Next Stop---Brimstone City

a conversation with a Diety

Next Stop---Brimstone City 

 

 

“Come on, let’s get those legs moving. If we don’t step it up we’ll miss our train,” said Monsignor Milford G. Mallard to a small group of religious scholars. They were leaving York and heading back to London where they would catch a flight back to Rome. For the last three weeks they attended and participated in ‘The Babylon Conference’, an international symposium that expounded on the nature and relationship between God and the devil. It was an exhausting three weeks and the catholic contingent was running on fumes. But it seemed providence was with them. Although they were ten minutes late the train hadn’t left. It had only one passenger car. They were too tired to notice this oddity. With a sigh of relief they entered the opened doors of an antiquated caboose.

 

The caboose was luxurious and somehow larger on the inside than that of the outside. Weren’t caboose’s used mainly for freight trains? Weren’t they obsolete? All they needed was sleep and any discrepancies would disappear with a bit of rest. Each took a seat, closed their eyes, and went into a deep sleep except for the Monsignor. He was wide awake. He found it a little disquieting that everyone was sleeping except for him. Something didn’t feel right. He tried to shake off the feeling but a tap on his shoulder jolted him upright.

 

To his amazement there was a young man sitting beside him. It seemed like he came out of nowhere. The priest felt a chill in his bones. The young man was extremely handsome, almost beautiful, with the bluest of eyes. He was familiar somehow but he just couldn’t put a name to him. The young man smiled and said, “My Dear Monsignor it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh. I’m a great admirer of your work. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how you look at it, it’s the reason for my visit. I just had a lovely chat with a young lady about literature, life, and religious philosophy. We talked a little about you. She disagreed with your premise that God is beyond comprehension and that the devil is a construct of man.” The young stranger stopped speaking and just stared at him. The Monsignor was flummoxed, and completely out of character said, “Who the hell are you and what in the name of blazes are you talking about”

 

“Now, Now, watch that temper, no need to get all frazzled. Look deep within yourself, and you’ll figure out who I am. I’m older than I look, way, way, older.  I appreciate you being a faithful advocate but you did get some things wrong. I do like and appreciate the things you said about the deity you name as God. But you got it wrong about the devil. She definitely exists and she’s quite pissed off at you and your acolytes. Especially since it’s now going to be the official view of the Judeo-Christian and Muslim congregations.” Again this stranger on their train, who was more than just a man, stopped talking and waited for his reply.

 

The Priest was hyperventilating; he must be going mad or suffering from sleep-deprivation. Was he really sitting next to and talking to God? “Yes you most definitely are speaking to me. And you’re not mad or sleep deprived by any means.” God just read his mind!

The Monsignor, totally beside himself, blurted out the first thing that popped in his head. He said, “Is the devil really a girl?” God laughed and said, “Oh Yes, she’s quite beautiful, my first creation, a daughter, lover and adversary. She wanted me to strike you and your colleagues down with plague. But I came up with a better plan. I’m sending you and your friends to Brimstone City, the capitol of Hell for a face to face meeting. I’m hoping you’ll work your disagreements out.  She may torture you for a bit and it may seem like you’ve been there for eons, but I assure you, you’ll be back in time for your flight home. Time is such a relative thing.”

 

The Priest stared out the window and instead of farmland he saw fire and ice...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RC

1/23/2017

©Robert F. Callaci