Unholy Trinity by Patrick Winters
Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.
The Unholy Trinity by Patrick Winters
Patrick’s thoughts behind the trinity: ‘I envisioned a down on his luck soul answering the call of some Lovecraftian-like deities and ran with it from there. And as such cruel gods can often do, they may just leave their loyal servant in the dust of their new world.’
He sits in the alley, among the refuse and other wasted life. He has been doing so for months. He freezes and pounds his fists and curses the world that cursed him first.
He longs for more. For purpose. Any purpose. Until finally, it comes to him, down from the stars, on the clearest of nights.
Voices—such sweet voices—begin to tell him of a better world, where no one is above another. Where all are equal . . . in their pain and torment.
It’s a beautiful world he is shown, and he cries for it.
He hears and he answers.
He walks down Bleeker Street, naked and slicked in the blood of the Eleven. He collected them through the week and shed their scarlet sacrifices with broken bottles, collecting it until this glorious moment.
He shouts—no, he sings—the holy words his Masters gifted him, and all the world about him hears of what will come. Some cheer him on. Most gawk and scream. But all see him.
He tells of the fires that will follow. Of the lightning that will claim their pleasant skies. He tells of agonies and woes . . . and the peace that will come of it.
He stands in jail, slumped over the bars. He hasn’t seen a police officer in two days.
There are no windows and no television—no way to see the horrors he helped wrought.
Some drunkard, now painfully sober, cries in the cell with him, providing some sense of splendid pain. But the suffering and glorious sights of Doom he wished to see cannot be his. Only these pale white walls and dark gray bars.
He hopes that, in time, his Masters will claim him and hold him to their bosom, and he might yet weep at their teat of Despair . . .
Patrick Winters is a graduate of Illinois College in Jacksonville, IL, where he earned a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. He has been published in the likes of Sanitarium Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, Trysts of Fate, and other such titles. A full list of his previous publications may be found at his author’s site, if you are so inclined to know: http://wintersauthor.
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