(no subject)
Letters to God
Samantha Strong
Patrick White
Christopher Ringkamp
Dear Edgar,
I caused it today. We have been talking about the catalyst. Our answer. As we’ve said, to accord what we believe, there must be a catalyst. And for a catalyst, there will be a martyr.
It didn’t happen like we planned Edgar. It wasn’t…outright. I was a victim today. I victimized myself into martyrdom. I stepped on my brakes at an inappropriate time. There was a crash.
Alexander is dead, Edgar. We are closer to our goal. In a triumphant manner, I set Karen’s license plate on the back of my mangled vehicle. It was as if I could see him staring at me from Hell.
Anyways…I’m at the Scottish Rite. I am delivering you this message through someone I trust. Please respond Edgar. We must meet.
Sincerely,
Quentin Trumsey
----------
Quentin,
We’ve all seen it. I thought it was because of them. Well, because of her rather. Karen. I’m glad she killed herself, less for us to do. We’ve got so much more to do. Oscar, Charles. They must go as well. They will all be staring at us from hell. Ice cold eyes, wreathed in flame. We thought it was them, but now that they’re gone the feeling remains. They are burning, burning puppies. Flames devour their flesh. Puppy flesh. Alexander was the first. The martyr. The catalyst. You are the snake bearer, Quentin. And I, I am your gardener.
Yours Truly,
Edgar.
----------
Dear Quentin,
I don’t understand why this has to be. In order for something to be set in motion, first a destination has to be pre-determined. Why must we leave? I feel as if this whole thing is unraveling before my eyes. You see it so clearly as I am stuck behind this opiate pane of glass. When Oscar told me he loved me I was shocked at first. The shock comes from him actually saying it. I don’t think anyone is ever surprised I had subconscious doubts about the state of our “friendship.” I don’t love Oscar. In fact, I despise him. There are forms of hatred so concentrated that it spoiled the fruit before she had a chance to bite, that is how I would describe Oscar.
Let me be, now that I’ve seen the animal I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. If we all must die for our sins, so be it. But do not continue this any further.
Can beauty exist in absolute darkness?
If by the time this letter gets to you I am already dead, tell Karen that it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Its funny how real something is from the inside. Its once you step out that it starts becoming nonsense. How can there be so much truth in nonsense…
I don’t understand.
Never write here again,
Charles.
----------
Dear God,
Of course you aren’t my friend, but I figure if I write to you this way, I can convey what I sincerely must. I do this because, again, I must. And I must, because, again as I have said before, they all believe in me, and I have yet to tell them that I believe in no one but you.
I have convinced them that I trust only in Alexander. To tell you the truth, and I only tell you the truth, I think he isn’t real. He is just a carbon copy of the rest of them: Robots of Arrogance. I pretend to know only because they believe like I am some savior of man. Ironic.
Is this sin, I ask of you? My twisted game may turn into something expensive for them of course, but their blindness is the plank in the eye. They speak of Samael like they oppose him, the one who knows he is wise is not wise. They feel they oppose him. And for that, they are worth nothing.
You are a mystery, you know that? I still have no idea who you are. It hurts, my friend. I am apathetic of my brother’s death and fucking with his good friends power to think… All for you. I need to see you. I need to feel you. At first, I was entrances by the “stranger in the night” façade, and it made love-making excellent. But now, Mr. Ramón, I must know you.
Consider my offer. You are God to me.
Love Always,
Karen.
P.S. I must borrow your credit card, please send it with your next letter.
----------
To Whom It May Concern:
In response to your letter, I would like to state, for my sake, that I am not as powerful as you may think. Alexander knows this. He made many appeals for his soul before the end. You may think that I know all of the answers to this but I don’t. There was no saving Alexander. Or Karen for that matter. Tim and Stanley have yet to reach me, and I am puzzled at this. You will die for your sins, of this I am certain, but how? That, my dear, will be clear to us all in due time.
Your brother need not have died in vain…
Enclosed is my credit card. Please don’t go over my limit. I have enough bills to pay as it is. You know what I mean.
Yours truly,
God
P.S. The puppy is a gift and a teacher, do not treat her poorly, you’ll need her before the end. I guaran-damn-tee it.
