Demon is the Spirit

A Short Story For Christians

I am le spiritus. The product of the war between angels and devils. Hence, I feel as though I can’t move, born in these estranged hands, I tremble and boggle inflamed yet without scars. Every fiber in my body tastes metallic-cold. I hold my farewells spectacularly! I am attracted magnetically— can stay at one position for a nice long time. What I see is of old, Victorian styled buildings in front of me. It looked as though a memory were fading from this Ivy City I once visited with Onesimus. To my surprise, I observed around the tree line, be it foggy or day light. There are these little moving things, beetles? No, they are large— colorful. Wait. I see people! People all walking about hustling to some place at night or dawn. They proceed at the same time of the day, like liturgy. Why do they move like this?

I enjoy this little spot of mine. For often, I can feel a little squeal, a rasp-screams like a-whisper! Shredding cold. Warming worn darkness. Fullness in dread of meekless sleep. My voice hoarse in infinite love of the truth, Eternal testament be singing— light of the day has made the burden-yoke— I wanted to say, but came out, before, I could, wield it—

I absorb a man in the crowd. These are moments I have all the time, things move by so fast for me, (folly, why patience).

Time—space is so hollow, as the crowds would talk about how ‘atoms could hold a universe.’ So there is a great deal of room for me to squeal in, (what joy).

There is this one moment, where I can play my little dares, little haughtiness. Where a large, behemoth of a man with the ever so peaceful touch— the soft voice like Abraham Lincoln as the crowds would say. He sits in this bench precisely ten to the ninetieth nanometers away.

He comes about regularly now — smoking a cigar, weathered coat, a demeanor of softness. But no. No. He knows, he has a weakness. It is my duty, as I am here, to let the weaknesses out, no one knows of the burdens, the justice I must employ.

So, in, what a man calls 1942, is the day I strike:

Hello

The man startles— jumps in the moment. He pretends he did not hear anything, so I bring a screaming-whisper to intrigue the man’s (singing) heart of holy terror:

Is a disabled, with a heart, like a nun, a white crown?

This man, fortunately for me, was catholic. So he hears this, startled, and walks away troubled with doubts, pretending he doesn’t hear anything.

However, he is thinking of going to get a glass of wine to ease his sobriety, so nevertheless, I walk right in the door.

He knows he should — according to the laws he follows — discuss privately what he heard. So he walks away, in the darkness to go back to his shed, however he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know I am still on his tail, gripping him like a claw swimming from the other side of the natural. (oh yes, I love nature. . . nurture.)

For many months according to his time, which I admire, I would make little moans, a little noise, just right when his circadian rhythm is reaching a nice good spot. Right at the second when I can sense his body temperature decreasing, the pressure of his pulmonary arteries. The adrenaline dies, right when the norepinephrine is right, right when every neurotransmitter is right. Analyze the amygdala especially, for it is easy— tells me pretty much everything.

There is a moment, in which at the right time when executive centers as the amateurs like to call it, are dull. Right when the ‘limbic system,’ fades, when I say it— buried in the shipwreck of moaning cortex of his, without a dhampir’s whisper:

Is a disabled, with a heart, like a nun, a white crown?

So I repeat these things, right at the right moment when his mind encodes these things— eventually, it sings louder than his heart can beat in the most intimate moments with his wife.

And so, this man Franciszek Gajowniczek, goes about one day to witness the sacrifice of St. Maximus Kolbe. It is here, the legend of the Red and White crown, is born. I believe those loyal silent fools though twisted my words. (They think victory).