Judicial Contempt

"Your book is stolen, you know? That you have convinced yourself that it is some sort of original Word is not my problem, but yours. There are, in fact, older stories. Rough drafts of what you call Logos, logic, the Truth, but they are in themselves nothing more than Fable. Some would call them Lies, but I don't claim - as you do - to know anything.

"Did you write it? Of course not. Were you there when it was written? Of course not. Are you so irresponsible that you believe everything you're told because of who tells it? This is again, not my problem. What sort of fruit grew there? What sort of fruit grows there now? True logic - that of independent thought, borne of experience - dictates that your facts are incorrect and, hence, not facts at all. Where did the first woman go? Are we truly all the product of incest? And why are there equal bars on the cage? From one did not come the other. Surely a mistake was made, but you cannot admit that. You will not. Persecution is far easier.

"The days change on a whim, though not since the Age of Enlightenment. Coincidence, I think not. Control is everything to you and yours, which is why your children are accosted so easily. Perfection? Such a subjective term. Some view marriage as perfection, and yet there is an absence of such in one so important. Love is a Myth, so easily swayed and difficultly proven. That you created rules for it is evidence of its fiction. Lust is a Truth, so difficultly swayed and easily proven. That you created rules against it is evidence of its fact.

"Tell me, then... have you ever thought for yourself? Or is your basic programming like that of a computer's? Easy to modify, but only if the basic language remains. By true logic - that which is at ease with its lack of a capital - you are an automaton. Your children never had a chance to discover the World for themselves. A pity you call this Faith. A pity you feel you need to be saved. Why do you disregard your free will so readily? The choices are yours. Books can be edited, and the one you read is constantly so. Which edition do you Believe? And why did you choose it? Forgive me for assuming, but it was likely chosen for you.

"Thought is a survival skill. Our bodies are weak in the face of Nature. Tools gave us the ability to live, to proliferate, to kill, and to disappear. Where we are is where we should be. It's a beautiful place, even with the presence of the Cavalry. That you believe all four preexisted humanity is proof of the wickedness of your Truth. No... quite obviously, Humanity created one of them. That it exists is a stain our History will never live down. But we also created its opposite: Peace.

"And that's all we know. In this life, that's all we can know. Everything in between is a story to tell. For you to claim otherwise is perjury in the face of Death."

Uriah stands, proud of his statement, ready to face his punishment. But there is nothing there.

"Guilty," he mutters, grinning widely.

One day, he may very well serve his sentence. Until then, however, there is a life to be lived. And, perhaps, time to write his own book.

Uriah and Uriel: A Dialogue

At first the rain was useless to Uriah, because it didn't wash the blood off of his hands. But as the flooding started, he was able to cake himself with mud, hiding the crime. No evidence remained but a buried body unlikely to be found and a broken heart unlikely to be revealed. Surely, Uriah thought, his broken heart wouldn't betray him when they come to question him. It had been broken a long time, after all; this was just the first step in its mending.

Uriah didn't notice it at first. The rains were falling under a New Moon, and the clouds blocked the waning light from sunset and what little light the stars could provide. It wasn't until a flash of lightning startled Uriah that he saw the Messenger standing there. Perhaps it was its posture, or maybe something else, but the Messenger seemed luminescent somehow. It wasn't glowing, to be sure, but Uriah could see its faded wings clearly, and that was odd.

Odder still was its immediate recognition. The Messenger already knew who Uriah was - observation was its occupation - but Uriah should have had no idea who it was. But this was an uncanny night and such strangeness was barely a fleeting concern.

"What do you want?" asked Uriah, without making eye-contact.

"Why did you kill her?"

Picking up his crude shovel, Uriah wiped some rain from his brow with his forearm. "Why not?" This time, the question came with a glare.

"How vainly secretive. Do you often answer a question with a question?"

"Do you?"

The Messenger sighed as much as it could. It could see that there would be no explanation here, much less salvation. Vaguely recalling an argument it and others like it had against the creation of these... beasts, the Messenger turned to leave. To its surprise, Uriah called out.

"Are you disgusted? Or is that secret you that you've been hiding all these years finally celebrating?"

"There is no secret me," replied the Messenger, turning to face Uriah, "for I am not a man."

"Walks like, talks like."

"Then I am a goose or a loon. Perhaps a rail."

"And all are birds to be eaten for a meal."

The Messenger gestured to the fresh grave, quickly being covered by flood waters. "Is she to be eaten?"

Uriah laughed and nodded. "By worms. Or something less."

"There is no something less. Life is value. And it is a sin to murder."

"Yes, but sins are meant to be forgiven, and we all like to revel in the hypocrisy. That you expect more out of us is your folly."

The Messenger almost smiles. "I expect nothing from you. Those expectations arise from... elsewhere. You are no more valuable to me than the dirt you buried your lover with."

"Before your Lord animated dust, Prometheus had taken up pottery and Athena exhaled into clay. Either way, we are dirt. Winds and waters that we call time erode us, just as the real winds and waters erode the shore."

"Yes, you are clearly just dirt. Your kind will not ascend. You will only biodegrade."

"Maybe so. But without us, you're just text. And you will be forgotten."