----------
Dear Earth,
When I awoke this morning I had no aspirations at all, to my knowledge I was going to go to work, come home, eat dinner, and go back to work. A plan not so well thought out but if it had gotten to a point where I didn’t have to think, it just happened. You could say, “unfortunately for him this was not the case,” but I don’t see it as misfortune, rather a change in plans.
This morning, there was a letter.
In the kitchen of my home there sits a table, square, faux oak, humdrum. On this table this particular morning there lay a letter. A letter addressed to one “Edgar” the sender “GOD.” I couldn’t let something so odd go unnoticed, untampered. When I pried open the seal a rectangular piece of plastic stumbled on the table. B of G. Credit card #777. I peered inside the new empty envelope hoping to find some scrap of paper, some form of communication, but nothing, not even a post-it. Fuck Work.
I decided to see how powerful God was, so I went to the mall. Entering the building I was overwhelmed by blinding flashes of “Buy Me Now” so I did. I begin running from store to store and purchased anything that caught his her or my eye. It became so frantic that I began to lose energy. Collapse.
As I lie on the floor gazing up at the skylights and the roof of this mall. I thought to myself. “wow God is one powerful bitch.” Then I realized what had just happened . Since when does something so despicable as money represent any sort of power, especially in he hands of one such as God. I had committed the sin. I began to weep and stood to my feet. I walked to the rail and peered down into the courtyard, disgusting.
I walked into a linen shop and made my last purchase. Once more I peer over the edge of the rail, as I fasten the rope, thoughts begin to blink in my head. I stare at the ground below and it starts getting closer it continues to rise until - snap - everything comes to a screeching halt. Darkness.
I fucking hate the postal service.
Frank.
----------
Dear Edgar,
The sleepstalker awakens.
Sincerely,
Quentin Trumsey
----------
Dear Father Miram,
According to prophecy, one will be chosen among many. This individual is sent to the ever-dying land to stir discord among the “living” particularly those with whom the chosen was most entwined. This disturbance in the spiritual equilibrium, causes the inconceivable. In the end, its is said, man destroys God.
Charles Ramón
----------
Dear…Fuck.
Samantha Strong
Patrick White
Christopher Ringkamp
Dear Edgar,
I caused it today. We have been talking about the catalyst. Our answer. As we’ve said, to accord what we believe, there must be a catalyst. And for a catalyst, there will be a martyr.
It didn’t happen like we planned Edgar. It wasn’t…outright. I was a victim today. I victimized myself into martyrdom. I stepped on my brakes at an inappropriate time. There was a crash.
Alexander is dead, Edgar. We are closer to our goal. In a triumphant manner, I set Karen’s license plate on the back of my mangled vehicle. It was as if I could see him staring at me from Hell.
Anyways…I’m at the Scottish Rite. I am delivering you this message through someone I trust. Please respond Edgar. We must meet.
Sincerely,
Quentin Trumsey
----------
Quentin,
We’ve all seen it. I thought it was because of them. Well, because of her rather. Karen. I’m glad she killed herself, less for us to do. We’ve got so much more to do. Oscar, Charles. They must go as well. They will all be staring at us from hell. Ice cold eyes, wreathed in flame. We thought it was them, but now that they’re gone the feeling remains. They are burning, burning puppies. Flames devour their flesh. Puppy flesh. Alexander was the first. The martyr. The catalyst. You are the snake bearer, Quentin. And I, I am your gardener.
Yours Truly,
Edgar.
----------
Dear Quentin,
I don’t understand why this has to be. In order for something to be set in motion, first a destination has to be pre-determined. Why must we leave? I feel as if this whole thing is unraveling before my eyes. You see it so clearly as I am stuck behind this opiate pane of glass. When Oscar told me he loved me I was shocked at first. The shock comes from him actually saying it. I don’t think anyone is ever surprised I had subconscious doubts about the state of our “friendship.” I don’t love Oscar. In fact, I despise him. There are forms of hatred so concentrated that it spoiled the fruit before she had a chance to bite, that is how I would describe Oscar.
Let me be, now that I’ve seen the animal I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. If we all must die for our sins, so be it. But do not continue this any further.
Can beauty exist in absolute darkness?
