Writing Pristine Nazarene.

[Mitch]

The old man laughs.

[i]Hahahahah[/i]

His long beard falls on his face, all white as bone. As white as snow.

"It has been snowin' for all dese days 'cause I made it. Hahahaha." He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Ya knows...lets me lets you in on a t'ing. Snow ain't so bad, me boy. It's only as bad as ya make 'er. So I want you to go out there with yer hands all in a no'dle, an' I want ya to make a snow angle in teh snow. Make 'im a be'tiful li'l t'ing too. Even give 'em real feat'ers fer wings and real eyes."

It's been two days in a row now. It's snowed off and on endlessly, the demure white coming down in its little drivels, like tears crystallized from some cloud's eye. Like a confetti parade for the devil.

I go outside. The snow is pouring down in its little lazy way, a sloth too sloppy to know any better. I can see Santa outside the window, and I can hear him shouting at me, his ripe, wrinkled cheeks held against the window, making it look like his face is all squeezed. All I can hear of what he's saying is a going on and on mumble mumble, mumble mumble. I stare at him for a while, then it's off to work.

I fall into the snow, the cold white grasping all around my body like a coat. I move my hands back and forth, back and forth. The snow bends to my will, and it is scraped off in the arcs my hands create. Moving my legs, I make the bottom arcs which serve as legs. The feeling of being in control of the snow, of making whatever I want of it is there.

I've made an angel. A beautiful little scapegoat, as white as wool.

[i]The flesh of fallen angels[/i]

Something frail, something white, something faded. I look at it, and images of the clang of a church bell ding in my head. Images of a cross. Images of a candle burning, like a soul skinned to the bone.

It's just like the weather to me. Just like snow. It melts. It changes. It's based on faith. Based on something I don't believe exists. It's just like the snow angel I've made. It is only there, but it means nothing to me.

All these countless hours of sitting in a church. All these countless hours of learning and knowing and caring and getting to understand. And even through it, all I can see is time trickling in its rivulets, like a river that's slowly drying up.

When someone dies, they are gone. Just like this angel I've made. Just like faith dying. Just like anything dying. Everything dies.

[i]Everything dies[/i]

It's the universal thought that springs into my head each and every day, a mad psycho with an even madder knife. And all I have is the pure things. Well, the pure things I haven't turned my back on.

I can see Santa Clause looking at me through a window in some room of my mind. Some mish and mash of memories. I can also see this snow angel. And the premise both of these bring up means necessarily the same thing to me.

I remember being a kid, everyone remembers being a kid. There used to be a Santa Clause. There used to be a man I'd leave cookies out for. He was a man that was pure and great, just like Jesus was shown to me to be. He gave me presents for being good and giving to others. And he ate my cookies, and he had reindeer.

[i]On Dasher, on Vixen, on Prancer, on Nazarene the red-nosed reindeer...[/i]

But he's all dead in my heart. And so is Jesus, like he's always been.

[i]just because you feel it
doesn't mean it's there
Nazarene
just because you feel it
doesn't mean
it's there[/i]

Snow is up to my face. Santa's still staring out his window at me. And in his eyes, I can see something. I get up from my snow angel, walking to the window, looking eye-to-eye at Santa, the thin glass the only thing between him and me.

[i]Upside-down cross[/i]

The cross dances on my face like a swastika, but doesn't have the same feel. It feels more beautiful than that. It feels something like a fairy tale. I could almost sigh, or laugh, or wonder. But Santa's pupil only stares me on, a dark hole like a key-hole, and in it standing the cross.

Soon, as I stare, the cross begins to fade. Five letters begin bouncing around like balls, spelling out SANTA in one of Santa's eyes, and in the other, SATAN. I recognize the anagram?that if you switch the letters of SANTA around, you can get SATAN. The irony hits me like a blearing bell, and I begin backing away from Santa, more sure of anything than before.

I walk in the snow, coming back to the snow angel and stare at it in its twinkled slosh, just frozen there. My feet crunch as I approach, a rhythmical little sound that reminds me of so many other things. Of leaves cracking, of silence being unsilenced, of things that seem not to matter. And then I come to an abrupt stop.

