Threshing Floor: January 2023
🙦 Things are going so well. Frankly they’re going better than they ought to be. I’m honestly puzzled how intact everything is. If we had our way everything would be unscrewing itself and falling apart and melting down and flickering out into stray quarks by now.
Poems: Before Words, I Can Move the World — Jeremy Abegg; We Were As Those Who Dream — Macey Downing; Advent — James Hill; The Babysitter — Ava Hixson; maiku #38 — Michael Thomas Jones; Obedience — Kate Myers; Courtship, Saecula Saeculorum — Joffre Swait Sr.; My Sister’s A Bit Like A Dog — J.S.
Essays: The Mirage of Utopia — Sarah Prince
Stories: The Yarn Shop — Tabitha Mock
🙧 Poems 🙦
Before Words
Blank, But only for a time; White, Until it holds a rhyme. A gateway to worlds beyond this one And eyes into the past; Guided by smooth strokes of ink. And created by imaginations ever vast. It becomes characters. It becomes stories. It becomes legendary tales larger than life itself, And to some, it becomes real. But as it sits on a table without color save white, And waits patiently to be taken to a new height, As an author begins to write: Blank, But only for a time; White, Until it holds a rhyme.
A riddle: I Can Move The World
I am not Atlas whose back bears up the earth,
Nor am I like Gaea whose body makes up the earth,
I am a man, made from the earth, and to the earth, I will return
I am a man of science, one not bound to worship the Greek gods.
The Lord in heaven may hold the earth in his hands, but I am the first man to actually move it.
And restrain mighty Apollo from riding the sun around the heavens.
Who am I?
Jeremy Abegg
We Were As Those Who Dream
I saw our garden then as in a dream: And you and I in it, watching night-fall. We took our time. We were as those who dream. The terraced slope sloped down in shadow. Call- Birds called goodnight and crickets hummed while Some Thing curled its withered hands around our wall. Inside our garden Some Thing crept and spun Its veil of sleep. We did not see what I See now, nor what our garden had become. We took our time under the moon-lit sky While budding foliage hid the rotting bones And death put on the rose’s scent and dye. I see our garden as a dream where bones Bare teeth beneath the mossy garden-stones.
Macey Downing
Advent
The hierarchs of heaven see And waver in their sleepless guard Each ponderous enormity Turns its searing face earthward
The bustling halls of heaven cease The laughter echos fade away A watchful, waiting, tight-wound peace Fills glittering street and pearled gateway
Thought like corded lightning storms Through minds which melt reality A growing wonder swells and swarms; Divine impossibility
A lonely sound cracks heaven on high The wail of an infant’s cry
James Hill lives in Viola ID with his wife, two sons and three daughters. He enjoys writing software and poetry, but not at the same time. (Editor: Advent was originally intended to be published during the season of Advent but due to an encryption error its transmission was delayed to January. Several spies are now floating frozen in the northern Atlantic as a result of their heroic efforts to retrieve the poem.)
The Babysitter
Saturday night, black, blacker than the ice’s slippr’y bite Covered over oxygen, breath’s been held Bedrooms boxing in little pearls in their shells Striped socks tip toes boom on carpet Lingering unfamiliarity coated in its clutches Rising up through the double gates Sedating the brain in an uncomfortable haze In this fortress tall, on a hill unseen Impenetrable, yet its only protector is me! Waiting silently, for the terrors of a suburbia, sleepy, To come crashing through the front door to eat me The king and queen, have left the scene The jester waits for their return eagerly If a scaly serpent of misdeed were to fire, I’d from my position retire I am no warrior, no heavy hitter Fearfully, sincerely, The babysitter
Ava Hixson is a busy college student on the Palouse, as well as a painter and poet.
maiku #38
snowstorm's sudden descent: a flurry of suicidal angels, a tornado of frozen dragonflies
Michael Thomas Jones
Obedience
Obedience is a cheerful charge Of weary feet to seed the ground Towards our duty looming large. We surge, we sail, we fly, we barge Through the ceded ground, we pound. Obedience is a cheerful charge. Word received, word believed, onward forge Into the sunrise over seeded mounds Towards our duty looming large. What we receive, we now discharge from our own throats, the ringing sound. Obedience is a cheerful charge. Our children take the flag and barge on. We see the ground they pound. Towards the beauty looming large. They charge til death is thrown down. We fade bright and seed the ground. Obedience is a cheerful charge Towards the beauty blooming large.
