With Death comes Freedom…

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A short-short story…Freedom
He was a young man, bitter with his life and he did not suppress his tongue, life was arguments and questions. He needed no prompting; his waking hours seem devoted to causing weeping. He rarely laughed; he had a skill for creating pain, even in his passionate moments. His joy was to reign over his human possession, his wife. She would cease to have a will of her own, she was afraid and she obeyed.
To serve, to have no mind of her own, she too thought he owned her. Women were mistresses of his heart, yet there was no freedom for his own wife. She was not his equal, when he was with her his words brought new-bleeding to her heart. He was only satisfied when he drew blood, his appetite for hurting never ceased.
Their vows he had broken thousands of times. His mouth foul and dishonest, an adulterous heart beat within his broad barrel chest. The past, his youth, his suffering, maybe at the hands of another. Had this brought him to this day? He was not true or kind; he felt no shame in the bruises he left behind. Among those who knew him, he could do no harm; these people did not know him.
She had not asked for pearls or rubies, and she did not ask that her blood be shed. His moods released terror in his path, and his wife lay like twisted metal after it had met with deadly winds. She felt no worth, or equalities, only the wrath of his sickly attempts to have her go mad.
His affections never tender. His wife like a lamb at the altar of his desires. Spirits sought her, he kept them at a cold distance, and it was he and only he that owned her. The scars of battle went unseen, she was a caged animal. His victory did not make her weak; her bosoms may belong to him as he drank from the fountain of her youth. Her discipline held by grace, she vowed to never give in to the bond he commanded.
She tore loose from those bonds screaming, “Your fist no longer stings, my stomach no longer will live in knots, and my body will no longer be confined. Your torture inflames my spirit; I no longer cringe in shame. I will no longer suffer the pain; I will no longer live in shock or fear. My heart breaks, God did not design for it to be this way.”
She asks herself did my torturer have a soul; did he take an oath with the Devil? She did not weep, she did not cry, she did not show fear, “It is the last time,” she thought. She was not aware of the time that he poisoned her, but she knew now that she was going to die. He would never let her leave him, with her face covered with weeping water, one could barely hear her moans, and she could not escape the tragedy of her life. She will fall into a sleep from which she would not wake. Her final thought danced across her dying mind finally, she was free.

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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Is the man we believe to be God untrue?

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AUTHORS NOTE: 40 writers wrote the Bible over a span of 1500 years. Unlike other religious writings, the Bible reads as a factual news account of real events, places, people, and dialogue. Historians and archaeologists have repeatedly confirmed its authenticity. Using the writers’ own writing styles and personalities, God shows us who he is and what it is like to know him. There is one central message consistently carried by all 40 writers of the Bible: God, who created us all, desires a relationship with us. He calls us to know him and trust him. The Bible not only inspires us, it explains life and God to us. It does not answer all the questions we might have, but enough of them. It shows us how to live with purpose and compassion. How to relate to others. It encourages us to rely on God for strength, direction, and enjoy his love for us. The Bible also tells us how we can have eternal life. Multiple categories of evidence support the historical accuracy of the Bible as well as its claim to divine authorship.
Nonetheless, as a person who questions many things in life, I believe in God, I do not fear him; I should have no fear if he is my father. I believe many of the things written in the Bible, I also question many of the things. If the Bible had forty authors, as a writer myself I do not believe that the many translations over 1500 years can remain consistent to the original. We all need something to believe in, first believe in you.

***

Is the man we believe to be God untrue?

Did he create the patterns of the world, humans, animals, plants, trees and with his care the world evolved, it grew. Did he smile upon us, even in our defiling times? Through unspoken words, did he create beauty with his colorful art, with only a thought did this come from his loving heart?

Is “He” with us in thought during our times of fear and suffering, if we call unto him does he hear? Is he a myth, a creation of the imagination? Does he forgive for all offences, or is it us that created him through thought and wanting senses? The Bible, a book we are told to believe and understand. Yet, forty authors wrote this book down through the ages, was it written to control the masses, or was it God’s creation. Did “He” put the thoughts in their minds when they begin to write, or did they create this man like a character in a book, his words, and his look?

