Contributor: Brent Rankin
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Hey, like I was sitting at this bus stop, waiting for the Number Seven, when Jesus Christ sat down beside me and asked for a cigarette. I only had a doobie. Of course I gave it to him. I mean, the Son of God and all that. How do you say no?
He was wearing flip-flop sandals, worn out jeans, and a teeshirt with a majajuana leaf silkscreened on the front. He had the long hair, beard, and all.
“Are you…?”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah,” he said. The questioned annoyed him. “What? You think I’m Windall Wilke?”
“Who’s Windall Wilke?”
“I don’t know. I just like the sound of the name. Kinda flows.”
He fired up the smoke, sucked a long drag, exhaled, and sighed. “Damn, that’s good,” he said and then, “Bet you got a few questions, uh?” He sucked in more smoke.
“I guess. Are you really Him?”
“What? Flowing white robes, halo? Scabby hands and feet? That is so yesterday, man.” He sucked on the roach and blew the smoke out of his nose.
Before I could asked the Savior a question, He said, “I’m no magical Genie. I don’t grant wishes. I can’t change the past or the future, if there ever was one. Dad saw to that,” he sucked on the doobie, “Didn’t know Moses. And get over this,” as he blew the smoke out, “I never slept with Mary! Where do you dudes come up with this crap?”
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” I said.
“All right, then,” he finished the last suck on the roach and dropped it. He crushed it under his foot. He said, “Hey, I did bring that old man back from the dead. Cool! Turned water into wine…very cool.”
I’ll go along. “Okay,” I said, “when will the world end?” I shoved my tongue into my cheek.
He ground the roach deeper into the concrete and shrugged, “Yeah. Funny you would ask that. In a few hours.”
“What? Are you for real?”
“Ain’t my fault,” Jesus said. “Hey, you people forgot about me. Everything I did, I did for you guys. Mankind. No one cares anymore. So the old Man sent me here to let you know. It’s over, man. Fire from the sky, dude…fire.”
“Like in the Bible.” This guy’s a nut case.
“I didn’t write that! Dad did. And, yeah, man. Kapoof!!” He held up his fingers and wiggled them, “Fire, baby. Just letting you know.” Then he said, “Well, gotta go now. Don’t care to be around for the bar-be-que. You know what I mean?” H winked at me, stood up, and said, “Hey, thanks for the smoke.” He walked away.
I sucked my tongue out of my cheek and when I looked, Jesus was gone. And I missed my bus.
Takes all kinds. At least he wasn’t parading a sign: “The End is Near.” Or, standing on a soapbox.
Yes, sir. It takes all kinds. You know, Windell Wilke does roll of the tongue, sort of.
Hey, do those clouds look funny to you?
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Having published the e-novella "The fisher man" on Amazon and Booktango, I'm experimenting with flash fiction. I'm finding it exciting. So much to say so briefly.
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Hey, like I was sitting at this bus stop, waiting for the Number Seven, when Jesus Christ sat down beside me and asked for a cigarette. I only had a doobie. Of course I gave it to him. I mean, the Son of God and all that. How do you say no?
He was wearing flip-flop sandals, worn out jeans, and a teeshirt with a majajuana leaf silkscreened on the front. He had the long hair, beard, and all.
“Are you…?”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah,” he said. The questioned annoyed him. “What? You think I’m Windall Wilke?”
“Who’s Windall Wilke?”
“I don’t know. I just like the sound of the name. Kinda flows.”
He fired up the smoke, sucked a long drag, exhaled, and sighed. “Damn, that’s good,” he said and then, “Bet you got a few questions, uh?” He sucked in more smoke.
“I guess. Are you really Him?”
“What? Flowing white robes, halo? Scabby hands and feet? That is so yesterday, man.” He sucked on the roach and blew the smoke out of his nose.
Before I could asked the Savior a question, He said, “I’m no magical Genie. I don’t grant wishes. I can’t change the past or the future, if there ever was one. Dad saw to that,” he sucked on the doobie, “Didn’t know Moses. And get over this,” as he blew the smoke out, “I never slept with Mary! Where do you dudes come up with this crap?”
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” I said.
“All right, then,” he finished the last suck on the roach and dropped it. He crushed it under his foot. He said, “Hey, I did bring that old man back from the dead. Cool! Turned water into wine…very cool.”
I’ll go along. “Okay,” I said, “when will the world end?” I shoved my tongue into my cheek.
He ground the roach deeper into the concrete and shrugged, “Yeah. Funny you would ask that. In a few hours.”
“What? Are you for real?”
“Ain’t my fault,” Jesus said. “Hey, you people forgot about me. Everything I did, I did for you guys. Mankind. No one cares anymore. So the old Man sent me here to let you know. It’s over, man. Fire from the sky, dude…fire.”
“Like in the Bible.” This guy’s a nut case.
“I didn’t write that! Dad did. And, yeah, man. Kapoof!!” He held up his fingers and wiggled them, “Fire, baby. Just letting you know.” Then he said, “Well, gotta go now. Don’t care to be around for the bar-be-que. You know what I mean?” H winked at me, stood up, and said, “Hey, thanks for the smoke.” He walked away.
I sucked my tongue out of my cheek and when I looked, Jesus was gone. And I missed my bus.
Takes all kinds. At least he wasn’t parading a sign: “The End is Near.” Or, standing on a soapbox.
Yes, sir. It takes all kinds. You know, Windell Wilke does roll of the tongue, sort of.
Hey, do those clouds look funny to you?
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Having published the e-novella "The fisher man" on Amazon and Booktango, I'm experimenting with flash fiction. I'm finding it exciting. So much to say so briefly.
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Author:
Brent Rankin