Kate Myers
Courtship Earth cannot go up to Heaven, but Heaven comes calling all the time. Heaven knocks on Earth’s door and asks her to dance. He takes both her hands and spins her parabolically. Earth gasps, Earth is flush. He is so big he surrounds her, coming over her with ah! bright wings. Is she in him or he in her? He is the messenger and she is the tomb. He is the wings and she is the womb. Saecula Saeculorum He that cometh after me is mightier than I. The world ends every day, has already ended this morning, ends over lunch, will have ended again by bedtime. Some say the world ends once a century, or is it every time you fall asleep, and some say once in a million. The oldest universe revolved around us, as does this latest. There was one world from which we hung by our toes, if Augustine is to be believed, another was built on seven columns, went down nine levels, skipped the thirteenth floor. One was a tree. The world has been lost, misplaced, unveiled suddenly in a revelation, disappeared like a dissident, been obscured under the sands of time, outbred and outpaced and simply forgotten. Sometimes its endings are localized, like when the Soviets entered Berlin and none of the guilty were spared, or when Alaric rode into Rome and some of the innocent were spared, but most often they are universal: the tearing of the curtain to the Holiest of Holies, the Fall of Jerusalem, the death of your mother. The world cries out I have not seen this day before. Won’t be water, be fire next time, and what is this child’s Christian name?
Joffre Swait Sr. is the author of Well Met: Poems of Companionship (Jovial Press 2017) and the upcoming Made in the Image: Plain Poems (Canon Press 2022), and co-author of Christian Pipe Smoking: An Introduction to Holy Incense (Kuyperian Press 2014). He can be followed online as Joffre the Giant.
My Sister’s a Bit Like a Dog
My sister’s a bit like a dog, Her wild hair, long and curled. If you asked her to fetch you a log, She’d go to the end of the world. If you took her for a ride And really started flying, She’d pop her head outside, Eyes closed and wide smiling. Put her on the frisbee field, Few dogs could do better. But she’s no good at “sit!” or “heel!” And hates it when I pet her. Like a dog's oldest trick– Her loyalty does her credit. But I won’t give her a bone to pick, So better not tell her I said it.
J.S.
🙧 Essays 🙦
The Mirage of Utopia
Why does man pursue Utopia?
There is a part of humanity designed to seek heaven as an ultimate goal, where all worldly troubles will cease. The desire to create heaven on earth reflects a universal human problem of humanizing heaven. In the earthly realm, this perfect place is called “Utopia”; it can be conceptually defined as “a perfect world or state, or, the pursuit of it.” (The term and the concept both come from St. Thomas More’s famous book of that name.) Although “heaven” and “Utopia” are often used interchangeably, they are in fact antitheses. The idea of an earthly paradise is in fact an evil pollution of the truth about heaven, God, and the salvation of mankind.
There are three main avenues by which humanity explores Utopia: literary and philosophical thought; government; and media. These avenues form a cycle of control over societal behavior, one leading into the next. Utopia is first portrayed as an ideal by authors, and then the popularization of this ideal leads to political applications. Then, the realization that the applied model is not fulfilling a Utopian vision causes it to be abandoned. Finally, Utopia is once again conceptually pursued in media and culture, which goes on to shape the formation of literature.
The search for Utopia in literature began in Greece with Plato’s Republic. The fictional dialogue between philosophers who serve as The Republic’s characters begins with a discussion of justice, or morality. The philosophers’ conclusion in the narrative is that justice is a natural balance of the human soul’s three parts: the thinking part, the emotive part, and the appetitive part which controls the pursuit of bodily desires. Socrates theorizes that this justice can best be seen through a hypothetical society where everyone plays their just part, and where there is perfect and unquestioning allegiance to the most supreme of rulers, the philosopher king. Only true justice as carried out by the philosopher king can prosper without individuality interfering. Plato theorized that a society acting as a controlled, coordinated whole is perfect.