Among many that want to control the heart, wants us to believe, do these many authors also want to deceive? These preachers of the Book, do they speak to free souls from sin, do they take pearls, rubies, silver and gold telling us it will ease our pain. Do they preach and beg for riches; are all their efforts only for gain? They desire the tender that many will leave in the offering tray in order to receive God’s blessing must we pay? Oh preacher advance your flawed hand, your smiles, your tears, are you, yourself engulfed in fear?

These words are not to offend the Christian way, or remove the Holiest of Books, to disbelieve, nor sanctify a learned way. The scars of battle, must we try to be valiant and hold the spirit up to the highest aspiration. Must we have a religious heart or a caged spirit deep within our chest that holds you to the highest purpose in life? First love yourself; therefore, you are what you believe. You are responsible for the pains you suffer, it does not come from forces unseen, shock or fear, live within your own strength and goodness and is it possible that hell is no doubt the things we must face while walking upon this earth.

Yes, upon yourself depend; be responsible for your own passion, your own tears. Do not believe “He” takes what he wants and leaves us in fear; believe in yourself and be responsible for wiping away your own tears. If it is your desire to believe that you will someday walk upon a different plane, that there is a world waiting where love is like a constant burning flame. If this belief makes your heart fly, your spirits soar, to see your love one waiting on that Heavenly Shore. If you want to believe then you have nothing to fear, the life you are leading is up to you, yet, there are times when one must ask the question, is the man we believe to be God untrue?

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Rise and Kill the Beast…

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Rise and Kill the Beast…

 

She woke, rising from her bed; the next stop in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. My God, she thought there in the mirror was an old woman thin lips, long gray hair, crevices lining her face. She watched the face turn pale, fear rose from the pit of her stomach closing off her breath. Suddenly she grasps the sides of her face stretching her cheeks upward until the face was smooth. When had this happen, it was her face in the mirror! Was it during the dense darkness of the night that this happen? She open her mouth to say something, the words’ fell upon her ears anxious, a sham, her heart beat faster and fear hung in her mouth like hot lava. What is next, hopelessness, death? This is the stage in life that people pray to their God for their sins, or whatever they have done wrong, the end could be near, was this fear.

 
Where did the time go, the long dark braids, the nimble fingers and graceful body? The body that played tennis, rode a bike, skied over rough waters, time was so short. She was a person that shields her spirit from the darkest, deepest pits of the Hell and learns to tolerate life. Someone, whose body gave birth, lived with the Devil’s own spawn until her escape. The one who refuse to cry or shrivel in fear as she waited for the feel of a fist.
Someone who waited for the long fingers to clutch around her neck, then in the light of day hide the truth and lies, live in mystery so no one would know. She trembled but let out no sign of fear. The body allows tears to fall after the evil thing had gone away. She tried to flatten herself upon the bed made of stones, her mind fled before she could breathe the stagnant air before the extravagant retreat.

 
These pains were hard to bare, the Devil’s spawn wanted groveling, her throat already like splintered wood, why had fate brought her to this doomed place, imprisoned her to live and be lost forever. To live in torment and dire despair, her spirit continuous crawling through the fires of hell, and she wailed her doom to the pits darkness. Never knowing a peaceful life, a loving or genteel life denied. Her mind always filled with wisdom and untouched by the suffering. Sure, she was defeated, but she would someday rise and kill the Beast.

 

 

 

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Books can be purchased at Amazon.com – Poetry, Fiction and Non-Fiction

Misery’s Problems…

 

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Misery’s Problems…

 
Misery has sent many souls Hell. They condemn

themselves; a mournful cry comes from their place

of unrest. They cry for what they wanted in life and

did not get, they could not be satisfied with what they

had, misery prevailed. They have helped destroy the

earth.
In the beginning there was cold, unceasing and

relentless rain, there seem to be a mutation of the earth

as the decades went forward with minds unchanged.

Days were heavy with hail, turbid waters mixed with

cold and snow, fiery had a tight hold on the waters that

covered the earth, still many humans could not see the

doom and darkness upon the earth.
Their souls are putrid, the soil of the earth is foul, above

them the ravens swarm in and out of the acid sky, the

beast of the earth roams follow grounds. Each of those

misery humans fell to the ground gathering handfuls of

soil casting it into the hollows of the earth. They now

know that gluttonous greed will bring rancid air and their

belly’s growl like the beast of the night with hunger.
There are many who tried to save Earth, they toiled in the

dead ground and prayed for blessings, they watch the

writhing shadows of misery, it was too late. Everyone hungry,

cold, uncomforted, everyone will die for the mistakes of few.

