Saturday, 24 September 2016 12:55

Love Versus Professor Zizzle

Written by  Priscilla K. Garatti

He is mean--a short man with a pot belly.  He dons pinstripe suits and green plaid bow ties.  He wears a sour expression, his lips pursed in perpetual derision.  He is the penultimate critic.  He scolds. His mantras include a plethora of reproof:  "Why did you do it that way?  This way is much more efficient."  "Who told you that was a good idea?" "I've never seen the likes of that."  "You missed a spot." "You'll never go anywhere doing things like that.  What are you? Crazy?"  Well, perhaps so--when I listen to Professor Zizzle's harsh litany of personal censorship.  I named this character after he showed up in my dreams several times over.  His pinched up face, bald pate and tufts of gray, wiry hair ringing his head make him recognizable.  In the last dream, he brags that he can fly by psyching himself up and imagining that he is aloft.  And in the dream I watch as Professor Z zips around a few feet above ground, cackling with glee that he is oh so much better than I or anyone else.

Gratefully, I remember another dream. I am walking down a grass-covered pathway in the mountains. I don't know where I am.  The day is warm and I hear people talking, but I can't understand what they're saying.  There is a hum of laughter.  Pleasant.  I grab a pliable circular swath of material, like canvas.  When I grasp it, I feel a vibration of energy.  I know the round, durable expanse of taupe-colored fabric will make me capable of flying.  I rise.  Other people are flying as well, some in pairs, others alone.  The sky is purely blue, acres of clouds.  I feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful.  I let my body float behind me and begin to enjoy the sensation of flying. I do not look down.

Then I sense I must go higher and allow the spherical mass to propel me upward.  I dare to look down and am mesmerized by the view.  I see eclectic hues of cobalt, sapphire and indigo that I almost cannot take in.  There are white-capped mountains reflecting the sun.  I am flying above everything, and must remember to hold on.  Hold on.  Hold on.  I discern an opening in the clouds, blue spilling from a portal.  I sweep inside and the azure sky seems to fill me, to expand my chest.  Pleasure from the colors is so distinctive I cannot pair words with the experience.  And then higher, the ethereal clouds my floor, more sky my ceiling.  There is no one around now.  I am alone and flying higher.  My only thought is to hold on to this incredible, powerful momentum that takes me to where I've never been.

"What is this power?" I ask.  This dynamic transcends a million times over what Professor Z can accomplish.  This force decimates the professor's measly attempts at flying--dilutes and washes away his toxic remarks and accusations.  His condemnation.  The force can only be one thing.  This energy pulses with life.  This is divine undulation.  Divine love.  God's love.  Love never fails.  Certain victory. Eternal.


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What Readers Are Saying

In Missing God Priscilla takes a brave and unflinching look at grief and the myriad ways in which it isolates one person from another. The characters are full-bodied and the writing is mesmerizing. Best of all, there is ample room for hope to break through. This is a must read.

Beth Webb-Hart (author of Grace At Lowtide)

winner"On A Clear Blue Day" won an "Enduring Light" Bronze medal in the 2017 Illumination Book Awards.

winnerAn excerpt from Missing God won as an Honorable Mention Finalist in Glimmertrain’s short story “Family Matters” contest in April 2010.