This thinking, however, is flawed, because his society operates on the assumption that a perfect system can exist on earth, which it unfortunately cannot. Plato’s system serves as a model for Utopian thinking that authors and philosophers have built upon, and his thinking has greatly influenced the eras and epochs that followed him. Utopian literature can serve either as a dangerous or beneficial influence upon its readers, but it represents only the first of the three parts of the Utopian cycle. We must now move on to government.
Many forms of government represent the real-world applications of Utopian ideals, but none more so than Communism. We can see this from two main aspects of Communism. The first is universal equality, contained in the meaning of the term “comrade.” Jodi Dean, a Marxist theorist, defines the term in her book Comrade: An Essay on Political Belonging. “‘Comrade’ names a relation characterized by sameness, equality, and solidarity.” The problem here is that pure equality can never be achieved, because the system requires someone to determine the benchmark of equality—effectively creating a hierarchy which negates the idea of sameness. In reality, pure Communism has never functioned in practice, even through the most meticulous application.
Another important element of Communism is the destruction of culture and history. The founder of the Communist Party in Russia, Vladimir Lenin, is credited with saying “Give me just one generation of youth, and I’ll transform the whole world.” He saw that only when the old is completely destroyed can Communism begin its transformative work in creating the new; but in practice, this has created Utopias of death, poverty, and misery under the guise of progress. Essentially, Communism is a grand illusion that falsely promises perfect equality can be achieved.
Thirdly, media is one of history’s greatest contributors to the futile search for Utopia, and is the final component of the cycle. The power of media can be used for good and ill, but more often than not is used for ill. Movies and music serve to shape modern culture, and these forms of media encourage their target audience to seek a contrived ideal. Although the messages promoting Utopian ideals may not even be intended, yet they can almost always be found; the desire permeates nearly every aspect of human life. People reach for a heaven-like perfection in their own lives, believing they can one day achieve it. In media, the audience is either told to pursue their dreams of perfection, or observe the story of someone else attempting the same, at whatever cost. Media is thus often a corrupting force because it worships the idea of a perfect life and persuades people to achieve whatever they want by sacrificing decency and morality. Utopia sounds better than any existing system, so people allow themselves to be, sometimes willingly, fooled.
Why, then, does man pursue Utopia? It seems obvious from the outset that mankind is not perfect and never will be. Why has this search never ceased?
The answer can be found in C. S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters: “So inveterate is [young peoples’] appetite for Heaven that our [demons’] best method, at this stage, of attaching them to earth is to make them believe that earth can be turned into Heaven at some future date …” One of the best tools used to the advantage of evil in turning hearts away from the creator is hidden in the words, “make them believe that earth can be turned into heaven.” In the Bible, human souls were wired with a desire for a perfect eternity, so of course mankind tries to fulfill that desire, even if he does not know where true perfection can be found. Mankind’s heaven takes one of two forms: true paradise, or Utopia. One is the truth, one is a perversion of the truth.
For the creation waits with eager longing to obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We ourselves groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for the redemption of our bodies. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:19-28, abbreviated)
God’s Word says that humanity’s soul cries out for redemption, which will happen when it meets God in heaven. The hope the world tries to give humanity is vain, but if people choose to love God over the world, then all will come together for their good.
Sarah Prince
🙧 Stories 🙦
The Yarn Shop
He didn't know where he was going or why, but he knew how to get there. He'd been walking for over a day in weather that was placid but never hot; moist, but not humid. The sky was bare without the sun or moon, yet a soft light persisted. The road was lined with trees that seemed to hold up the sky on their backs, leafy mountains with opalescent branches and leaves of the mildest gold.
The man followed the plain road without considering tangent paths. He knew the destination was near though he'd not been before. He came to the top of a ridge and saw the cabin below him in the valley. He was not sad or relieved at the conclusion of his journey. He was merely expectant. He stepped into the valley; and, for the first time since he began traveling, a breeze lilted across the path. The smells of pine resin and summer-baked grass rode the breeze, and a stream broke in curdling bubbles on mossy banks. The man almost stopped. There was color here and noise, not the detached beauty that had preceded. Here was the stamp of something definite, something come to life.
As he moved on, colors and expressions tried themselves on his face. A face that heretofore had been a canvas awaiting paint, a being without life's etches on its soul.
