Yes, Lord.

Wake up.

The young, burly blonde man shudders in his sleep, and rolls over. “Hnnh?”

Wake up, child.

“I…wha–” He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and looks around, but sees no one, and comes fully awake, half-startled, jumping out of his bed and half-tripping over a football jersey.

Shhh, that’s it.

“I’m… I–” Wild-eyed, brown gaze staring over the world, confused.

No, don’t speak. Just Listen.

He waits, heart thundering in his chest, and struggles to understand.


There is something you must do for me, something that was someone else’s plan, someone else’s destiny, until the world took him from me in ways I had not anticipated. Though I am God, there are others, some equally as powerful. We are not all kind, nor are we all good. He served me well, and will serve me still, and will serve me better if he can once again walk the world. For your part, you will find peace, and you will be a sacrificial lamb upon the altar. You are blessed, child.

Close your eyes.

The boy does, feeling a buzzing, a screaming, behind them, and he whimpers, frightened.

Open your eyes.

Standing before the mirror, the young man looks himself over — gone is the muscle, gone is the blonde of his hair, gone the brown eyes, replaced by intense blue that pierce the night, peering out from behind red-tipped black locks that lay against pale cheeks.


“Yes, Lord?”

You will serve me well.

“Yes, Lord.”

Find her.

“Yes, Lord.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Yes, Lord.

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Creeping me out, Jones. Even your outlandish stuff sounds like it could be real. Which is fucking bugnuts, if you ask me. Love it.

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