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A Right to Write.
I'm sick of people telling me that I write well. I thank God for the talent, but as great as it is, it's less than most perceive it to be. We are all writers. We have been blessed with the capacity to reason through word, and we had better use and take advantage of it. Imagine. In the beginning was The Word. Words and writing are linked to the very essence of who people are, and I believe that writing is important for everyone—not just aspiring reporters or novelists...Shame on the foreman or coffeehouse waiter who doesn't come home and write every so often. If we write fiction, we exercise that which God has given us to work with. If we write non-fiction we express an appreciation, or interest in that which God has done in the past whether that past be ancient or merely an hour old. So, without further ado, I present little bits of the fruit of my humanity.
P.S. It hurts me to have to say this, but I went ahead and shelled out the 30 bucks to have some of my 'better' stuff copyrighted. So when you see the "©" you're making yourself liable if you don't take it seriously.
Adam Tillman-Young 11/7/98
Copyright © 1999 by Adam Tillman-Young
The Sacred Tenth
From the slump of her shoulders, and the irregularity of her breathing, I could tell that she was upset. I looked again in the mirror. I had been studying my reflection for a long time. The woman, who stared back, had a story to tell. She beckoned to me with a long black finger. There, before me I saw my entire life. Inaccurate portrayals of my existence passed before me for my consideration, and I was bombarded with tortuous realities. I watched her look at her own life as if to suggest that we led the same life. I saw my mother saying all kinds of terrible things about me, condemning me, and relinquishing faith. I saw myself getting sick and withering away. Tears stained my cheeks. The depth of the whole encounter shocked me. What had aroused this revelation?
The girl dropped seemingly lifeless to the floor, in a fetal position. She too was crying. It was a mirror again. I cried like a child for an hour or so, until there were more developments in the mirror. A suited man came and touched the girl, that was me, on the shoulder. Again, images of hopelessness paraded the mirror, and I was confronted with myself for the second time. The suited man remained in the peripherals of the mirror, yet neither did he anything to deflate or augment the situation.
The girl rose, and my eyes met mine. I cried out, expecting her to do the same, but she did not. The reason for my fear was in her eyes. The pair of vacuous spheres was an omen predicting my demise. It was so initially apparent, yet the agonizing disaster played with me, or so it seemed. It was clear that I was going to die- the eyes told me so, but there was more. My fear was dispelled, and for the first time, the figure spoke.
“We’re dying.”
I wanted to say “Tell me something I don’t know!” but I knew that it wouldn’t matter if I did or didn’t. I didn’t know what dimension or perversion of reality I was in, but I knew how my surroundings worked. I understood, that communication was based upon emotions; fear, anticipation, and never rapture. Drawing on this, I was particularly stirred, and confused as to why she spoke to me. Seared lips finished her words.
“And it’s all your fault.”
Instinctively, I punched the mirror. The mirror, still in place, had shattered. The broken pieces just stood, their animation suspended. My knuckles ached, and a pool of blood was gathering on the floor. I raised my hand to my face, shocked at what I had just done. Cold blood traveled down my arm and covered my watch. It was 9:55. If I didn’t catch the bus I would be fifteen minutes late for my divinity class. It was my major, and I was particularly devoted to going to class, since it was already my third dissertation change that year. I hated the bus. I would have much rather liked to have walked. Walking was the opiate of my pitiful life. Walking let me wander. When I walked, I was moving. And moving was good. Alas, walking was out of the question. I was late. I dressed my wound, and fed my cat. Grabbing a newspaper off of my drawing table, I was off.
I decided to board the bus on 9th Ave. Just two blocks from my apartment. I could have waited at the stop right outside my door, but I was determined to get in at least a little stroll before being bogged down with research to do for my paper. Actually, that wasn’t the only reason.
The drop was executed beautifully.
I walked towards a one-dollar bill on the ground. As I stooped to pick it up, so did a portly senior. I snatched it up.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The second party was furious.
“I’m pickin’ up my dollar,” I informed the man.
“Whaddaya mean? That’s mine!” The man was fat around the face, and as he spoke, his waddle shook to accent his words.
“Finders keepers, big guy!” I patted him on his paunch.
“How dare you touch me!” He pushed me and I dropped my newspaper.
“Is that all you’re gonna do about it Gramps?” Just then a tall slim, executive approached us, diplomacy his aim.
“What seems to be the commotion?” Looking directly at the old man, the new guy underhandedly slipped a pouch no bigger than an instant beverage powder packet into my coat.
“Absolutely nothing sir.” The heavyset old man turned and walked away.
“Thanks a lot sir.” I mocked gratitude to “Jeff” my pusher. Just then, the bus arrived. I boarded the bus and watched Jeff pick up the newspaper that Sam, an old friend of mine, "made" me drop.
