Zoe’s Journal

‘You’ve now reached the age of accountability.’
The semi-circle of priests droned on as the line of subdued children trudged forward, each to receive their stamps of Coming of Age.
Emerging from childhood into a new world. A world of consequences, seriousness, responsibility.
They felt the burden press down on their heads.
‘You’ve now reached the age of accountability.’
The dark-hair boy, the fair-headed girl
All passed by that day before the crowd of ceremonial spectators. Finally, all stood, stamped as adults responsible for choice of action, of religion.
The solemn priest stepped forward, raising his hand.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘You have reached the age of accountability. To follow the customs, worship God, obey your elders…’
The speech dragged on and on before reaching it’s end, and eyelids drooped as the sonorous voice echoed dimly in the great stained glass hall. Stories of virtue, or honor, of praise to God Almighty, and most importantly, the teachings of the Holy Bible were to be followed, set as example, enshrined in their hearts to obey no-matter-what.
‘Now,” he said. ‘That you’ve reached the age of accountability, what will be your first course of action to take so that God and man will be pleased with you?’
The dark-haired boy went first, approaching the father and kissing the crucifix, followed by the fair-headed girl.
Next in line was the broad-shouldered youth. But no stare of blankness was in his eye. Approaching the father, he walked on past and faced the audience or religiously teared parents.
‘All that the father has spoken is truth,’ he said. ‘If you are blind, ignorant, helpless puppies, dependent on the crutch of religion to help you through your measly lives!
‘We can be strong without religion! We have reached the age of accountability, says he? We have now the right of choice? Who is he, to grant choice and allow us to finally think?
‘Is he our saviour, our mentor, or teacher? He may be to you, but not to me!
‘This is me, exercising my freedom of expression, the right of every individual, instead of being pulled like puppets on a string! I have made my own choice since I finally can. I am finished having fantastical blind belief in a helpless man’s crutch!
‘I refuse to waste my life away, frittering about teaching, worships to an empty sky or begloried priest and trappings of faith! Since I now have the freedom of choice, this will be my first course of action!’
Raising his hand, there glinted a knife, newly sharpened and ready to kill. With a gut-wrenching yell, the young man lunged forward. He threw the blade with all his strength.
It embedded, quivering, in the life-size monument of Christ on the Cross, his sad eyes gazing upward. And no blood ran out.
The young man glared defiantly at the dumb-stricken crowd, then in disgust, turned and walked away.
The line of children moved forward, and the crowd stirred once and settled back into their seat.

It sat and bloomed year after year
Delicate windblown flower.
All who passed by upon the road
Saw and stopped to admire
Fragrant petals, transparent leaves
A token of life’s Innocence.
But deep, down deep, the flower was ANGRY.
Every year with the rising of the summer sun
She had to sit ALONE
Endure gawking fat noses
And pudgy inquiring fingers.
With every touch or admiring eye
The anger boiled faster, deeper
No outward way to express itself,
The pressure built inside
One night, the summer moon arose.
And the anger fell to Despair.
The next morning, the passerby looked
And saw the shriveled stalk
The petals blackened from the fumes,
Transparent leaves fallen to the ground.
He plucked the stalk from its dead roots
And crushed it down into the dirt.

The boiling current holds us sway
Unicorns run across the way
Fantasy rain falls on our heads
The stag arises from his bed
Bids us to follow through the rain
The chase is hopeless, fruitless, vain
And we lose sight as time passes by
The flowers tinkle as we fly
The eagles dance with us and sing
Below us, the trees form a ring
Musically lifting their branches
While the fantasy enhances
And still my fantasy rain falls
Drenching deep down the Centaur hall.

My dream’s a fantasy
Of eagles, soaring high
Of crystal-clear water
Reflecting Unicorns
The silver rain’s falling.
Here I am, in my dream
Drink my fantasy rain.
The White Stag peers then runs
His light feet thundering
And in my fantasy
I leave Earth and follow
Fly through fantasy rain
Each drop a bolt of fire
Chasing for the white stag
Hopeless, but hopeful still
My fantasy rain falls.