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An attempt to write something anything in one go and release, iterate and improve later if I take it further.

Wednesday, 9 May 2018

Day 8 - Blank Book

        Aza ducked under the cannopy of the weeping willow.  He finally had it, the final piece to his grand plan.  Now everyone would believe him.  He’d seen it before, through his whole life.  A whole congregation of church goers would listen to the priest up front professing what is said in the bible, his interpretation of it knowing that many in the congregation will not have read it, and those who had would be susceptible to his suggestion.
        It was observing this that had first given him the idea of suggestion.  Then he had this re-enforced listening to the ‘caliphate’ podcast where the investigative journalist producing the podcast had delved into the world of ISIS recruitment learning that they took a view not dissimilar to the Christian priest he had observed.  That is taking the key principles of the Koran and refining, tightening the interpretation the written word and influencing those who were believers who had never read the Koran, or if they had knowing they would be susceptible to suggestion. With this suggestion the ISIS recruiters had successfully inspired western muslim and non-Muslim’s travel to the Middle East to take up their cuase.
       Aza fanned the pages of the black book he now had, every single page was blank, it was perfect.  With this fabulous tool of persuasion he would be able to turn his life around.  He’d make himself a modern day prophet. he would keep this pages blank, keep them crisp, clean and as white as the Holy God of his followers, who ever that god was.  he would not be a priest or prophet of one god but all the gods alike and more.
       Now, all he had to do was find a congregation to convert.  He’d been reading about the occult, the Branch Davidians, Charles Manson, he’d watch watched Louis Theroux ‘Most hated family in America’; both documentaries. Louis was one of his idols, one of his informers.  He was ready.
      He just had to find his pulpit, is platform, his location where people would stop and listen, where could that be, where or how could he keep people sitting still long enough to hear him, to realise that he and what he was saying was everything they have been looking for in their whole life.
     Here he was, dressed in his Kaftan, saddles, long hair, the peace beads given to him by the one legged Buddhist monk and his ‘Book of Truth’. If only he could find a congregation, somehow get people to stop averting their gaze, turning the away, walking past him on the street not seeing him, ignoring him, avoiding him.  If Only.
     His journey to being a prophet was an ongoing trial, first he’d lost his family and his home, he’d been homeless for a long period of time. Living hard on the streets, beaten up by other homeless people because he had money, then he’d worked out the system, found some salvation and safety in the homeless shelters, he’d found religion, not just one, all religions.
     Now after all this time he was equipped, he’d come so far, now, only now did he realise his task had only just begun, how to find followers to do his bidding, to right the wrongs he saw in the world.
     He’d had all sorts of plans in the past, take a fully loaded city bus, pull the emergency brake on a country train, lock the doors of a church, a classroom. Press the emergency button in an elevator, all sorts of ideas.  He simply did not know how he was going to do it.
     Sitting quietly Aza contemplated his situation and decided to pray, he crossed himself, and knelt facing towards where he thought Mecca would be he put his kippah upon his long, dirty blond matted hair. Aza knew he was a contradiction of a breadth of interpretations of religiosity, of the acts and ceremony. Aza also knew this was right as he was the Prophet, the one and only prophet alive this day.


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