Faith in Science (standard:Psychological fiction, 3024 words)
Author: G.H. Hadden	Added: May 02 2005	Views/Reads: 3678/2524	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
"Oh no." I say, "I'm not going to fall for any of that hocus-pocus!" There's got to be a rational explanation somewhere. "Well then my friend," God replies with a devilish grin. "Have I ever got a trick for you."

Faith in Science 

By G.H. Hadden 

I was born an Anglican and confirmed one at age ten, but have considered
myself either atheist or agnostic for some time now.  I'm not quite 
sure if God ever existed at all, is dead, or just gets sick of six 
billion prayers filling up his inbox like so much spam.  Maybe that 
good ol' Spirit-in-the-Sky is a gambler at heart, deciding our fate on 
the roll of the dice; or perhaps he just gets bored from time to time 
and likes to pick some poor schmoe at random to play a practical joke 
on.  Some people get a grilled cheese sandwich with the face of Jesus 
on it and that's all it takes to get their attention.  For others, it's 
a weeping Virgin Mary statue in their home, or little Carlita's hands 
start bleeding.  "Oh no." I say, "I'm not going to fall for any of that 
hocus-pocus!"  There's got to be a rational explanation somewhere. 

"Well then my friend--" God replies with a devilish grin.  "Have I ever
got a trick for you." 

It is the glorious golden hour of summer twilight, with a refreshing
breeze hitting my face as I stand in my backyard.  I should be enjoying 
the red orange glow of the sun as it sets behind a few puffy clouds in 
silhouette on the horizon.  I should be tossing back some cold suds 
right about now, after enjoying a fine grilled burger with my kid and 
his friend on the patio.  They went off some time ago to the diamond 
down the street to play catch with the rest of the gang, laughing, 
joking around, and maybe even sneaking a beer or two themselves.   As I 
should do more often on such nights—but regrettably don't—I could right 
now be listening to the faint hum of suburban traffic and children's 
voices carrying over the sound of the crickets.  I find the gentle buzz 
of the heat bugs to be quite soothing, and watching the young trees 
sway gently back and fourth will do wonders to clear the harried mind.  
I should be looking out for Rusty, the neighbor's friendly housecat, to 
see what mischief he's up to with the birds and the squirrels.  I 
really should be keeping an eye out for that rabbit Adam saw two days 
ago in the garden and the raccoon family that so recently ransacked our 
trashcans.  I cherish a quiet moment to myself, doing nothing but 
inhaling the sweet fragrance of fresh cut grass intermingled with the 
trace smells of modern industry: gasoline, benzene, kerosene, and maybe 
even polychlorinated carbonate from distant smoke stacks. 

Yes sir, right about now I should be staring up at the sky in quiet
introspection, trying to make out that first trace of a star in all 
this light pollution.  Normally I'd be wondering if my kid isn't toking 
up right now in the park and making out with one of the girls he's 
always talking to on the phone.  After all, he's just thirteen—too 
young for anything more than a peck on the cheek in my day. 

It's time to be thinking about the annual Canada Day party, and it's
times like this that I miss Angie the most.  They say that time heals 
all wounds, but on nights such as this, when I'm alone and in that kind 
of sentimental mood, my heart still knots and I can't help but mop away 
moisture from my eyes.  She's been gone five years, four months, 
and—seven days is it?  February tenth, at 8:47 I got the call and it 
still hurts.  My boy is my constant reminder of her—how she was, how 
she smelt, and how she made me feel lucky to be alive.  Adam is her 
legacy. 

Of course, more often than not these days I enjoy my Molson Ex in front
of the tube watching the Jays play ball with my feet up in the recliner 
rather than listening to their rusty hinge calls in the neighbor's 
treetops.  I've been so easily distracted of late—what with the demands 
of my job at the school board, grocery shopping, housework, cooking and 
cleaning.... It just never ends! 

Not tonight.  I'm outside in the backyard and the birds have scattered. 

He's rambling incoherently, his eyes black and wide and frightened.  I
don't much like the look of them; they're unnatural, not his mother's 
light green but changed somehow into something like those of a wild 
buck.  Not human at all—and Christ—what fucking drugs did he take?  
Adam's standing in the grass right in front of the picnic table a few 
feet away from me, sickly pale and raving like a lunatic.  His lips are 
drawn in a snarl and his face etched with pain.  His head jerks with 


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