[i]The angel stares me in the eye
and all over her body there is blood

have you felt it in yourself
and just froze?[/i]

My eyes are given over to blood that has now appeared upon the angel's snow-impressed form.

[i]And when it die, it bareth forth much fruit.[/i]

The fruition of faith is staring me in the eyes; this bloody angel, once white, once standing for something with the eyes of other's on me, is now nothing. And nor was it ever anything. Faith does not exist; it merely believes. And for it to believe, it must have not fact, but must be cataract, which taken, serves like an eye that cannot see reality.

[i]My brain
says I'm receiving pain
a lack of oxygen
from my life support
my iron lung[/i]

Suddenly the sun shines above me; it begins to melt the snow, the already congealed blood is left where it was.

[i]The angel was never even there[/i]

As the angel leaves, it leaves a large machine, made of iron, and I can hear it hissing. It sounds like breathing, but is mechanized. It sounds like the breathing of a dying man.

Faith never existed. It never was, never is, never has been. In my implications, one can only truly do, be, know, have, need, clutch, touch something if it is a reality. If it is factually real.

As Santa fades like a fine-lined eyelash flickering away, and the blood of the angel is washed away in the rain, all that's left behind is what it is to be human and what it is to live. Those actualities and banalities that death is a truth, and that life is to be lived are never to have exemptions. They are the finite rules that the physicalities of our existence create. To expect more than what is here is to be selfish.

And if there is a Heaven, and there is a Hell, then so be it. I will go to Hell even though that in my death I'd rather just cease to exist and I have been a good person.

Sitting here on the ground a while, just watching the snow as it turns into water, I finally get up and walk on. The end is not near at all, but the beginning has begun long ago.

And faith, the phony thing I'll never need, will hiss its breaths on, the helpless iron lung that it is. And some will kiss it and breathe through it. But something never proved and as artificial is not meant to last. Something that great is not meant to be. If it is, it will not matter. I shall still die and I shall still live the same.

[i]And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had[/i]

[KarmaOfChaos]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Mitch [/i]
The old man laughs.

[i]Hahahahah[/i]

His long beard falls on his face, all white as bone. As white as snow.

"It has been snowin' for all dese days 'cause I made it. Hahahaha." He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Ya knows...lets me lets you in on a t'ing. Snow ain't so bad, me boy. It's only as bad as ya make 'er. So I want you to go out there with yer hands all in a no'dle, an' I want ya to make a snow angle in teh snow. Make 'im a be'tiful li'l t'ing too. Even give 'em real feat'ers fer wings and real eyes."
[/quote]
[color=deeppink] Interesting introduction. The old man's speech gives a strange feel to the beginning of the piece, and just a little sinister. A hidden meaning behind the innocent discussion of snow.
[/color][quote]
It's been two days in a row now. It's snowed off and on endlessly, the demure white coming down in its little drivels, like tears crystallized from some cloud's eye. Like a confetti parade for the devil.
[/quote][color=deeppink]
Nice way to set the scene. The last line is amazing...It really stands out beautifully.
[/color][quote]
I go outside. The snow is pouring down in its little lazy way, a sloth too sloppy to know any better. I can see Santa outside the window, and I can hear him shouting at me, his ripe, wrinkled cheeks held against the window, making it look like his face is all squeezed. All I can hear of what he's saying is a going on and on mumble mumble, mumble mumble. I stare at him for a while, then it's off to work.

I fall into the snow, the cold white grasping all around my body like a coat. I move my hands back and forth, back and forth. The snow bends to my will, and it is scraped off in the arcs my hands create. Moving my legs, I make the bottom arcs which serve as legs. The feeling of being in control of the snow, of making whatever I want of it is there.

I've made an angel. A beautiful little scapegoat, as white as wool.

