God

Fires

Interstate Scene 7: Headlights and taillights shimmered, their drivers hopped up on coffee and talk radio.

Interstate Scene 2: When she was a little girl, she would watch the darkness in her bedroom.

Ohio. Sunset: 8:30pm. There’s a waxing crescent moon, and I’m reading about God.

Ohio. Cloudy skies, no snow, and a high of 43 degrees. There’s an old Roman maxim that fear gave birth to the gods.

My first concept of god came from It’s a Wonderful Life.

When I consider the man I want to become someday, I often picture myself as someone who prays.

Last night I woke in the middle of the night and wondered if it’s possible to believe in something otherworldly in 2020.

As I listened to a woman talk to the pigeons, I began humming that Jesus’ blood never failed me yet.

Tonight I’m going to play Funkadelic on repeat, dim the lights, make bad coffee, and write some purple prose.

A news anchor said, “We are descending into something that is not the United States of America tonight.” I’m not sure if this is true.

The amount of incense smoke that darkens a temple’s ceiling demonstrates the popularity of that particular god.

I remember watching the darkness in my bedroom when I was small, hypnotized by grey-pink flecks while I waited for sleep.