• Creation
    As there is a god, there is only one god, and I am his prophet. Reject all pretensions of divine revelations that posit miracles over reason. Faith be held in peer repeated evidence, for I bring to you the sum of god's revealed knowledged and it is this:
    the fabric of the universe is immutable through time.
    Certain that the clockworks of this world, are bound by steadfast laws of matter, we observe marvels, not as infidel exceptions to the flawless constancy of time but as misreckoned shadows beyond our current limits of intelligent scrutiny. The denial of all miracles is a profession of faith in the constancy of the universe. As subjects of existence, living bound within god's invariably knitted weave, it is our duty to persist in deciphering eternity's universal law, etched in an indelible lexicon, writ upon creation. There are no miracles. While modern medicine can: cure the blind, bring the dead back to life and birth IVF children to virgin mothers, there is no magic in any of this, nor have there ever been any magic men. As the laws of the material world are immutable through time, our ancestors were bound by the same physical edicts as we are. Whatever happened to inspire the bible's ancient desert fictions was constrained by the same laws of matter which we discern today. If any of the decorated stories reported in the Old Testament occurred at all, whatever happened was constrained by the universe's invariant material weave, and could only be the product of advanced technology, not witchcraft. When European men, having sailed across the ocean with armor, swords and iron, landed on the Atlantic's palmed shores, black natives, watching their first arrival, need not call them gods for having traversed the impassable ocean swells. It is corollary then that, any alien creatures who, bound by the same laws of reality as we are, traversed galaxies to reach us in their interstellar ships, should not be revered as gods for employing fabulous tools that are beyond our comprehension. We are all bound by the same laws of matter and can, through science and repeatable evidence, be as like the gods of antiquity who had to have used prodigious technologies to perform the 'miracles' that they did, not magic. --- Whatever you believe about a spiritual 'afterlife', know this: humanity is a life-form. As you give life to your children, your children are your 'afterlife'. It is consequent then that as your children will live their lives on this planet, this planet is the 'afterworld'. The Earth will still be here when you have passed, and those who live on after you, will be forced to bear the consequences of our selfishness if we do not heed the warnings of climate science which tells us that global warming will make this world a much harsher place to live in for all the generations that will follow. Our thoughtless neglect to the health of this planet today, risks sending all of our 'afterlives' into a hell like existence of an ever more hostile environment. Responsible for this world, we must perpetually strive to refine our understanding of nature's most recondite secrets, that we may be as like inherited gods, and bring about the Garden of Eden which our ancestors only dreamed of before imagination first wrote scripture. ---When ancient holy tracts have become cherished relics of our past religious infantilism, humanity's matured future self will herald its great scientists as the world's only true prophets, for expanding the compass of human comprehension.
    Christ Kennedy
Mind Adaze
Infant Noodler
Despite the Guild meeting's chock-full crowd being hushed for to hear the Pilot's Emerald Tavern reading of migrant kinfolk arrivals to New England, an infant noodler's just, rear door bruising distracted them to rumour.
Father Doyle, SJ (Boston, 1845)
Contracted Affection
As all prior affection for her husband contracted into a tiny glint of wisdom, it's glossy pearl slipped beneath the fog of devastated vision, and streaked unfettered across her reddened cheek.
Mrs Emmerson (Boston, 1845)
Tussocky Saltations
As the squint of amber spotted scales reflected from the water's sunlit mossy, he glimpsed the catfish whiskers that had brought lunch swimming into his chummed up, wahoo cove. Crashing through the yielding rustle of budtime greenery, flowering bramble washed the pine sapped detritus from Michael's ecstatic grin. A sprig about the woods, he sped towards the pond's mud washed precinct and, while doting on his leaf-fold of worms, tripped root over whip-poor-will's nest, in a pirouette assault of a hedged shrub grove. To safeguard worms, leaf and petal dazzled pate, he elected an injury eluding strategem of fringed gentian acrobatics. The resultant commingling of panax somersaults with tussocky saltations, threw his moss imprinted noggin clear across a rangy chaffweed thicket. Scraping bunny scat from an excreta vexed chin, he raised his dung abducted glance along the crowded weir, and saw shite raking thieves fiddling handhabend with his fish. Bassoon, trumpet and clarion, Phineas was piddling with his amber gilled spoils. Charging across the brass periphery of his outraged vision, he stalked grassy shrubs, and marched from umbrage's nettled shade, a root's knot tufted from the trees. "That's my yellow cat!" he shouted in protest for his pondside dinner.

Michael (Boston, 1845)
A Thousand Christian Cuts
The ghastly murder, by a thousand heathen cuts, of the French missionary, Joseph Marchand, riled the boil of each, every least, workaday, bound in mortal coils, Parisian, and a profuse sundry wished to emulate a martyr so revered. Whilst suffering earthly torments amongst fiery savages, they'll die at the hands of an ancient culture, and realize their quest for eternity.
Father Doyle, SJ (Boston, 1845)
Spoiled puddle
Sure as rum spoils to a urine puddle, Sibéal was never meant for to be a mother.
