Flash Fiction and Short-Shorts

It is Hell With My Soul

                                            Hillcreek Magazine-- Oklahoma's Smallest Star (Hillcreek, Oklahoma) 

                            It is Hell with my Soul-- the Epiphany of a Churched-Out Drag Queen

                                                                     by Oakley Stacks 

"What can man do to me?" is the worst challenge the Bible ever gave. Man has done everything and more. I've been spat on. Insulted. Slapped. Beaten. Raped. Some preacher dared to pray the second spirit out of me. I pretended to obey. I have for years. It was forty minutes I'll never get back.

                                               "But you sleep for eight hours!" you say.

                                                            Well...I actually need that. 

To say that I've deserted religion is an understatement. Preachers never suffer. Ever notice their fat precious mouths and soft, cocoon-shaped fingers? Yes. That's right. No scar or shadow is a temple, and no man should laud the virtue of bruises with unblackened eyes. Every week, I took the same pose--bowed head, closed eyes, folded hands. Then one morning I scurried out before they could pray away my pain. It was easy. A tragedy is not a coin you can trade for the softness of clarity-- or lose in the depths of a wished-away well.

Sunday nights were more painful than usual.

"You put this upon yourself," Mama snapped, "What are you trying to achieve, dressing like a prissy fat woman?!"

I'm online; I'm not achieving anything. But I couldn't tell her that. I gave her a greasy red smile; a smile like a trembling volcano. It never erupts. It survives.

God has never, does not, and never will love me. Just ask Anita Bryant. After five faithless years, I attempted to return the favor. On Sunday, I attended church. I wore a black suit and combed my hair. Vague, stone-like memories pricked my earthy stomach-- baptisms, weddings, funerals... Had I any reason to go? No. I'm a sick freak. All the reason I went.

It was a broad shiny room, dominated by stiff, gray-suited men. Women in sack dresses and atrocious flyswatter earrings. Their voices slithered along the white-gold walls, nesting into each ragged blue cushion of the pew. A herd of hymns dragged sharp claws through my soft ears. Hands clapped. Eyes rolled. I shuffled through the pews, standing beside one woman. Her response was a needle-eyed parody of pity. Luckily, I wasn't dressed for a performance.

Silence. A man took the pulpit. A thimble-shaped old man with a long, heavy jaw and fat restless lips. A man I assume was the preacher. As he stood, we sat. I sighed at the pale-gold flicker of his eyes, but he was sharper than he looked. He was too witty for my liking. Too many puns. A play on words sounds lovely, but I doubt they are strong enough to hold up an entire stage.

He spoke for a crackling hour, though I only remember one sentence. He rambled that if God's in everyone, then He's in no one. I had to nod. Amen is too heavy for my breath.

"Jesus' thorns represent his death in humility," the preacher barked, "And Satan's horns his life in pride. As time passes, I'm afraid we're growing more  like Satan."

"Amen!" chimed the crowd.

I bite my lip. The woman's eyes impale me, shattering the soft fragile skin of my cheek. I bite harder. A bruise-dark glob of blood squirts out. She nudges me, but I can't move any other way.

"Some more than others," she grumbled, sinking into her seat.

I sat, releasing the tooth from my lip. More blood rippled down my chin, but I was wary of cleaning it. Her eyes were too luminous for skin.

"Let us stand one last time," the preacher announced, "And open our hands to the Lord."

The crowd rose as one, their hands expanding like water. But I couldn't move. I sat stiffly, feeling a sizzling drop of blood splash across my knees. It hurt almost as much as movement.

"Get up!" the woman hissed. Her needle-like eyes tied the preacher's palms together.

"Now," he repeated, "Let us open our hands to the Lord!"

I froze. The woman frowned. I couldn't pull myself upright, much less my lips into a smile. My heart hammered through my sour stomach. What's wrong with me?!

"Now," the preacher continued, "With open hands and standing feet..."

I stood, but did not speak. Something in me begged to achieve something, something I couldn't onstage. I turned to the woman. Her needle-eyes softened into warm silver. The preacher spoke his liturgy, his wayward lips as clumsy as mine. Mine are still. His are restless. His words staggered where mine would have, and leapt into a sky too shiny for Heaven's skin. They blazed through my ears, scorching every doubt into dust. But Hell festered, as brittle as bone.

Sermon dismissed. The fidgety crowd of friends and families rose as one long, voice-high body. I rushed out, my fear-fueled motions shorter yet smoother. The woman huddled with a greasy-faced cluster of friends, whispering loudly as she did.

"How'd you control yourself, sittin' next to that handsome young thing?!"

The woman glanced at me. Her brittle, needle-like eyes broke into mine.

"He looks awful girlish. I think he's gay."

"Gay?! They're, ah, you know, defiant...?"

"He's pretty, but you're right. He can't be gay."

"But we FORGIVE! How come they never go to church?!"

I smiled at the ceiling until God smiled back. My heart swayed from side to side, softened by His light. It was not love, nor was it hatred. Acknowledgement. You are my child. I am your father. No matter what you do, I will never forget you. In your church. In your skin.

The smile erupted. I suppose I achieved something. Success is what the dreamer builds as a window, but what the observer breaks as a wall. That Sunday was ungodly yet glorious, for anyone can close his mouth in a crowd. Yet not all can stand. Watch. Believe. Believe in Hell glowing under breath-blurred layers of Heaven. Believe in that nameless ache, pulling me forward. Up. Open. On. On. On. I suppose I was never without its unloving warmth. It's always wriggling in the heart of another shadow. 

***Author's Note: This is a CRITIQUE of how hypocritical Christian churches are when it comes to accepting others.