.

For love.

For hope, hope of a beautiful future.

I want my mother back, blue batter and all.

I want a peaceful world, to have the chance to live my life again.

I want time...to grow old with my girl.

I want to be the hero I was destined to be.

Through storm or fire.

Whatever may come.

He looked around the metro station, the same one he'd used almost daily for years. It was a lot busier today, but the crowds gathered without the usual pushing and shoving.

He glanced round at the various commuters and wondered what lay ahead for them. A couple of businessmen, a few children travelling to school for the week, the odd lawyer who'd decided to take public transport for a change.

This was a always a favoured pastime of his, imagining the lives of the people around him. Who would be getting that promotion? Who's hating every day at their job, yet unable to find anything better? Who's travelling into the city on their day off?

That's what he liked about the metro. Queues in particular: society's great leveller. It doesn't matter who you are or where you're going, we all start in the same place. The train doesn't arrive any quicker for a rich man than a poor man. It arrives precisely on time for everyone.

But not today, for some reason, he thought. The train was running late today. "If I wanted to wait this long I'd have taken the bus!" he chuckled. There was no reply, no one even noticed he'd spoken it seemed. "Typical, civility is a thing of the past, indeed!" he muttered to himself. Again, no one even looked at him. He gave up on trying to engage in any conversation and returned to watching the other people waiting on the platform.

He noticed a few of the younger passengers, schoolchildren mostly, with despairing looks upon their tear-streaked faces. 'Must be finals' week', he thought to himself, 'I remember the feeling.' If only they knew, it's just a couple of silly exams, it doesn't need to define their lives. Hell, he was never top of his class and his life turned out alright. He had a wife and a beautiful daughter, and he wouldn't trade them for a few extra letters on a piece of paper, or a few extra zeroes on his bank balance. He wasn't a rich man, but he was sure that he was a happy one at least. He thought about the other commuters, some of them much richer than him, but still waiting for the same train.

He heard a thunderous echo further along the tunnel. He stepped closer to the safety line in wait of the oncoming train. He took out his wallet and opened it to take out his metro card. That's when he saw it - the picture of them. Front and centre in his wallet. He knew now it was time to stop pretending.

He slumped back into his blanket against the platform column, held his head in his hands, and listened to the whistling and wailing coming from far above ground.

Dark.

So dark you’d have to stop yourself from clawing your eyes out.

Yet it was his blanket - he’d coat himself in it’s thin oil-black veneer and hide away from shame, from judgement. His bones protruded and stretched his skin like a garbage bag being weighed down by the spines of roadside kills. Smelled of it too; New York sewer rats ripping each other apart during a famine oozed out of his trampoline skin, and the drunks puking and pissing in alleyways crusted his orange rind tongue.

Just a soot-covered scarecrow for a burnt down farm, left all alone except for the vermins and crows that gnaw and play with the moldy straws. They pecked and pecked until the bare blackened ground was lacerated by razor blades, each straw being etched into it, until the mournful wind howled and carried them away to some other place, leaving him empty.

Then there was a light.

So delicate, so petite he thought. These were words that rarely - if ever - found their place in his sickly head, and now they came the way dawn starts to break after a grueling winter hell that sealed the eyes when tears fell. The tiny dot of hope wavering in the horizon was fragile - yes - but it was the only pinprick of light that flickered in this maddening dark.

Dead December trees for limbs lumbered towards it relentlessly, like a wolf to a rabbit.

He ended up conjuring images of what it could be; Warmth for the cold... or something to make me feel whole again.

Yes... something to fill this agonizing emptiness.

This cold long dark...

He never chose this. Never wanted it. Something that just happened under the eyes of a hungover God. An unclean prototype that had darkness wedged in between the chains of his DNA and slithered around the coils, rotting the double helix away.

He embraced it - had to. Though a failed model, he still - unfortunately - had self-preservation built into those maimed wirings. Suicide was a good option, but the lizard brain always singed with the whining screech of unkept nails against a chalkboard

everytime he tied the noose or placed the blade just inches away from his wrist, veins pulsating and jutting out of his thin skin like highway routes on a map.

This was new. An unexpected variable.

A light.

He didn’t even know why he was trailing it. He didn’t need a reason to. Jusr knew that everyone up the chain of command were prodding at him to get closer to it. Moth to a flame.

Then he stood there, the blinding light just an arm’s length away, and scowled. The closer he was, the more the emptiness panged.

And so his reptilian cortex shot him a look of piano wire daggers and hummed with the rev of a dilapidated V8 car engine. It puppeteered his limbs and maw to rabidly tear into the light.

The engine was firing in all cylinders - oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine... The valve overflowed and the hormonal contents seeped through his flesh.

A vibrating rose-tainted throat swirled in his tongue. It wailed of banshees. He clamped his jaw shut. The sharp iron taste of blood bursted into his mouth. He drank and swallowed in a frenzy like a sun-dried man would at an oasis.

He moved on over to her shocked lips, slightly ajar. He bit down. Most of the teeth were crushed by the force, some clawed at his throat as it went, and a few were stuck in between his black-enameled teeth. The tongue was smooth and slicked on downwards at a slow snail pace. A cold fleshy watermelon blotted with seeds during a humid July.

Then he found himself with soft, warm, plump fat. Saved the best for last.

I deserve this he thought. His gore red id mixed with piss whipped up with the fluttering wings of a thousand Florida mosquitoes in agreement.

He gobbled the sun up. It died in his bowels and left a black hole.

Empty again.

And dark.

So dark you wouldn’t even know if you tore your eyes out.