[i]The flesh of fallen angels[/i]
[/quote][color=deeppink]
The angel becomes the scapegoat, the flesh of fallen angels is the mess which we blame everything on. The innocent are blamed.
[/color][quote]
Something frail, something white, something faded. I look at it, and images of the clang of a church bell ding in my head. Images of a cross. Images of a candle burning, like a soul skinned to the bone.
[/quote][color=deeppink]
Wonderful imagery. Once again, the last line is really profound.
[/color][quote]
It's just like the weather to me. Just like snow. It melts. It changes. It's based on faith. Based on something I don't believe exists. It's just like the snow angel I've made. It is only there, but it means nothing to me.
[/quote][color=deeppink] The way the story progresses here is interesting, you never state that you are talking about religion, it must be realized that you are. The religious imagery leads to the idea of religion, and henceforth rejection of it.

Nice metaphor between snow and religion.
[/color][quote]
All these countless hours of sitting in a church. All these countless hours of learning and knowing and caring and getting to understand. And even through it, all I can see is time trickling in its rivulets, like a river that's slowly drying up.

When someone dies, they are gone. Just like this angel I've made. Just like faith dying. Just like anything dying. Everything dies.

[i]Everything dies[/i]
[/quote][color=deeppink] Time is wasted praying and believing. In the end, your time is gone, and you are dead. An unquestioned eventuality, death is the fate of all things. And meanwhile, we spend our time praying and believing, searching for an escape while death draws ever closer.

You portray well how pointless our efforts really are.
[/color][quote]
It's the universal thought that springs into my head each and every day, a mad psycho with an even madder knife. And all I have is the pure things. Well, the pure things I haven't turned my back on.
[/quote][color=deeppink]
A hint of bitter sarcasm? Perhaps.
[/color][quote]
I can see Santa Clause looking at me through a window in some room of my mind. Some mish and mash of memories. I can also see this snow angel. And the premise both of these bring up means necessarily the same thing to me.

I remember being a kid, everyone remembers being a kid. There used to be a Santa Clause. There used to be a man I'd leave cookies out for. He was a man that was pure and great, just like Jesus was shown to me to be. He gave me presents for being good and giving to others. And he ate my cookies, and he had reindeer.

[i]On Dasher, on Vixen, on Prancer, on Nazarene the red-nosed reindeer...[/i]

But he's all dead in my heart. And so is Jesus, like he's always been.

[i]just because you feel it
doesn't mean it's there
Nazarene
just because you feel it
doesn't mean
it's there[/i]
[/quote][color=deeppink]
Absolutely phenomenal comparision. Jesus and Santa. The happy innocent story you're told as a child, that later on you realize is all one big fat lie. Something your parents made up. And they still make-believe that he's real, a sick sort of hypocricy considering they don't truly believe in him either. And in the end, the children are bitter and resentful of the lies they were told, and the stories are meaningless again.

"I remember being a kid, everyone remembers being a kid."

Lol. Great line.

"[i]On Dasher, on Vixen, on Prancer, on Nazarene the red-nosed reindeer...[/i]"
This one I had to read two times to understand what you meant. But once I realized it, this line was a very strong one in the piece, a sort of sum of the idea you are presenting in the previous paragraphs.
[/color][quote]
Snow is up to my face. Santa's still staring out his window at me. And in his eyes, I can see something. I get up from my snow angel, walking to the window, looking eye-to-eye at Santa, the thin glass the only thing between him and me.

[i]Upside-down cross[/i]

The cross dances on my face like a swastika, but doesn't have the same feel. It feels more beautiful than that. It feels something like a fairy tale. I could almost sigh, or laugh, or wonder. But Santa's pupil only stares me on, a dark hole like a key-hole, and in it standing the cross.

Soon, as I stare, the cross begins to fade. Five letters begin bouncing around like balls, spelling out SANTA in one of Santa's eyes, and in the other, SATAN. I recognize the anagram?that if you switch the letters of SANTA around, you can get SATAN. The irony hits me like a blearing bell, and I begin backing away from Santa, more sure of anything than before.
[/quote][color=deeppink]
Yes, that is one of the weirder things I've encountered. And so utterly ironic. It works wonderfully in your story. Jesus and Santa are the same, and Santa is Satan.

