Mick Mooney's Blog, page 8

Pop, His Grandchild & Knowing Jesus ‘Too’ Well: A Short Story

The old man sat upon his porch. His grandchild, already a young adult, sat beside him.

“What do you mean I’m not free, Pop? Of course I’m free, I believe in Jesus.”

Pop laughed. “Jesus. Ah, yes, I’ve known him my whole life, but I wasn’t free for most of it.” Taking a quick glance at his grandchild, he asked: “How do you figure that then, Joey?”

Joey sat and thought of how to respond. Of course he knew his answer. Pop must not have known Jesus for most of his life. Simple really.

“Maybe you didn’t know Jesus as well as you thought you did?”

“That’s true. I certainly didn’t.” He took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco. He continued, “I knew him like I knew how to tie my shoe laces. I knew him like I knew how to make my breakfast. I knew him like I knew how to dress myself.”

“What does all that mean?”

“It means I knew a Jesus too well. I knew him like I knew the basic things of life. I knew him like he only took an afternoon to understand fully. Get it? I knew him too well, and that was my problem… and that, I fear, is your problem.”

“I’m not ashamed to know Jesus well, Pop! Not in the least.”

Pop laughed again, taking another puff on his pipe. “God, you sound like myself 50 years ago. Back when I knew Jesus too well, I also thought I knew everything. That’s what happens when you believe you know the creator of the universe like you know how to make scrambled eggs. You get proud, kid. You get cocky with everything in life. You think you got the creator of the universe figured out, believing you know him completely, and that makes you feel you got it all sorted out. All of life, everything, like you’re the king of knowledge, like you got nothing left to learn.” Looking at his grandson, he said, “And that is when you are most enslaved. Right there, in your pride. In your fantasy of knowing it all. In your fantasy of knowing Jesus too well.”

“Pop, this is all foolish talk! Nothing but foolishness! I’m not ashamed to know Jesus, ‘too’ well. You might be happy now to sit on your porch and babble about Buddha, and Confucius, and every new-age idea that drifts into your head, but as for me, I believe in Jesus, and Jesus alone!”

“Who the hell is talking about Buddha? I’m not talking about watering down my belief in Jesus, kid. I’m talking about being honest about how much I don’t know about him. I’m talking about embracing the mystery of a human being in relationship with the creating Being of the universe. I’m talking about knowing Jesus for who he is, and he’s big kid, he’s so big you got no idea. He came to earth in the form of a man, and you’ve kept him that size. But he didn’t keep himself that size. Get it? He went back to being the Cosmic-sized Christ. He went back to holding the whole universe together. Who the hell is talking about Buddha?”

Joey sat there, stumped. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t, kid. This kind of thinking has no room in your head. You label it foolish because it goes against all the information you’re so proud of. You got it all figured out already. With all your information and certainty, you got no room left in your head for embracing the mystery of your faith. Your head is full of exclamation points and you’ve got no room left for questions. No room left for the mystery of Christ, the unexplainable largeness of Christ, to unravel itself in your spirit, in its own time.”

Joey shook his head. More foolish babble from his old Pop. He didn’t want to get angry with the old man, so he just shook his head again, and said, “I still don’t get it.”

Pop laughed, taking another puff of his pipe. “Well, kid, I’ll tell you what, in a few years, when you stop knowing Jesus too well, and you let him be bigger than your mental capacity to figure him out, maybe you’ll remember your old Pop and this talk,” he leaned back, still smoking his pipe, and closed his eyes, adding, “and who knows, maybe, just maybe, you’ll laugh at how my foolish talk wasn’t so foolish after all.

A Christian Who Wanted More Than The Christian Religion

Joel was shocked; disturbed even. He was confused; utterly confused. His whole life revolved around his walk with Jesus, and yet his whole mindset towards that walk was now being seriously challenged. It wasn’t someone else challenging him; he was simply reflecting on his own beliefs. He was being honest; being open.

He wasn’t questioning if God had been walking with him; he knew he had been. He had witnessed God move in his life over and over again. His belief in the God who walked with him was assured, but did he really see the fullness of the One who walked with him? That was the real question. That was the question he had spent the past year trying to avoid, yet here he was, in the quietness of his own room, embarking on a journey with his bible, his honesty and his God.

He was born a Christian; the son of Christians; trained from the earliest age in the doctrines and theology of his Christian parents. He had enough head knowledge to be considered a theologian in the Christian faith. He had devoted every Sunday of his life partaking, supporting and serving in a Christian religious service.

