|Faith in Science (standard:Psychological fiction, 3024 words)|
|Author: G.H. Hadden||Added: May 02 2005||Views/Reads: 1835/1141||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|"Oh no." I say, "I'm not going to fall for any of that hocus-pocus!" There's got to be a rational explanation somewhere. "Well then my friend," God replies with a devilish grin. "Have I ever got a trick for you."|
Faith in Science By G.H. Hadden I was born an Anglican and confirmed one at age ten, but have considered myself either atheist or agnostic for some time now. I'm not quite sure if God ever existed at all, is dead, or just gets sick of six billion prayers filling up his inbox like so much spam. Maybe that good ol' Spirit-in-the-Sky is a gambler at heart, deciding our fate on the roll of the dice; or perhaps he just gets bored from time to time and likes to pick some poor schmoe at random to play a practical joke on. Some people get a grilled cheese sandwich with the face of Jesus on it and that's all it takes to get their attention. For others, it's a weeping Virgin Mary statue in their home, or little Carlita's hands start bleeding. "Oh no." I say, "I'm not going to fall for any of that hocus-pocus!" There's got to be a rational explanation somewhere. "Well then my friend--" God replies with a devilish grin. "Have I ever got a trick for you." It is the glorious golden hour of summer twilight, with a refreshing breeze hitting my face as I stand in my backyard. I should be enjoying the red orange glow of the sun as it sets behind a few puffy clouds in silhouette on the horizon. I should be tossing back some cold suds right about now, after enjoying a fine grilled burger with my kid and his friend on the patio. They went off some time ago to the diamond down the street to play catch with the rest of the gang, laughing, joking around, and maybe even sneaking a beer or two themselves. As I should do more often on such nights—but regrettably don't—I could right now be listening to the faint hum of suburban traffic and children's voices carrying over the sound of the crickets. I find the gentle buzz of the heat bugs to be quite soothing, and watching the young trees sway gently back and fourth will do wonders to clear the harried mind. I should be looking out for Rusty, the neighbor's friendly housecat, to see what mischief he's up to with the birds and the squirrels. I really should be keeping an eye out for that rabbit Adam saw two days ago in the garden and the raccoon family that so recently ransacked our trashcans. I cherish a quiet moment to myself, doing nothing but inhaling the sweet fragrance of fresh cut grass intermingled with the trace smells of modern industry: gasoline, benzene, kerosene, and maybe even polychlorinated carbonate from distant smoke stacks. Yes sir, right about now I should be staring up at the sky in quiet introspection, trying to make out that first trace of a star in all this light pollution. Normally I'd be wondering if my kid isn't toking up right now in the park and making out with one of the girls he's always talking to on the phone. After all, he's just thirteen—too young for anything more than a peck on the cheek in my day. It's time to be thinking about the annual Canada Day party, and it's times like this that I miss Angie the most. They say that time heals all wounds, but on nights such as this, when I'm alone and in that kind of sentimental mood, my heart still knots and I can't help but mop away moisture from my eyes. She's been gone five years, four months, and—seven days is it? February tenth, at 8:47 I got the call and it still hurts. My boy is my constant reminder of her—how she was, how she smelt, and how she made me feel lucky to be alive. Adam is her legacy. Of course, more often than not these days I enjoy my Molson Ex in front of the tube watching the Jays play ball with my feet up in the recliner rather than listening to their rusty hinge calls in the neighbor's treetops. I've been so easily distracted of late—what with the demands of my job at the school board, grocery shopping, housework, cooking and cleaning.... It just never ends! Not tonight. I'm outside in the backyard and the birds have scattered. He's rambling incoherently, his eyes black and wide and frightened. I don't much like the look of them; they're unnatural, not his mother's light green but changed somehow into something like those of a wild buck. Not human at all—and Christ—what fucking drugs did he take? Adam's standing in the grass right in front of the picnic table a few feet away from me, sickly pale and raving like a lunatic. His lips are drawn in a snarl and his face etched with pain. His head jerks with Click here to read the rest of this story (211 more lines)
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