The sky is blue, and the birds sing their beautiful song. Not a cloud in sight, and the sun shines in a way that could wipe away any tear from anyone’s eyes. But to him, it is just blinding. He leans against the hood of his truck, waiting for his daughter with a bottle in his hand.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m God—”

. He turns his head and sees a bearded man in ragged clothes, with hair like sheep’s wool.

“F**k off, I got no money for you.”

“Anybody seen my kid Jesus, Jesus Christ? I told him I’d pick him up now.”

He turns and walks towards the man who claims to be god. He puts his half-empty bottle on the curb, grabs him by the shoulders, looks into his eyes, and says 

“We crucifixed him, man. We killed your kid, okay? You wan— you wanmoney for the church? I got none.” He stumbles off the curb and back to the front of the F-150. A thud, bone on concrete, the bearded man fell to his knees.

“You-you crucified my son?” 

The bell rings, and the next class of kids is running out. The more parents here, the commotion slowly draws a crowd. He stands up, hands clasped to his head, pleading to any person around, “Let me speak to a teacher. I gotta speak to a teacher about this. Where’s Socrates? Get Socrates.” 

Everyone looks at each other, scared, shielding their children’s eyes, not sure if the man has gone mad or what. The man on the truck chuckles, thinking this charade is funny, and stumbles back to the bearded man, finding his bottle on the short stroll, throwing one hand on his shoulder, and telling him again.

“He was xicuted too” he shakes his head and slurred “yourrr s**t outta luck ain’t ya.” He scoops his bottle and strolls towards the crowd, the stench of booze barreling with him.

“Where’s Lincoln, man? You got me. Good joke, guys. Now go get Lincoln.”

Everyone stares in disbelief. Jaws fall to the floor. No one moves out of shock or fear. The sound of swallowing is all that breaks the tension. Tears fall upon faces; they duck their heads to avoid the bearded man’s eyes; they want to leave but are just as intrigued as they are in fear; no one knows what to tell him. The bell rings again, but the man from the truck’s daughter wasn’t done for another period, and even his laugh had faded, transfixed in the outburst being displayed. Unsure what to make of any of it. The bearded man searched for anyone to meet his gaze, desperate for someone, anyone to help to show they care to show anything, but they froze him out, staring, watching, recording but never helping.

“What about Martin?” 

“or-or Malcom?”

“What did you do to Martin?”

“Trayvon?” He plead.

The bell broke the silence but not the stares. They looked at him but didn’t see his sorrow or his pain. He stared back, water welling in his eyes. 

“Y-you know it ain’t going to be no brimstone; it’s going to be some far worse than that—you’re killing yourselves. I-i-I mean, how do you, how do you f**k up on earth? You know what I mean—how do you f**k up a river,” he coughs up “this s**t is weird, man. I can’t even breathe here. Do you hear me millions of cars giving out s**tkilling people, people just dying because mothaf**kas don’t love each other? And that’s the greatest f**kin power there is. F**k atomic bombs, f**k lazerbeams, f**k flight, and F**k money too, like-like, you have a heart and love; I-i gave you love.” Not a soul to heard his cries.

The man waiting for his daughter goes to stop the man as he is walking away when he feels a tug on his shirt. He looks down to see his little girl staring at him like a deer in headlights. “I-I don’t get it daddy. Why’s God crying?” Rain landed with each of her words, “What did we do wrong? Did we make him sad?”

“I-I’m not really sure, honey, but let’s hurry home; it’s starting to rain.”

Photo (also used in feature) from arthistoryproject.com/aarondouglas/thejudgmentday

Taurean Jewett II is a second year English major at Holy Family University. They work on the Folio team and their interests include poetry, fashion & music.