The waters both salty and fresh began to dry, cracks became

vast and deep. The land was soft and filled with bugs and worms.

The air clogged their lungs they cried and they prayed it was

too late. Those who did not believe that one day we would destroy

the Earth now became sinful spirits living in irrevocable doom.
There are those that believed the earth was being destroyed,

there are those who tried to find a resolve for these worldwide

conditions. To those that did not believe the earth was dying,

became accusers living in great pain. Warnings from the sinners

were no more than strange words, there is no way that we can

reach perfection on earth, it is too late. It is not too late to resolve

misery’s problems, we must cease our downward path and heal

mother Earth.

 

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree.2018

 

The Certainties of Life…

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The Certainties of Life…

 

Life is an uncertain race where

most people do no more than run

in place, there can be happiness,

sadness, and around every corner

a surprise; yet hope blooms.

Life is what one must create within

their allotted space, or sit on the

sidelines and wait leaving their

journey to fate.

 
Life is not all joy floating upon the

winds of time; there are rights and

wrongs; and unknown quandaries,

setbacks, and living means moving

forward. Life quickly passes, fair and

cloudy days, laughter and tears, and

then the warmth of the sun subsides

ones fears.

 
Life may mean walking in the valleys

of despair until fate starts an upward

climb, living with happiness, or grief;

always trust the heart and mind.

 
Life lived in harmony with others,

loving, caring and expectations met;

seeds of livelihood sown, repentance

locked away for God to judge; we strive

and labor until we pass on.

 

 

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

The Gilded Gate…

The Gilded Gate…

Thunder bellows from the sky, descending to valley floor,

it roused me from a deep sleep; the one lying beside me

does not move they do not wake. It quickly becomes darker,

the profound sounds hold angrily above the valley bounces

off the forest, trees sways in the wind. Without warning,

the winds spiral upward into the thunder and lightning.

The valley was like a ringed abyss.

 

The wind continued like torment and blaspheming.
A sadness began to settle in, is this the outer certainty

of hell? I questioned my faith, would my lover and I

die within this doomed place, God please hear my

pleading. I cried. Did I fall asleep, did I fall into a restless

dream, and then an obedient voice was heard. Within this

dream. I witnessed countless people, their hopelessness

as they walked slowly through a gate.

 

The dream continued on, leaving me bewildered in my darkest

deepest sleep. Before me rose a widening light, it filled half

of the darkness, “Who Master are those that walk through the

gilded gate”.  My master smiles at me, it was then that the gate

opens to me wide green lawns stretched as far as the eyes could see.

Then marvelous spirits approached. I moved quickly trying to walk

into the moving light.

 

I woke and the darkness fell around me, the wind had left the valley,

I would live for another day.

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A Second Chance…

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A Second Chance…

There are times when I am dreaming

that I believe outside my door is the

gateway to the city of doom; nevertheless

each night when I sleep I open the door

walking into another sphere of everlasting

pain, mentally and physically. No one

pushes me through the gate, I walk willingly,

and I feel confident that I can handle the

tragedy that I know will be waiting there for

me. Tucked deep inside the confidence

there is fear, within the fear there are secret

things, distrust and lies.

 
The darkness is the most evil; a blood red moon

framed by the stars hangs above me. Hearing

strange tongues frightful and shrill, filled with

anger, strikes fear into my heart. Sometimes I

weep as the outcries reach my ears, as I do not

have a stainless claim to my own life. I fear for

the souls, even the depths of hell may refuse

them and they will be lost forever in the

darkness.

 
I question is there hope with death, will we

have memories of the earth and of the lives

that remain when we are gone? The souls

that I hear are loud, their tears are blood red,

and each is crawling in vile mud. I lower my

eyes. will they have rebirth, if they lived in

blaspheming is this terrible wailing their fate.

 
A bitter flood rushed over me as each pass to

their final resting place. They seem conscious

of their nearing doom. It is in this darkness

that each was given a second chance to feel

the love of God upon their faces, they refused.

Afterwards the ground broke from beneath

their feet, and I seem to be sinking with them

to a senseless dreadful shore and I am afraid

that I will not wake from this nightmare.

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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