All Rights Reserved ©


Thunderous sounds rocked the mildewing church building, the wood roundabout the infrastructure infested with termites, and the people there within were shook with a fear they have never, ever known.

Ђey stared, eager, meek and disgruntled mortals, confused and scratching their heads, staring at the story of Jesus Christ told through the detailed precision of the stained glass windows of the church, designed by the hands of a French revolutionary, an untold story never revealed to the church in general because it wasn’t for everyone to know.

Ђose stained glass windows, splitting sunlight into various color, direction and forms, were once immaculate and splendidly beautiful.

Presently they were dirty and full of grime, corroded from lack of maintenance.

How do they worship Christ, with dirt and grime all over his life on stained glass windows, rotting and mildewing?

§§§hhh-Pop! Pop! Pop!

The beat of sonic booms, and the sonic booms themselves, were born of my hands, and the power of the impact between the slamming of my left and right palm of porcelain, together, ruled the atmosphere from the percussion of the sky, spiraling without touching anything, there only to use as pawns to keep the mortals of this phony congregation quiet and obedient.

§trike fear in the hearts of lions, and they bow handing ye their manes as communion, and an offering, and sacrifice.

Ah! Mortal lips trembled with fear; their precious lives horridly flashed before their eyes! In unison, all of them rushed to every stained glass window. There were six of them. Frightened folk nearly trampled over each other trying to get a glimpse of my amazing light.

The breathtaking air show we therefore witnessed was more than they can chew, so they didn’t bite of the images via their widened eyes, nor did they realize they were looking past Jesus in the stained glass windows.

In fact in their time of fear they never thought of Christ. They were trying to plea bargain with me to live, switching sides like it was nothing. All those years of attending church meant what, exactly, if you shun faith in the Son of God for a few brief moments of life when it was about to expire. Humans are sheep being food prepped for the slaughter of government. The absence of Christ in their hearts was suicide in itself.

From their belief Christ was the only way to Heaven, and as a vagabond I was starting to become curious about Christ, and why I ran from him for so long, but now wasn’t the time to get into it all, I’m still coming to terms with the events taking place right as ye read.


I have their attention; their undivided attention.

Σnough of the foolishness!

The invisible pyrotechnics weren’t as challenging as they once started out to be, when I first came into my Immortal power.

I’ve done this for so long it was starting to grow rather old, even though I am old as dirt, but as dashing as a deer, and as gorgeous as a runway model without the air headedness they come packaged with.

I mean…what good was power if ye had to hide behind an anonymous and unanimous mask to use it; an unanimous mask ye wear in private, placed in sudden bondage by the heavy breathing and the pounding hearts of the ones that lurk like ghoulish spooks in the shadows of every corner of thy mind. Paranoia sets in. Trapped ye art, behind closed doors, with thy precious power. Stroke it when it purrs.

Ye cry sorrowful woes in the shower. Ђe only time I shower was when I cleaned myself, and I had five mortal men, slaves with nooses around their necks, ex-plantation owners with nail kilts piercing their hips, causing them pain.

Ђey were taking turns tasting me, tenderly, obediently; lust sparkling in their eyes. I’ve experienced orgasm seventeen times already! Each more powerful than the previous! They worked together as they washed and scrubbed me from head to toe in the Bell De la Bell Latrine of the Ancient Queen Mother.

On their backs and faces were whelps, healed and scarred.

They were punished in loving memory of dead slaves that were cold-heartedly thrown over ships en route to America, tortured at the hands of their forefathers.

So I punish their descendants and the seeds of their sexual labor, wiping the sweat of my brow as I make them remember sins from yesteryear.

From a high ceilinged dome a huge chandelier loomed from a platinum rope chain above head, by 100 feet.

The stained glass of my dome was filled with snapshots of the Civil Rights movement in gilt frames, of the Renaissance Σra, and cherubs making love to horses and elder cherubs superimposed on silk wall paper all about the walls, 60 feet in height the walls were crafted, leading into the foyer of my grand bedroom.

Ђe Torture Room was legendary!

Ђe humidity was of startling intensity; it was simply too hot for a regular mortal and for the slaves, those that raped slaves and beat slaves and sold slaves and spat on slaves and uneducated slaves with no education at all, the only thing worse than their incarceration to the most elegant and expensive bedroom in the world was death itself.

Imagine witnessing the most beautiful form of pleasure, and after orgasm you’re taken captive by dark forces, and forced to do everything from wipe their anuses to clean their homes.