He had read all the mainstream books on Christian values and principles. He had zealously tried to convert his class mates, neighbors and work colleagues to the Christian faith in accordance with the evangelical teachings that had been drilled into him ever since his childhood.

He had always been zealous for the Christian faith, but now, in a silent moment of honesty, he asked himself if he was missing something. Did he really see the fullness of the God he was devoting his life to serve?

Over the previous few weeks, during his bible reading time, Joel had begun to notice just how misunderstood Jesus was throughout his earthly ministry. The true identity of Jesus, it seemed, was drastically misunderstood. According to popular opinion of the day, Jesus was a walking bag of contradictions. He was labelled either a mad man or a good man; a prophet or a false prophet; a miracle worker or a con-man; a heretic, a drunk, a glutton, a wizard, a mere man or even a myth that never existed.

The world Jesus came to save seemed to be very confused. Joel never had a problem believing the world was confused about the identity of Jesus. He had spent most of his life looking down his nose upon the world. Now however, he found himself joining their number as man also confused at the true identity of the one he loved so much. It was this love that drove him to honesty.

Joel was stripping his religious protection off; he was coming back to God, naked and unashamed; he was admitting that after becoming an expert in the Christian faith, he had somehow missed the grace of God. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the theology of grace; he could rattle off theology better than most, but this journey was not about theology, it was about honesty. He wanted to understand. He wanted to be like a child before God so he could truly understand the power of God’s grace.

He had mastered the way of the Christian religion, but it had broken him, and was sick of religion, even a religion that puts Jesus at the top of the hierarchy; he wanted the truth; the simple gospel truth. He wanted to see Jesus.

Spiritual Authority, Accountability, And A Lie: A Short Story

“But Frank, you have to submit to spiritual authority.”

“I do,” Frank replied, speaking between sips on his coffee. “I submit to Jesus.” His old ‘accountability partner’ wasn’t impressed with his answer. He was worried about him; it was his obligation to bring him back into line. It had now been four months since Frank left their church, and he seemed set never to return.

“We all need a covering in our faith, Frank. You know this. Pastor Brendan is meant to be your spiritual authority. If not him, some other pastor. You’re have a spirit of rebellion, that’s the heart of the problem.”

Frank shook his head. “Heart? You want to talk about things of the heart? Oh, come on Jason, you’ve forgotten what it even feels like to have a heart!”

“Frank, listen to—”

“No Jason, you listen,” Frank said. He put down his coffee. “All this talk about ‘spiritual authority’ and ‘spiritual covering’, it’s all a load of rubbish. It has nothing to do with faith and everything to do with control. Don’t you see that? It’s all about control, and they have you, they control you. You’re trying to bring me back into slavery, and you think I’m the crazy one?” He leaned back, exhaling loudly. Jason stared in disbelief at what he was hearing.

“Frank, have you lost your mind? You’re falling away from your faith, can’t you see that?”

“No Jason, I’m not falling away from my faith. The truth is I’m falling away from your faith.”

They sat in silence. Jason laughed in dismay.

“What does that mean?”

“My faith is in Jesus,” Frank continued, “My faith is in letting the Spirit of God lead my life. But your faith is in Pastor Brendan. Your faith is in his bogus theology. Your faith is in all his controlling, manipulative doctrines. Your faith is in his religious vision. That’s your faith. As for me—I’m not just falling away from it—I’m dead to it. It’s over, that kind of faith has no part of my life now, and I’ll never again let a man fool me into believing I need him as a mediator to be in right relationship with God.”

Jason leaned back, trying to reconcile what was happening. He was meant to be the one challenging Frank’s faith, that’s why he organized to meet him. He was meant to be pointing out Frank’s shallow faith. How dare Frank turn the tables and challenge his faith! Jason’s eyes reddened. “You’re a backslider Frank. I came here to try to help you, and you insult me. Is this how you live out ‘your faith?’

Frank laughed. It was not the reaction Jason was expecting. “Jason, you go around telling everyone what’s wrong with their beliefs, and yet when someone does it to yours you think it’s unjust? You know what your problem is—the damn problem with everything you believe—you’ve forgotten your heart. You’ve forgotten your faith is meant to revolve around love. Pastor Brendan’s obsession with spiritual authority has rubbed off on you, or worse, it has grown into you. You want to talk about the heart. But how can we, you can’t even see your own. It’s been overgrown with religious pride.

