Crash

Nolani coughed. Sand? What? It tasted awful, oily salty brine-y… tangy… citrus-y? Like some disgusting margarita that sat out all night in the heat by the ocean and then all the next day and then all the years it took until it was nothing but rocks and chemical lemon dust in the bottom of the glass, which itself hadn’t actually ever been washed from the first day her mother had put it to use in their slum cantina. The day… Well, her father would never have bothered to wash it after that anyways.

As she coughed it out she quickly became aware of a smell layered over all the taste. Metal. Rust. Like she was sitting next to her father’s angle grinder back home as he ate away at the corrosion that grew over everything in that salty air. The determined attention which he threw himself into punishing the cars and lampposts and street signs and junk he valued so much.

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Repentance

It’s no joke that you must become like a little child to enter the kingdom of heaven. Your heart and soul need be lain bare. You must be willing to be broken like a two-year-old. Unapologetic-ally pathetic. Uncaring of how ridiculous you are.

You know you’ve arrived when the snot running freely from your nose, dripping disgustingly on yourself and those you hug in an almost drunken manner as you beg their forgiveness bothers you not even a little. Although your brain (not to mention the looks on some of their faces) assures you matter-of-factly; that’s disgusting!

A week of church camp will do it. Monasticism in a box, or as close as you can get to it for a 16-year-old kid.

Go to the wilderness… You think it’s full of cottages made of candy guarded by incompetent witches, big bad(ly ineffective) wolves, dragons gift-wrapping helpless panting fawning maidens and piles of gold just ready for you to pillage.

If only there were dragons.

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