Jesus is Satan. Whee.

Nothing is as it seems, there are always hidden meanings beneath the words, a greater sin behind the innocent facade. Religion is a contradiction of itself in so many ways, and humanity's imperfection makes it even more so.
[/color][quote]
I walk in the snow, coming back to the snow angel and stare at it in its twinkled slosh, just frozen there. My feet crunch as I approach, a rhythmical little sound that reminds me of so many other things. Of leaves cracking, of silence being unsilenced, of things that seem not to matter. And then I come to an abrupt stop.

[i]The angel stares me in the eye
and all over her body there is blood

have you felt it in yourself
and just froze?[/i]

My eyes are given over to blood that has now appeared upon the angel's snow-impressed form.

[i]And when it die, it bareth forth much fruit.[/i]

The fruition of faith is staring me in the eyes; this bloody angel, once white, once standing for something with the eyes of other's on me, is now nothing. And nor was it ever anything. Faith does not exist; it merely believes. And for it to believe, it must have not fact, but must be cataract, which taken, serves like an eye that cannot see reality.

[i]My brain
says I'm receiving pain
a lack of oxygen
from my life support
my iron lung[/i]

Suddenly the sun shines above me; it begins to melt the snow, the already congealed blood is left where it was.

[i]The angel was never even there[/i]
[/quote][color=deeppink]
This is really where the piece starts to come together, focuses in, and draws in the reader.

Religion starts out as something innocent, something pure, like the snow angel. But slowly you realize the wrongness, all the dark secrets and the hypocritical ideas, beliefs, and the people who hold true to them, wasting away their life pretending to believe for fear of death. The blood on the snow angel, like these imperfections, becomes apparent, and eventually the snow melts away and only the blood is left.

But the snow angel never really mattered. The false pretense of her presence is gone, just like the snow that melted.
[/color][quote]
As the angel leaves, it leaves a large machine, made of iron, and I can hear it hissing. It sounds like breathing, but is mechanized. It sounds like the breathing of a dying man.

Faith never existed. It never was, never is, never has been. In my implications, one can only truly do, be, know, have, need, clutch, touch something if it is a reality. If it is factually real.

As Santa fades like a fine-lined eyelash flickering away, and the blood of the angel is washed away in the rain, all that's left behind is what it is to be human and what it is to live. Those actualities and banalities that death is a truth, and that life is to be lived are never to have exemptions. They are the finite rules that the physicalities of our existence create. To expect more than what is here is to be selfish.

And if there is a Heaven, and there is a Hell, then so be it. I will go to Hell even though that in my death I'd rather just cease to exist and I have been a good person.
[/quote][color=deeppink]
The metaphors and imagery are, for the most part, gone, and the rawness of the story is brought out.

After the snow and the blood is gone, you see the machine that is religion. A crutch, an illusion. The people live thinking they have this faith, but the only reason the believe is because they need that crutch, they need to hold on to the idea that they can somehow escape death.

But in the end there is only death. Accept that, accept the truths this life offers. Do not search for something that is not there.

And if it is...why bow before it? Why live in fear of it? Accept death, and be free of that crutch, the iron lung you cling so desperatly to.
[/color][quote]
Sitting here on the ground a while, just watching the snow as it turns into water, I finally get up and walk on. The end is not near at all, but the beginning has begun long ago.

And faith, the phony thing I'll never need, will hiss its breaths on, the helpless iron lung that it is. And some will kiss it and breathe through it. But something never proved and as artificial is not meant to last. Something that great is not meant to be. If it is, it will not matter. I shall still die and I shall still live the same.

[i]And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had[/i][/QUOTE][color=deeppink]
Excellent ending to an amazing piece. Great use of song lyrics. I'd have to say this one of my favorites out of the stories and poems you've done. Awesome job, Mitch. =)

-Karma
{PS: Now you can stop harassing me to review it! Lol. ^.~ But I enjoyed it, I really did. You should write more like this.}
[/color]