The bus began to move. I looked down at my favorite pair of jeans. There was a bloodstain the size of a nickel on my thigh. I knew that the drop of blood that caused it was no bigger than a pinhead, but once the individual denim fibers accepted it, the stain spread. I looked up. We were slowly making our way down the street that buzzed with boring morning life. The boulevard was lined with convenience stores, thrift shops, and the occasional liquor store. I knew I should have walked. The traffic thinned, and the bus made its way into the commercial sector. Skyscrapers loomed above, and executive types milled about the sidewalks, and crossways. We were about four more blocks from the campus. A woman with a baby stood awaiting her stop. She unfolded the baby’s stroller, and seated him. The bus stopped right in front of a mirrored scraper. I caught my reflection. The figure, that was me, had reappeared. She crouched like a gargoyle on the roof of the bus. She was furious. Again one of her long, singed fingers wagged at me. She threw back her head, and let out a silent cackle. She spoke again, and I read her lips.
“Are you trying to lose me?” Her eyes pierced mine, and again, I saw death. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I looked to the bus driver to see why he wasn’t moving. The woman with the baby was struggling to get out of the door. One of the strollers wheels had gotten stuck in the step grate, and the bus couldn’t proceed. I dashed out the door, past the pair, and ran up the street trying desperately not to look left or right, for the entire strip was of mirrored buildings. I sprinted the way straight to the chapel where my class was being held. I swept through the heavy oak doors and met an empty room. I had missed my class. My professor sat in the first pew before the marvel of the town. It was the widely acclaimed tapestry that portrayed Jesus Christ in every form and race imaginable. The professor did not turn around.
“Why weren’t you in my class?” Though I wasn’t facing him, I knew that his eyebrows were moving because his, bald, head shifted back and forth with each word.
“I- I had some trouble at home.” I stuttered, and I was shocked. Something about my teacher intimidated me; made me feel like less than I perceived myself to be.
“Come and sit.” still not caring to look at me, he raised a judicial hand. I walked down the aisle to where he was. As I neared him, a window blew open, and the Son’s light filled the room. Catching his baldhead, my reflection was flung at me, and I shrieked.
“Peace.” My teacher motioned for one of the candle bearers to shut the window. The stain on my jeans was half dollar-sized now.
I told my teacher of what was happening to me and he thought for a moment. “Perhaps,” he rubbed his head. “The reflection that you see is the way God sees you right now.” I gasped. I knew there was a God. I had believed in the concept of God ever since I was a little kid. But He was never real to me. I can remember when I was three. I used to love looking into those little snow domes that you can shake up and make snow. I had one snow dome that looked like a little town. I used to think that God was like me; trapped outside of the glass with only the power to shake things around. I never knew that He was this interactive...this real. Besides, it was too direct. I had learned that God usually worked through other people and not directly, one-on-one. I knew the odds clearly: nine out of ten people came to God through a third party.
“You mean that God has something to do with this?” I asked at last. My teacher chuckled.
“I should definitely hope that this is of God. Otherwise&ldots;” His voice trailed off, and his eyes left mine and regarded the tapestry. I stood, thanked my teacher, and left the building. I fingered my pocket for cab fare, and realized that it was empty. Even the pouch of cocaine that had cost me $600 was gone. There was no hole in my pocket. I decided to walk back to my apartment. After all, that was what I had originally wanted. I walked the same route that the bus had come. Something strange happened when I passed the mirrors. Nothing. That was the strange part. I was me again: tall, slim, slightly pale, but not unhealthy looking. I continued my walk all the way to my apartment. Upon opening my door, I was confronted by the suited man from earlier. I was thrown into genuflection.
“Repent.?”
The word was a hybrid of question, and imperative. “Who are you?” I asked. It shocked me that throughout all of the day’s shenanigans it was the first time I had asked the question.
“I am yours. For the time being.” The suited man replied.
“Excuse me?” He wasn’t saying what I thought he was.
“I am...” His voiced trailed off.
“An Angel!” My own voice finished the sentence, but it wasn’t from me. My reflection stepped out of the broken mirror, and faced me. I felt my pockets again. I wondered for a moment if this wasn’t just the biggest coke trip I had ever experienced. Somehow, I knew that it wasn’t. I knew the gravity of what was going on. The painful emptiness no longer filled my eyes, and the hard edge that I possessed seemed to have dissipated&ldots;nullified. I knew I was going to die, but from my teacher’s words, I learned that I was going to live. All I had to do was accept the fact that I was flawed, and that there was a better way. And so I did. As soon as I made the decision, I woke up. I ran to the mirror. Everything was back to normal. I looked at my fingertips. It was clear that I was an abuser, but hope was finely etched in each crevice of my fingerprints. Regarding my eyes, I saw my jubilant reflection dancing in my pupils, glad to be alive, and showing much promise for the new day. That day I prayed for the first time in my life. I asked Jesus to forgive my sins, and to improve my existence. I bathed and got dressed, and planned to be early for my divinity class. I had to tell my teacher. There would be no time to walk. I knew exactly where I had to go. A knock came from the hallway. I skipped giddily to the door, and greeted the stranger. He glanced down at a photo of me. “Jeff is not happy.” He said. My ears rejoiced at their last visitor. My blood was warm; the floor was cold. But I was saved. St. Peter liked my story.