Now they know how it feels to be forced into a life that was prepped for them before they were captured. One man’s treasure has always been another woman’s woes.

Ђe Torture Room was a room they art never allowed to leave, my slaves that is.

And the hell with the Σmancipation Proclamation!

The sacred document penned by Mr. Lincoln was null and void in my chambers.

The government didn’t care for them anyway.

They were presumed dead, and the lives that they once knew was dead to them. They didn’t have any recollection of their birthrights. I stripped them of it.

Ђere was hell on earth for my slaves until they drew their last breaths; you should see how they beg for mercy!

They were genuine. I saw the honesty in their sorrowful eyes. It’s funny, really. I would spare them, but the darkened race they shepherded, brutally, into the system of human trafficking and slavery always overshadow logic.

Since they saw the slaves as animals, they were included in the Treaty of Animals as well. Were the deceased slaves they killed and separated from their families and treated like goat cheese there to hear their cries, pleas and apologies?

No they were not. They live in memory of a well-orchestrated plot to forever keep the darkened ones struggling. The ones I avenged rejoiced in Heaven, where they all art. According to the whispers of the wind, their souls have finally been laid to rest.

Wipe the dirt of the past on paper towels. And I needed a shower, really. I was starting to smell like a wet dog, literally. I take a precarious glance at thy gorgeous feet.

I have a strange foot fetish, clearly I tell ye the truth.

And thy perfectly cut nails—both sections of thy fingers, and the relatives of thy thumb, the big toe and the rest of his family that keeps balance and order for the alignment of thy body—was immaculately done.

I toss about thy hair like a drunken wind.

Look into my eyes, coyly, shyly look away…ye set me on fire, rise nations, erectly, on the mounds of flesh I’ve labeled C cups. Move like swans making love in the ashes of destruction.

I seldom shed tears, unless Heaven and Hell rejoice in Holy Matrimony and birth angel demon children that didn’t know if they were crocodiles or witches.

It’s all a hoax, camouflage, treason, espionage, ye name it that’s what it was, and betrayal of one’s self against his or her own self is the greatest form of blasphemy there is, because man was made in God’s image, not woman.

Woman was derived from a man’s ribcage.

No wonder I can’t shake the man from the category I was placed since birth—woman.

No wonder the serpent approached the submissive one, Σve, for the activation of life to begin, to justify the Fall of the Powerful Immortal, forced to live a life like Ђor with limited power on a greenish, unshaped earth without his hammer.

Σve’s womb procreated, shaped and populated the earth pretty well, won’t ye agree?

God breathed Life into Adam and his descendants. Most of society take advantage of it and turn and do wicked things. I surely have done wicked things, things insurmountable and too freakish for this account.

I glare at the Pastor’s unsettled corpse, ridden with psoriasis.

His decomposing flesh was desired territory for the maggots and insects and roaches that will erase it, and him, and the image of him in skeletal form, from the earth.

The expensive, stolen furniture of the church, and the shelves of books, things he admired, he no longer remembers…

At my beckoning, gorgeous displays of golden light gently, cautiously (with tender, love and care) embraced the children in a cloud of mist.

The moisture of the mist gently erased from their memories and memory all the negative images; and they were smiling and laughing and holding hands as I devised different plans for their animal-killing-and-investing-in-slaughter-in-order-of-their-secret-cult parents.

The sonic booms of my hands, carved from my unlimited power, and the fog forming on the porcelain of my palms, transported the children through stars and light and placed them at the doorsteps of the world’s leading psychologists’ massive, and not so massive, estates.

There were thirty-four psychologists in all.

Thirty-four children that will never know who they were or where they came from were about to change lives.

Σach of the children had invisible force fields surrounding them that snubbed their insomnia, and the powerful force fields nourished their appetites so they never grew thirsty or hungry.


Accompanying the little angels were handwritten eight-by-ten notes delicately and immaculately sized into three inch triangles via my conscious.

I attached the notes to the individual male child’s shirt or the upper portion of the individual female’s dress.

The triangular writings explained what I have done to the Pastor before their very eyes, and why I had slain him, and why they were spared.

I refused to use children as sacrifices.

Not I!

Ђat’s not what Alicia Chay stood for.

My heart pounded like pistons, and then it stopped with a pain I have never known, it came and went faster than I could describe, its full impact overwhelming in just that moment.

I jumped through the roof with a screech, and everyone hollered and screamed for their God to save them.

But would He...?

Continue Reading Next Chapter

About Us

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.