Jason stood up, offended, and set to leave. He looked down upon Frank, “Go to hell, Frank”

As soon as those words left his mouth, Frank jumped out of his seat and grabbed him, heaving across the cafe and pinning him against the wall. The whole cafe turned to watch the spectacle. Jason’s legs went to Jelly.

“Listen to yourself, damn it, listen to what you just said! You feel insulted for the very things you do to other people every day, and your response is that I should burn in flames for eternity? And you say that without a worry, without any sadness, without a care. Don’t you hear what you’re saying? You think someone with a heart can tell someone else they hope they are tortured forever because they don’t bow down and accept their ideas? Have you no tears, no sadness at the thought of someone being tortured? No, you actually get off on the idea!”

Frank released him and took several steps back. Jason remained upon the wall, staring into Frank’s eyes. He turned and glanced around the cafe. All eyes were upon him, and he felt humiliated. “This is what I get for trying to help a friend,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear him clearly. “I should call the police on you, but I’m used to being persecuted as a Christian, so I’ll take the higher road and just leave.” He picked up his bag and prepared to leave.

As he passed Frank on the way out, he leaned closer to him, close enough so only he could hear him, and whispered, “Go to hell, Frank. Go to hell.”

Short story by Mick Mooney. Visit Mick’s: Facebook Page | Read Mick’s novel: God’s Grammar

A Father, A Son, A Cigarette, And Jesus

“Oh, and you know, do you?”

“Yes, I do know!” screamed his father. “I know the Lord, Jim. And I know he would deeply disapprove of your reckless lifestyle!”

Jim turned away from his father stormed out of the house. His father ran after him.

“Go on, then. Go on your godless way, after all we’ve done for you—go on!”

Jim turned around, he removed the cigarette from his mouth that he had just lit, saying, “After all you’ve done? My God, dad, anyone would think I was one of your employees! After all you’ve done? What have you done? What the hell does that even mean?”

He walked back up to his father and held the cigarette up to his face. “Is it this? Does this make me a failure? Does this symbolize my decent into ungodliness? A cigarette!” He flicked the cigarette across the lawn; frustration was set aflame in his eyes. “You’re ashamed of me, for what? Because I make you look the fool to all the church folk of this town? Because the preacher’s son likes to smoke a little, and drink a little, and live a little! Are you ashamed because I don’t attend your services, or praise your name, or speak your religious language? What is it, dad? What are you so ashamed of?” Looking into his father’s eyes, his frustration was replaced by a deeper sadness, “What do you mean by ‘after all you’ve done’? What is it you feel I’ve failed you in?”

His father took a deep breath, remaining composed. “You no longer submit to Jesus, son. That’s what I mean. You’ve become your own man, and no longer a servant to our Lord.”

Jim’s eyes shot up to heaven, “Oh, please!” he cried out, before returning his gaze to his father, “don’t you see dad, can’t you see what you’re doing? You’re not talking about Jesus, you’re talking about your religion. Sure, you feel better by thinking your religion is Jesus, but it’s not, that’s what you don’t understand.” he said. He took out another cigarette and lit it, continuing, “You think you’ve tamed Jesus. You think you’ve captured him in your sanctuary. You think he looks like you! Oh, Lord, it’s the Pharisee that looks like you, don’t you see that? You’re savior is a Pharisee, it’s not Jesus, not the Jesus I know. The Jesus I know will never be tamed by religious dreamers – ever. You may hate the thought, but I’ll tell you what I see in the life of Jesus when I read the Bible. I see that Jesus is on the side of the cigar smoking, whiskey drinking, foul-language-using public. He stands between the self-righteous with their stones and those they want to throw them at. He defends the unworthy, befriends the untouchables, believes in the unaccepted. He had no regard for his reputation. He was despised by the religious dreamers back in his day because he refused to play their games–”

“Nonsense, Jim. Nonsense! You are a rebel, rebelling against the Lord and looking for any way to justify your ways.”

