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Golgotha |
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A constellation of the mind |
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Golgotha
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 Created on 4-6-07
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 Story Rating G
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It was a small conservative town called Golgotha, off in the hills of some quiet valley, abundant with the angry screams of the same old witch hunt; a different face, but the head was always identical. It was a cacophobic town, running along a vein of bitter blood and hatred, all dictated by irresponsible demographics. It was the 4th of July, independence day; the festivities included a sickening formality, for the justification of normality.
It was a cold day. The skyline was bleak and grey, resonating a feeling of hopelessness and pessimism. Golgotha itself was a small town, in a barren wasteland of apathy. In the center of town was a large altar, which remained unused on all but this one day. But today, a large wooden crucifix had been erected, and placed atop the altar.
Surrounding the altar was an assortment of buildings, the largest being a Christian chapel. The chapel was a dark wooden brown, almost black. It sat on the horizon in all its gloom and heretic purity. Through the double doors, lined with gold finish, was a lobby, with two parallel benches, and blood red carpeting, which ran through the rest of the church. The lobby led into a large room, with rows of seating, and a slim and unwelcoming isle. The seats were all filled. At the front of the room stood an old, decrepit and cruel looking man; a bishop. He was draped in a long black robe, with a tall hat, holding a golden staff, laced with a coiling serpent running towards the ground, in one hand, and an aged bible in his other. He stood at a podium, screaming fanatically at the entertained and pleased crowd.
His eyes were a pale grey blue, sunken deep into his reddened face. His complexion was sagged and wrinkled, filled with deep animosity for diversity. His voice sounded as if it had been projected through a vintage radio, with such a rasp to his voice that it resembled a German accent. His name was Jack Walters. He finally came to the topic that the crowd had been so eagerly awaiting.
“Now, my children let the festivities begin. We shall finally spill the blood of the irreverent one! Now go to the streets, to the altar, and await the death of the heathen!” screamed Walters at the audience. The patrons screamed and applauded, and ran out of the church to the center of town. Walters gestured two figures over to him. They wore gas masks and goggles, and poor black uniforms, with armor. They both held black batons. “Bring him to the altar,” commanded Walters.
The two guards made their way to the cellar of the church. The room was scarcely lit. In the center of the room, a third silhouette was faintly visible. He sat inside of a cage. The guards approached the irreverent one, and opened the steel door of the cage to release the beast, a pale character, with long white hair, completely naked and starved. They dragged the irreverent one out of the church, routinely beating him with their batons.
It was a scarlet night as the son settled. The town was quiet with anticipation. The streets were lined with citizens, hungry for violence. As the guards dragged the irreverent one through the streets, children cried, and mothers gasped, while fathers pretended they felt no fear. When they reached the altar, Walters gave a speech to the crowd. “Here it is, my fellow people! The crucifixion of the irreverent one! We have waited months for this moment, and finally, we will once again cleanse our town of evil. We will redeem ourselves!”
At this, a crown of needles was placed atop the head of the evil one, and he was hoisted onto the large crucifix, and nailed in place, at the hands and feet. The guards hammered his fists into place, blood spraying from fresh wounds. The irreverent one screamed in pain, and in such utter distress, tears of blood flowed from his stigmatized eyes. The crowd applauded and praised the scene for nine hours. At this point, the irreverent one spoke. “Die for this?” and fell into death. Golgotha had fed, and for the time being, was satisfied with its sacrifice.
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