Nine Eleven (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 23

The winds of change do curl and coast about most mens heads, through the tumult of random thought and inaction, men of valor men of inefficiency. This place, the blowing swirl of Zephyr's cousin, does tear its rampant hand through the burly city streets. Upon the mantle of man, the pate, the unwashed pate, is left dirty-a coat of dim lit dirt covers every walking citizen. Tears break the film of dust and grim.

On his back Peretz lies, quiet, the uneventful rise of his breath is all the consciousness he can hear. He wonders what happened, why, and where he is. The sky is as blue as he recalled, the city as screaming-his eyes refocus. A hot heat touches the climby surface of his grey head, he feels it crawl around, not with his hand, but with his senses does he know that he hit his head, he fell, is bleeding, and is lying down flat on the street. What grace was it that keep his brittle hands from being stomped upon? Torrids of anguished men, vigilant for war, do rush beside him, around him, streaming of curvy hatred, rushing away from the fall of their sacred tower. Stomping. Running. And Peretz lies, eyes open, staring at the dumb sky, dumb-faced, and dumb covered in dust.

His mouth opens, and his teeth expel the sound of frustration, the sound of awakening, the sound of fatigue, remorse, and sorrow. Why not die then he questioned? what wry and demised force saved his unconquered flesh from good demolition, when the same granting force let such a devastation happen to his beloved city. What grace was this he wondered, to be saved from the hands of death, to be an onlooker to the thousands violent screams of young and honest Americans, he wondered. Would he trade his lonely life at the back and bend of others? Those he knew not? He refused to answer that question and resolve such scruple.

He sees vacant fear stomp by his face, by his hands and feet, and the sound of resilience marches pass his naked eyes. Why not die? He will, he felt. He shall be trampled.

Then with the sudden rush of wind, the wings of chance and grace did lift the lonely professor up. In the arms of a stranger Peretz wafts his lonely hands downward. Who was carrying him? Who was saving him from the stampede, from being trampled upon by hungry citizens. He stares to see the face of his savior. Like a sordid beam of light he's blinded, not by the face, but by the oscillation of it's beauty. His head bleeding with engines of inquiry, his eyes are forever closed. What sky did he see before, it was but a memory, like a bullet shot in a bucket. He sees but the darkness. It was as if a quiet beam of angry light did betray him, cast him to his back, and stole his sight from his very eyes. And blind he remains.

The stranger set Peretz down. The professor feels a soft bed under him. He reaches to touch the man that was once carrying him, the man that just saved him and placed his tired self on a bed of refuge. He found nothing, touched nothing, and felt nothing. The professor's eyesight gone, he wonders just where he was left. He feels and feels around. The bed felt soft under him, though not much space in width. He can feel the back of what felt like a bench. And without a moments hesitation he cries "hey!", to hear the faithful chorus of his echo-he then realized he is now in a church. What creature set him in a large cathedral building, safe, secure he thought without the chaos, without the violence. An empty church. Hollow. Whole.

What is an angel he said to himself.

Peretz feels his face, he touches eyes where he could once see; he can feel his fingers graze his eyelids, but can see nothing. He cries. He cries and whimpers throughout the cathedral. And he thinks of Milton.

"What constant creature did save me?"He prays "I know I'm no saint, neither do I profess myself to be, but God hear me! What benevolent creature, man or celestial being, did carry me from my expedient death to this church who is empty and ready for pious giving? Why? Why did you save me and let all those people die!? Why? Why am I not grateful?! God, thank you, I will repay you! Teach me what to write and I'll write it. Teach me what to do. I'll do it! I promise!

The thought of Milton dictating his blank verse in utter darkness, and the envious black blindness he used as a stage in his mind's theater crossed Peretz mind. He thinks of writing. Of verse. Of Milton, of Homer. Of recording this event in the greatest beauty, the epitome of language, of poetry. His best, the most thought. He ponders."

Staring into his blindness, scratching his chin he shouts into the vaulty air:

"Give me verse, poetry, I'll be your vessel! Tell me what to write God, for you I'll write it! By your Grace O God I'll write of you, of this, of my devotion, of my country, and of the hope of life and life to give."

He cries as a faithful echo follows him around the dark.

End