From the Secret Confessions of an Epileptic Priest Named Milton Berle

Comments (0) Flash Fiction

Back when I served The Source of all nouns & verbiage covered by flesh***back in The Wastelands of Chicago*** in an epiphany of His mysterious ways***I birthed the idea of bringing a tape recorder to the confessional.***After recording several confessions*****I spliced the tape, deleting all the articles, such as “the,” “a,” “an,” etc. I taped them all–from serial killers who loved to speak about their strong, thick hands to rapists who drifted in from the Midwestern storms from the periphery of disowned-alien desire.****I performed more splicing operations, this time****deleting the spaces between words*** phrases***sentences***tenuous phonemes***& strings of vocal quiverings*** even the spaces between spaces, etc. The miracle was that everyone sounded the same.*** They all confessed to the same sin in hidden code. Each hated to be a space of one.*******In random urge sequencing, they all revealed a traumatic memory of tasting their mother’s blood shortly after being born.*****They all pronounced the salts of this life as bitter.*******They all harbored the childhood intention*******of squeezing a soft pulpy fruit until it burst.*************I heard the yowl of my own soul in the train of these confessions.***********I allowed the strong hand of The Source to grip me tight-in-the-night******to squeeze me******until I was nothing but the drone, the scratchy hum*******of an empty tape******left running.

Note:

* = the space of one human ontological denial. Think of the void left by the absence of fingerprints of an angel.
Spread the good words:Tweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookEmail this to someoneShare on TumblrShare on Reddit