Salvation cannot be sent, as it exceeds 160 characters in length.

An ash cloud descends upon the world, blacking out the sun.
Within a day, it has over a million fans on Facebook.

The dead rise from their graves, seeking vengeance on those still alive.
Within an hour, they all have Twitter accounts.

Aliens destroy New York City with weapons science didn't even think possible.
Within five minutes, there are 300,000 hits on YouTube.

People of Earth will proclaim that the end is near.
and not a word will b capitalized

God comes again to judge the living and the dead
but turns around and heads home,
seeing as we're all viewing it secondhand from our computer screens instead of firsthand, with our eyes.


--Patti

Apples to Apples

She stood up nervously, aware of this cult's fake, glossy exterior.

A hundred eyes staring, staring.

A hundred twinkling, supposedly supportive, supposedly happy, supposedly Christian eyes.

I wish I knew what they were thinking. Probably closer to hell than heaven.

The question was simple.

Every member of the congregation was suppose to answer honestly.

Why are you a Christian?

So maybe it wasn't so simple.

At least, not if everyone was to answer honestly.

Deep breath, clenched fists and eyes cast downward she took a stab at the answer.

"I'm not a Christian," 

A hundred happy little masks fell off, the staring became glaring.

She looked up, quickly glancing at everyone's real faces.

"God's gonna set you uh'fire, youngin'" Screeched a particularly soulful old woman.

God, I hate the south.

 "He's not gonna set me afire, Ms. Chokeberry." Polite enough.

"Do you doubt the power of God?"

"Let the child speak, ma'am. I want to hear this." The preacher interrupted firmly, gently giving her the  verbal nudge to carry on.

"I'm not a Christian. Because there's just one aspect of the Bible I cannot even begin to comprehend, much less believe."

"Blasphemy." Ms.Chokeberry breathed.

She shrugged it off, agitated and inspired.

"And, well, frankly, it's not the miracles or the unconditional love; the omnipresence or the abundance of power..."

Her shoulders released all tension as her mind released all filters.

"I mean, I don't really care if God can create a stone heavy enough that he couldn't even lift it. Or how He himself was created..."

Filters were alerted by the next absurdity she was about to vocalize.

"What really bothers me,"

Sweat triggered.

"W-w-what...really...bothers me"

Glaring eyes were becoming impatient.

"What really bothers me is Genesis....The beginning....the genesis of sin."

Moments of silence.

"What bothers you about it?"

She was hoping that question wouldn't come up.

"Uhm...well...you see"

Complete honesty.

"I just...could never wrap my mind around the fact that God didn't want Eve to eat an apple. Out of all things- an apple to represent sin?"

The awkward silence of whether to voice laughter or disbelief.

She continued, "What kind of parent wouldn't be happy, proud to have their kids eat fruit? Especially one that made them smarter, more aware, more mature! It just...it just never made sense. It should have been a Twinkie tree or something. something sweet and fattening and wrong. Not....not an apple!"

No one said a thing.

"Well, child," the old woman broke the silence with her sharp voice, "Twinkie's simply do not grow on trees."

"God could've done it."

"Oh please!"

She smirked right along with her.

"Well, ma'am. Who's doubting the power of God now?"

--Julie

Breathe

and there you are.

on my doorstep.

I can see your face peek through the window.

look around in confusion, as if expecting me.

I stand up and walk towards the door.

you see me now. 

you smile warmly.

my hand almost touches the handle.

but I pull back in fright, as if the handle were conducting electricity.

you're confused. so am I.

you raise your eyebrows.

you mouth the same words over and over.

let me in.

and each time my hand goes near,

I remember.

I remember why I can't turn the handle.

a tear rolls down my cheek.

you just look at me in confusion.

in sympathy.

I turn around.

I walk away.

I look at the kitchen utensils.

at the knives.

then I look at you,

and remember why.

why I can't pull a knife down.

why I can't put an end to this torture.

I sit and sob.

I can't look you in the eye anymore.

I can't breathe anymore.

--mark

The Little Prince

I'm scared.

That we'll grow up

And leave all our childhood ambitions behind.

That we'll look back on what we wrote as children when we're adults and laugh

And label everything as "cute" or "stupid" or "pathetic"

Or some other word for 'unimportant' as we move on to matters of consequence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I forget where I heard the phrase

Every young generation wants to change the world.

And it's true, it's true.

Every generation has that little rebel stage where we want to create our identity as a seperate, new era; completely seperated from the parent.

But not enough generations have really gathered enough force to collectively evoke change.

There haven't been many revolts.

Or rather

Revolutions.

The sixties was the time when hippies were big, and liberal flower children handed peace and love to police officers beating protestors on the street.

That I think is the closest youthful human kind has come to liberating itself from the repetitive, war-filled history of our ancestors.

But.

(And here in lies the problem)

Some of us are children to those used-to-be chain-smoking, trippy acid kids.

And some of our parents are police officers.

Even the hippies grew up.