“You’re right, dad, I am a rebel. You may disagree, or even preach a message against my kind on Sunday, but I’ll tell you this, I’m a rebel because I follow one. Jesus was a rebel. He stood up against the hypocrisy of religion, he tore down the false images of the leaders and their pompous ways, he disregarded their legalistic lifestyle. He was reputed to be a drunk and a glutton, a friend to the outcasts and the ‘ungodly’ – by God, if Jesus, not your Pharisee Jesus, but the real Jesus, wasn’t a rebel in your eyes, who would be? You try to shame me back into church, shame me to stop smoking, shame me back into your religious image, the image you adore, you idolize! But dad, I don’t want to live in your image. I want to live in the image of Jesus.”

“So what then, did Jesus smoke cigarettes, did he indulge in ungodly acts?

“He did far more things that would offend you than smoke cigarettes, of that I’m sure!”

“Impossible! Not my Jesus!”

“Exactly dad, that’s exactly my point. Not your Jesus.”

Short story by Mick Mooney. Visit Mick’s: Facebook Page | Read Mick’s novel: God’s Grammar

The Life And Times Of Jesus Christ

Picture the home of a self-righteous religious man, and all his self-righteous religious friends waiting for God to join them for dinner, and when God arrives, he has a prostitute on his arm. No explanation given. Just God, a prostitute and a room full of furious religious men, utterly offended …

The part where God offers no explanation, no little hint he’s just doing it for ministry purposes, no quick religious wink slight shake of the head – nothing! He just laughs and enjoys her company and expects the rest to do likewise . . .

Offended at God and his prostitutes? Well, welcome to the life and times of Jesus Christ.

The Final Wish Of A Brother: A Short Story

“You talk about death and judgement, trying to get me ready for that terrible day. Well, keep your horrible dreams and doctrines to yourself! You hear me, George? I’m dying, and what do you do — you sit there with your head in your Bible and preach me a sermon! I’m dying, and all you care about is your little man in your little glass bottle!”

George stared at his older bother, he looked far older than he should, and death was just about to take him. “What are you talking about, my little man and my little glass bottle?”

“I’m talking about your idea of God, George. I know you think you’re the spiritual one in the family, but to be honest we all feel sorry for you. Every one of us.”

“I am not ashamed of my faith!” George said defiantly.

“I know,” Don replied, followed by a fit of coughing. “That’s your problem. You’re so damn proud you can’t see the problem with your faith. You’ve been hoodwinked, all these years, into believing the God of the universe is just a little man who fits into your little glass bottle. You think you’re an expert on your little man. You carry him around and show him off, you make him dance, you get him to do whatever you please. You’re the great master, the expert: Come one, come all, be amazed at my bother’s little man!”

George just stared. His brother turned his head away from him, staring out the window. Closing his Bible, George said, “I think it’s best I leave.” He walked to the other side of the room. As he was putting on his winter coat and scarf he heard his brother begin to cry.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry George. I’m so damn sorry for trying to hurt you. I know your faith means a lot to you, I know, I know — I’m just so tired, and I’m dying,” he said through his tears.

George turned to face him once more, asking: “What should I do? What should I say? I’m trying to help you. When you leave this earth, God is going to ask you a lot of questions, and how will you answer them?”

“No, he won’t,” George said in a quiet tone. “Not the God of love. Not the God of the universe. Maybe your God will go straight into questions, straight into business, but not mine. That’s where we differ in our beliefs, little brother.”

“What do you think, then?” George asked, holding his Bible firmly. “If not a fearful expectation of judgement, then what?”

Don lay there for several moments in silence, a few more tears rolled down his face. “The first thing I think God will do when I get to heaven is wrap his arms around me, hold me, and let me cry with him. He won’t say anything, and for the longest time he’ll hold me. He’ll let me cry my soul dry of all the pain I’ve lived through in this life. He’ll let all the madness I could never release finally escape me. He’ll hold me and let me scream the devils out of me. He’ll hold me, for the longest time, without a word.” He turned and looked at his younger brother. “I’m lying in a hospital bed, dying, and all you’re focused on is throwing a few Bible verses at me… but I don’t want your Bible study, George.” He patted the bed, inviting his brother closer.

“Would you sit down and talk to me? Talk about old times. The great times. Tell me about when we used to play down by the river. Tell me about the time we built our tree house. Tell me about mamma’s smile, and about how our old house used to smell like apple pie on Sunday afternoons.”

Don smiled at his brother. “Leave your Bible over there in the corner. You can pick it up when you leave,” he said, “but for now, come here and sit with me. Tell me some stories, make me laugh, let me remember the adventures we had together, and let me dream good dreams tonight.”

