Here is a short story I am currently working on!
He wrote in scratch handwriting:
I’ve been reading a lot of Gnostic literature. From what I have learned, in Greek, Gnostic means “to know,” or “knowing.” It was an early century heretical religion, attacked by Bishop Irenaeus in his book, Against Heresies; most of the Gnostic teachings were then destroyed or buried. All of it is ironic because much of Gnosticism is the same to Christianity, differing in its dualistic approach to the old testament, without hierarchy, without doctrine, without control. In the Secret Book of James, when Jesus appeared forth to him; Jesus taught, “If you could consider how long the world has existed before you and how long it will exist after you, you will see that your life is but a day and your sufferings but an hour.” I often wondered what my Grandmother would think of that. “Disdain death, then, and care about life,” Jesus concluded.
Grandma Wee was Catholic.
I remember that Missouri summer, one that were calm, having the sound of grasshoppers rubbing wings and the fanciful shine of lightning bugs all around. There used to be an abundant amount of fireflies that massed near the hackberry tree. That’s where that limp tire swing used to be. Nowadays, there are very few lightning bugs left. Maybe they packed their tiny bindles and flew away. Maybe as they departed, lovers of the sailing lightning bugs threw tiny handkerchiefs at them: Godspeed, love! Sail swiftly, love! Smoochy, Smooches, shoo, love!
It was during that summer, Grandma had been diagnosed with dementia. At first, I had felt nothing, almost being in a comatose state of expression, forlorn looking. As if the sadness I should be feeling was underneath, only just asleep. It would wake, I’d hope, and I’d be sad just like my father. It would never happened. Sometimes, I’d just stare off from her ramshackle porch, looking at the mid-day sweetness; golden rays, harvested like honey and spread thick over serpentine fields. I wouldn’t think or anything, just stared, bug-eyed and all. Looked stupid, about sheep-brained, softer than fair cotton candy in the rain. If I were a grasshopper then, I’d somehow jump back’ards, I think!
Though, if there was a thought I had, being an unorthodox grasshopper and all, it would be: existing is sinuous. When I write that, I mean you cannot predict what will happen. Life is full of curves and turns, long and short, stretching and thinning, repeating, turning back, becoming somewhat of a blackhole in itself. To some this might make them cynical or a pants-around-the-ankles drunkard: What’s the point! And I suppose you can fill that question with God or drugs or both; maybe act out all looney till you’re locked in a pin, one finger in the butt and out the other end—so Grandma Wee would say. Make it make sense! I’m right about there. Cynical and downright skeptical of all matters.