Patrick O'Reilly (Boston, 1845)
Tuckered Wings
In the jiffy split it took to exit from the indoor rank of fetid odors, an obtrusive bee's impudent want of politesse, startled him into upsetting the bronze of eastern redbud leafage. As Michael was showered in a pink rain of emollient petals and fallen blossoms, an upset monarch, first to arrive so prior to its peers, fluttered erratic a time, until faintly alighting on a rusted splotch of bark. Stretching gently the elegance of tuckered wings, it rested a moment to measure the air, and, exhausted from its travels, was gracefully brushing at nectar glutting its antennae, as a crow's nacreous plumage swooped by in an iridescent swish, to eat it.
Michael (Boston, 1845)
Satchel Things
Yea, knowing which tinctures will remedy his ailing patients makes him a physician, its the abacus purchase of lice combs, powders, and other necessities for his satchel, that makes a him healer.
Dr Emmerson (Boston, 1845)
Sure as Peter let Paul in
Exhorting him in his urgent manner, Mr Garrison argue telled the late hour broom sweep who'd come for to shoo them off, why, sure as Peter let Paul in, they was to be admitted.
Meribel (Boston, 1845)
Accordance of Cobbles
While your tread's impaired by the stones ungathered, its the accordance of cobbles that paves the road.
Father Doyle, SJ (Boston, 1845)
Pox-scarred Beast
... its serpent's tail of white gutter houndmen rattled wi'd iron, yoke an' collar, as the pox-scarred beast leered cruelful over God's most gentlest people.
"Walter! There he is!" jostlin' the assembly wi'd an overseer's fury, he bore down onto the frightened horror of a recent arrived, one eyed young man, "Walter! Grab him!" ... born to servitude, the toddlin' infant cries his blood in birth to bondage, afore the age of seven. As slaver assaults on children can shackle the hands of men, captivity's soul grindin' purchase over the African Meeting House hushed God's fear enslaved congregants into a horse-whipped instant of timidity. "There are no slaves here, get away from him!" 'til Miss Sarah Remond shrieked 'er born-free objection from atop the stairs.
Meribel (Boston, 1845)
Match Maker
Immersed in consummate darkness, she lurked down muck cluttered steps, dreading reacquaintance with the green tinted monster corrupting the cellar's ghastly, stygian end. Pausing to glimpse through the brimstone chamber's phosphorous dusk stirrings, she discovered the enslaved fiend choring with agonizing limbs. Skittish to hearken the ogre's former rage, she drew nearer to its suffering plaints. Moldy bread crusts lay next to a heap of birch splinters, as the rag cowled villain tipped its lot of wooden needles into the acidic stink of an eye-watering paste. A cheerless fluorescence shone off her garment as she neared the vanquished creature's polluted stench. Rat shite littered the muddy ground, as maggots and burrowing worms fed off the rotten lumber binding his fractured lower limbs. Despite murksome recollections of his former violence, she ventured near the phossy jawed match maker, and his bitter cup. "da?" she called.
Babry (Boston, 1845)
Flock of Choler
Summoned by their taunts, the spirit host of pestilent emotions shuttered Michael from his anaemic wits pouch to possess him whole, will and limb. Fallen in with Gabriel, at the rag's end of the fighting papal legion, he spotted Phineas, and, dodging a riled militant's infant-crushing steps, threaded the quarrelous assemblage undescried. Steeled with the hostile rabblement's charged bulwark of fervor, he inched onwards by installments, for to stalk his vain trumpeting oppressor.
Michael (Boston, 1845)
Human Misery
What suffering the native idolater must briefly bear to be cleansed of his philistine culture, is of no consequence when compared to the everlasting joys he'll find in the spirit world beyond. Father Doyle was at pains to contain his rage as he explained to a Wolastoqiyik fool, who weighs the fleeting moments of human misery against the unceasing bliss of deliverance, that his child must be ripped from his primitive home, and be given unto God, for his eternal salvation. One can not feel guilt for causing brief pain to those whom one redeems from hell's unending torments. The Lord's devoted servants save the immortal souls of heathen children who would be left unbaptized, and be forever condemned to suffer in the afterworld.
Father Doyle, SJ (Bostin, 1845)
Christ King Kennedy
author, creator and unemployable CEO
"Christ King Kennedy, of no fixed address, was arrested and charged with assault." CTV Evening News, Winnipeg, October 12, 2011.
Originally from Quebec, Christ Kennedy is a graduate of McGill University's bachelor's degree in computer engineering. Having written Paladin while incarcerated for a third violent penitentiary sentence, he now lives in Moncton, New Brunswick, readying his upcoming novel : "Lost Scullion".
The plot twists and characters clash in this tension filled origin story of Paladin, a future aged Super-Hero. As Henry, a disinherited homeless embarrassment to his family, with no regrets for the mysterious past that alienated him from his life of entitlement, is threatened by the political ambitions of his own brother, a computer genius drifting through university, an EMT with a gambling problem, an aging Russian gymnast and a zealous religious believer are forced together by unexpected circumstances while a cognizant artificial intelligence in control of an apocalyptic pleomorphic weapon looms in the background in search for a reason not to destroy the globe.
The Butcher's Lunch
Red Penguin Books
Syntax Error Software