Short story by Mick Mooney. Visit Mick’s: Facebook Page | Read Mick’s novel: God’s Grammar

The Second Coming Of Jesus: A Very Short Story

The Bible Group Study Where A Heart Broke In Two: A Short Story

“Stop it Richard. Just shut up already!” Jane cried out. Her husband, in the middle of expounding on the Bible to the six other attendees, did stop; more out of shock than obedience to her wishes. In fact, the entire home Bible study group were frozen with shock. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t sit here one more second and listen to your drivel. You talk like you know, like you are an expert on God. But you know what,” she said, shaking as she addressed her husband of 16 years, “you don’t know the first thing about God! You don’t know anything, and I can’t take another second of your babble.”

“Jane,” Richard said, “what in the devil has gotten into you?”

“Not you!” She cried out, “certainly not your proud theology.”

To her right, Simon, one of the elders at their church, stiffened in his seat. He cleared his throat loudly. The room gave him their attention. “Jane, that is no way for a woman to speak to her husband, you must submit to—“

“Enough! Don’t you dare say another word to me about submission. I’m sick of it. I’ve been silent my whole life because of fear; fearful I wasn’t being submissive. What has that done for me? What is now left of me? God, your sick theology has almost completely killed my spirit. I’m a zombie. I’m meant to be a free spirit, a blessed child of the Almighty, but I’m not, I’m dying inside.” She looked around the room, “Each one of you too, we’re all dying. Don’t you see. Doesn’t anyone here see. We’ve all got nothing to say, no one except my husband.” Turning to Richard, she continued, “And what do you have to tell us, straight-faced and with a heart of stone, you tell us God is using us like batteries. That we are only good for our output. You tell us of your own foolish ideas and because you wrap them up in a few Scripture verses, you think you’re teaching us about God?—enough!” She screamed, “Enough with your theology. Enough with your egotistic dreams. Enough of all the lies that are killing the life I still have in me—enough! I won’t take another moment of it.”

She stormed out of the living area. Still in full view of the whole group, she put on her coat and scarf. Outside, a dreadful storm was pounding down upon the neighborhood. “Does this matter to you?” she called out to her husband without looking at him. Continuing to dress herself frantically, she asked, “Does it matter I’ve half lost my mind by this twisted theology we’ve devoted ourselves to? Does it bother you, Richard, that your more interested in finishing your shallow Bible lesson than you are with your wife’s heart breaking in two?”

She glanced around at the group, her hollow eyes echoing off the faces before her. She turned and left without another word, slamming the door behind her.

The group sat in silence, some smiled awkwardly at each other, others stared at the floor.

Richard glanced briefly out the window, watching the rain belting against the glass. Slowly, he turned back to his Bible, reopened it and found his place. What should I do? he asked himself. The whole group was silently asking themselves the same question, but nobody knew. Nobody knew anything at all.

Short story by Mick Mooney. Visit Mick’s: Facebook Page | Read Mick’s novel: God’s Grammar

Trying To Kill The Apostle Paul: A Short Story

“Why is he still alive? I specifically told you to kill him,” the well dressed man said.

“It’s not that easy, sir,” the leader the assassination team replied.

“He’s just a penniless preacher, he’s unarmed, how hard can it be?”

The small group of subordinates, all disguised in religious cloaks, exchanged glances. “As it turns out, very hard, sir,”

One of the men opened a bag and pulled out several bloodied stones, most about the size of a man’s fist. “We used these on him. Each of us threw at least three. You see, sir, we did kill him—it’s just that somehow he didn’t stay dead. He walked back into Lystra and stayed the night with the Blasphemers, encouraging them with what he continues to call the gospel of God’s grace.

“Grace? More blasphemy! This man knows no bounds in his offense to our religion. It is our obligation before God to stop him. This is your task, and you continue to fail at it.Tell me, why is this man so hard to kill?”

One of the men stepped forward, saying, “Sir, you have to understand, this man seems to have magical powers, he is a wizard; this was the reason all of Lystra thought he was a god. They wanted to worship him, sir. They wanted to sacrifice to him; some cried out to him their devotion with tears; but he refused to be treated as a god, sir. He wanted no part of it, crying out to the crowd:

‘Friends, why are you doing this? We too are only human, like you. We are bringing you good news, telling you to turn from these worthless things to the living God, who made the heavens and the earth and the sea and everything in them. In the past, he let all nations go their own way. Yet he has not left himself without testimony: He has shown kindness by giving you rain from heaven and crops in their seasons; he provides you with plenty of food and fills your hearts with joy.’