~*~*~*~*~

We can't stop from growing up.

That's human.

But since when did growing up signify that we have to stop being children?

Stop listening to children?

Stop believing that the world could actually be a better place?

~*~*~*~*~*~

And of course there's that whole idea that by fitting into society and slowly doing your part in the small things the world will eventually become a better place.

Wake up.

The world doesn't have as much time as we think it does.

There are thousands of potential diseases, meteors, climate changes and more

That could obliterate the earth.

Or, more likely, life on earth.

More specifically, human life on earth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

So slow and simple has worked for a while, but time is kinda getting short.

If not us, then who?

Which generation will bring about love, acceptence, joy in the world in an equal, justified manner?

Who will feed the hungry?

Who will cure the diseases?

If not us.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If the world is gonna be destroyed anyways, it doesn't really matter if measly, little human kind dies in peace or in war.

But. I think it's sad.

Horrible.

That in the entire known history of the earth there hasn't been one

moment

of recorded perfection.

One decade, or year, or day, or even an hour where the entire earth was actually at peace.

~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~

It's too ambitious, I know.

"World peace" what does that even mean?

Maybe world peace is actually the destruction of the earth

When humans cease to exist

And everything can be left alone.

--Julie

i believe in miracles

let's say you are in love.

you all know what love is; love is that magical, mystical, butterflies in the stomach, heart-pounding, face-fllushing, eyes swerving experience.

do we really know what love is, though.

you look at the media today, you see all the people being haunted by shows like TMZ, and you think, are they really happy in their relationship? Having people watching their every move, whether they are holding hands, or hugging, or just standing near each other?

Unnerving.

Then, you hear about the facts. Now a days, half of marriages end in divorce. It's probably more then that now. Why? Money. Lust. Greed. The usual things.

No one, is marrying for love anymore. If you have a steady, and high paycheck, suddenly you are the hottest man in town.

So, where is the love?

When I grow up, and I get married to that person, I want there to be that, soft, casual love there.

That kind where, you love each other. You're open with each other, natural with each other, ignoring what the world is trying to force onto us: women need to have small waists, and bigger hips and chests, men need to be ripped, with tan brown skin, and rippling muscles. that you need to be rich to be happy.

i just want a love where we can eat cold cereal for dinner and be happier then those who went to the fancy restaurants for dinner.

not because we're low on cash, but just because we can.

and nothing can beat fruit loops with that person you love.


--lynn

after the speech info meeting

addy and i lay down in the grass outside the school while the other kids pretend they don't know us.

she raises her arm and points up to clouds that look like letters

and clouds that look like whales

and clouds that just look like clouds.

even though i see a thin cloud

one that looks like the number seven in chinese,

all i do is stare, let the sun tingle against my skin,

and just breathe.

when was the last time i had a few moments to do nothing but let myself be surrounded

solely by the blue sky and smell of the autumn leaves

and the company of a voice next to mine?

~*~

addy talks of dancing. she talks of the difference between new blue jeans and old ones.

she talks of what we will do

as we rest our heads among the grass blades,

putting our ponderings into the sky.

~*~

after a while she turns to me and remarks, "we should do this more often."

the sun blinds me when i try to face her

so i have to rest my arm against my eyes as a shield as i reply

"yes, we should."

--christie

Inaugural

There's nothing more exciting than something new.


It comes in a box, and you rip it open. You dig through foam peanuts. You unwrap tissue paper. You throw the wrappings on the floor, ripping and tearing and unraveling, and suddenly there it is.


You pick it up and admire it, oohing, aahing, feeling its weight in your hand. It feels good there in your hand. It's shiny. It's symmetrical. And it smells fantastic.


You're lost for hours in it-- reading every word on the back, flipping through it endlessly, fiddling with it, figuring out what it can do. You assemble. You adjust. You personalize. And after enough hours of tinkering and fidgeting and boring everyone to death with "Look! It can do THIS!", it goes from being new to being ...yours.


And thus this blog.


The concept isn't new, really. It started, as most things do these days, on Facebook. Nobody remembers who or when, but one day somebody wrote a note. It was emotional, it was messy, it was raw. And then somebody noticed it was well-written. And they said, please write more. So there were more. Other notes, other writers, other ideas written all kinds of other ways. Rhetoric, profanity, eloquence, simplicity, fiction, confession, poetry, prose. Pretty soon, notes started popping up every day-- every couple of hours.


Soon we decided, like so many before us, to write a blog.


 Maybe this blog won't get anywhere. Maybe nobody will read it outside of those who read notes already. And maybe it'll slowly die off. But who has the right to say we shouldn't give it a try? Maybe this blog WILL go somewhere. It's already getting our words somewhere, our thoughts, our ideas. What else runs the world?


So, if you're reading this, welcome. Rip open the box. Dig through the peanuts, unwrap the tissue paper. Unravel our words and get into our minds. Inside you'll find everything we stand for. Maybe you'll find something of yourself as well.


Given with love,
The Cult.


--Patti