If by the time this letter gets to you I am already dead, tell Karen that it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Its funny how real something is from the inside. Its once you step out that it starts becoming nonsense. How can there be so much truth in nonsense…
I don’t understand.
Never write here again,
Charles.
----------
Dear God,
Of course you aren’t my friend, but I figure if I write to you this way, I can convey what I sincerely must. I do this because, again, I must. And I must, because, again as I have said before, they all believe in me, and I have yet to tell them that I believe in no one but you.
I have convinced them that I trust only in Alexander. To tell you the truth, and I only tell you the truth, I think he isn’t real. He is just a carbon copy of the rest of them: Robots of Arrogance. I pretend to know only because they believe like I am some savior of man. Ironic.
Is this sin, I ask of you? My twisted game may turn into something expensive for them of course, but their blindness is the plank in the eye. They speak of Samael like they oppose him, the one who knows he is wise is not wise. They feel they oppose him. And for that, they are worth nothing.
You are a mystery, you know that? I still have no idea who you are. It hurts, my friend. I am apathetic of my brother’s death and fucking with his good friends power to think… All for you. I need to see you. I need to feel you. At first, I was entrances by the “stranger in the night” façade, and it made love-making excellent. But now, Mr. Ramón, I must know you.
Consider my offer. You are God to me.
Love Always,
Karen.
P.S. I must borrow your credit card, please send it with your next letter.
----------
To Whom It May Concern:
In response to your letter, I would like to state, for my sake, that I am not as powerful as you may think. Alexander knows this. He made many appeals for his soul before the end. You may think that I know all of the answers to this but I don’t. There was no saving Alexander. Or Karen for that matter. Tim and Stanley have yet to reach me, and I am puzzled at this. You will die for your sins, of this I am certain, but how? That, my dear, will be clear to us all in due time.
Your brother need not have died in vain…
Enclosed is my credit card. Please don’t go over my limit. I have enough bills to pay as it is. You know what I mean.
Yours truly,
God
P.S. The puppy is a gift and a teacher, do not treat her poorly, you’ll need her before the end. I guaran-damn-tee it.
----------
Dear Earth,
When I awoke this morning I had no aspirations at all, to my knowledge I was going to go to work, come home, eat dinner, and go back to work. A plan not so well thought out but if it had gotten to a point where I didn’t have to think, it just happened. You could say, “unfortunately for him this was not the case,” but I don’t see it as misfortune, rather a change in plans.
This morning, there was a letter.
In the kitchen of my home there sits a table, square, faux oak, humdrum. On this table this particular morning there lay a letter. A letter addressed to one “Edgar” the sender “GOD.” I couldn’t let something so odd go unnoticed, untampered. When I pried open the seal a rectangular piece of plastic stumbled on the table. B of G. Credit card #777. I peered inside the new empty envelope hoping to find some scrap of paper, some form of communication, but nothing, not even a post-it. Fuck Work.
I decided to see how powerful God was, so I went to the mall. Entering the building I was overwhelmed by blinding flashes of “Buy Me Now” so I did. I begin running from store to store and purchased anything that caught his her or my eye. It became so frantic that I began to lose energy. Collapse.
As I lie on the floor gazing up at the skylights and the roof of this mall. I thought to myself. “wow God is one powerful bitch.” Then I realized what had just happened . Since when does something so despicable as money represent any sort of power, especially in he hands of one such as God. I had committed the sin. I began to weep and stood to my feet. I walked to the rail and peered down into the courtyard, disgusting.
I walked into a linen shop and made my last purchase. Once more I peer over the edge of the rail, as I fasten the rope, thoughts begin to blink in my head. I stare at the ground below and it starts getting closer it continues to rise until - snap - everything comes to a screeching halt. Darkness.
I fucking hate the postal service.
Frank.
----------
Dear Edgar,
The sleepstalker awakens.
Sincerely,
Quentin Trumsey
----------
Dear Father Miram,
According to prophecy, one will be chosen among many. This individual is sent to the ever-dying land to stir discord among the “living” particularly those with whom the chosen was most entwined. This disturbance in the spiritual equilibrium, causes the inconceivable. In the end, its is said, man destroys God.
Charles Ramón
----------
Dear…Fuck.