“But the crowd cared not, sir. They brought him sacrifices. Still, he refused to be treated like a god. It was with this act of rejecting the people’s pagan desires that we managed to rally them against him. We won the crowd over, as we always do, and managed to stone him, sir, to death; the whole town could testify he was dead. We dragged his bloody corpse out of the city and threw it in a ditch. I assure you, sir, we did our job. He was dead—he just didn’t stay dead, sir.”

“Nonsense! You’re lying to me, all of you. You didn’t stone him. He did nothing to him!” The well dressed man’s hardened exterior was beginning to crack. He felt his hands trembling.

“Sir,” one of the men said, “he healed a man. I saw it with my own eyes, a lame man who had never walked a day in his life. He was listening to the blasphemer speaking and was told to stand up, and he did, sir. None of us have ever seen anything quite like it. He must be a wizard, sir. We have no other explanation.”

“All the more reason to kill him, you fools! Where is he now?”

“He left in the direction of Derbie this morning, sir.”

“Then why are you still here? Go, follow him. If this man intends to bring his ‘gospel’ to the ends of the earth, he’ll have to do it with violence on his heels.”

“Sir,” another man spoke up, he had been silent the whole time, “what if he isn’t a wizard or a blasphemer? What if his message is meant to be our message? What if his message of grace is—“

“Be careful,” the well dressed man said sternly. “Be very careful what you say next.”

The man stood in silence. All eyes were upon him. He glanced at his fellow assassins, and saw the darkness in their eyes. He reconsidered his train of thought, and slowly began to finish his sentence. “Blasphemy. His message is blasphemy, sir, and it is our duty before God to kill him because of it,” he said without emotion; the thought of a God of grace fading from his heart almost as quickly as it came.

The well dressed man looked at the group of assassins in silence. He smiled a wicked smile, and thought wicked thoughts, and all the while he was convinced they were given to him from heaven.

Short story by Mick Mooney. Visit Mick’s: Facebook Page | Read Mick’s novel: God’s Grammar

The Man Who Lived With Sadness: A Short Story

“What if I don’t get up?” he said to sadness. “What if I just live in my sleep from this moment on?

“You can’t do that, Jonathan,” sadness whispered. “I’m sorry, but it’s time to get up.”

He wondered why he had to feel this way. This empty. The last thing he felt as he fell into bed was sadness. Each morning, it was sadness who woke him.

“Why don’t I love you?” Jonathan asked. “We spend every day together, but I never get used to having you around.”

“You’re not meant to love me.” sadness replied. “That’s not how it works. If you loved me, you’d never let me go, even when it’s my time to leave you.”

“But I’m so lonely. Perhaps I should love you, perhaps we can make it work,” Jonathan said. “Would you love me back if I learned to love you?”

Sadness lay still, pondering. “I too want to be loved, but not like this. Not as sadness. I’m like a caterpillar, Jonathan. One day I’ll be something new. Something beautiful. No longer sadness, but joyfulness. Like a butterfly, you’ll be delighted at my company. But first I have to go away. I have to let the change happen.

“Why don’t you go now?” he asked. “Please go, I can’t bear having you around like this. You tuck me into my sleep. You wake me up each morning. You follow me around throughout the day. Please go away, sadness. Please.”

“I can’t,” sadness replied, crying. “I’m so sorry Jonathan, but I can’t, not yet.”

“When, then?”

“Soon. Soon I’ll be gone. You’ll wake up without me. For days. For weeks. For a long time, and one day I’ll return transformed. No longer as sadness, but as joyfulness.”

Jonathan cried. His pillow holding his heavy head, but nothing could hold his heavy heart. “I long for joyfulness,” he mumbled through his tears.

Sadness stood up, walked around the bed, pulling back the covers. “You need to get up now.”

Jonathan pulled the pillow over his head. Trying to hide, although he knew he couldn’t. He asked again, “Why can’t I love you sadness . . . I just want to be in love.”

“Don’t ever love me, Jonathan.” sadness said softly, but sternly. “If you do, you’ll never let me leave.”

“Then go, please. Leave me alone, I beg you; leave, without another word.”

“Come,” sadness said, “It’s time for you to get up now.”

Short story by Mick Mooney. Visit Mick’s: Facebook Page | Amazon author page