The cabin door was propped open, but the man slowed his walk. A thrumming warmness sat in the trees, and cold waves of air lapped above the stream. The man knelt in moss, pin pricked with white flowers, and let the stream slip through his fingers. Sensations swarmed him. He drank, feeling the smooth cold slide down his throat. Was this what he had come for? Life? But then what was he before?
He glanced up at the cabin and the carved sign hanging above the door. The Yarn Shop. He had come, like he knew he must, but why? A young man with a bristled beard and over-large glasses beckoned from behind the counter. The man stood, watching the moss undo the creases his knees had made and spring upright.
The light in the cabin was dim but warm. The soft light of a home at dusk rather than the unsheathed light of the sun. The logs were polished a deep golden brown where they weren't lined with shelves and open cupboards. And on the shelves were towers of skeins, each giving off its own faint light. There was one of woven moonlight. Another flickered with the colors of sand at midday. Yet another glowed with the faded orange and dusky purple of a newly-built fire.
The shopkeeper adjusted his glasses and watched the man, smiling as different skeins attracted his notice.
"Found one you like?" the shopkeeper asked as the man stepped nearer a skein of polished gold, so bright it seemed to steal the light from others.
The man turned to the counter. All the colors shimmered on the outskirts of his vision.
"Jason Kirk," the shopkeeper held out his hand. "Glad you've come."
The golden yarn still glinted on the edges of his sight; but the man watched Jason, his feeling of expectancy consolidating into questions.
"Why did I come?"
"Everyone comes here in the beginning."
"The road was empty. I traveled alone."
"You noticed no one, but neither were you noticed."
The man glanced over at the gold yarn. He saw red strands woven throughout, adding contrast to the brilliant gold.
"Have you found what you want?" Jason asked, pushing up his glasses and watching the man with something of hope, something of compassion.
"Why don't you call me by my name?" the man said somewhat testily.
"I will... when you know it," Jason said, seating himself on a swivel stool behind the counter.
The man seemed taken aback. The gold was consuming his vision.
"Would you like to hold it? Some like to before making a final choice."
Jason rose from his stool and pulled the skein from its shelf. The yarn quivered at his touch. Reaching across the counter, he handed the skein to the man. The strands stirred in his hands, and the golden red light arched through the room, fully enveloping him.
Flowing robes of saffron yellow, throne carved in the form of a winged serpent, summer palace built to his every need. The emperor was well-pleased. The Manchu in the west had been subdued. Already the caravans of gold and ivory were entering the city, each cart trailed by chained prisoners. He waved the last advisor from the chamber and rose. Today he was celebrating his birthday elaborately to prove to his subjects, but most of all to the queen mother, that he...and he alone...could control and secure the greatest empire to which the world had given birth.
Hundreds of floating lanterns tinted the candlelight red and sunflower yellow. The emperor watched the captives being taken to the cliff. How fitting to display such power on his birthday celebration and twenty-five years since he took the throne. The bodies were piling in broken pieces at the base of the cliff. Those taking their turns at death now only broke spines or ribs on the battered bodies cushioning the dried river bed. The emperor stroked the wisps of hair clinging to his chin. He wanted to see more blood. The people wanted to see more blood. The queen mother would see more blood. He motioned to the chief eunuch and whispered instructions to him. He felt the attention of the crowd wavering, slipping. The eunuch was scurrying through the crowd, bobbing and ducking in his obsequious manner. If it hadn't been for his imbecilic faithfulness, the emperor would have had him sliced just to enjoy watching the fat, worshipful, wrinkled face contort with anguish.
Without even turning, the emperor sensed the crowd pushing nearer. A collective hush or gasp was all he heard on his side of the barren river. But on the far side, where the leg cutting was beginning, screams reverberated and echoed off the baked rocks. Blood pooled and dripped over the crag. Severed legs were kicked after torsos jetting blood. The emperor relaxed, sipping tea flavored with opium leaves. The women would come next. He'd heard the Manchu women were stoic under pain; but, perhaps with the mangled bodies of their husbands and sons, they would prove more engaging.
Wang Zhi came bobbing back to the emperor's side, his wrinkled face glazed with sweat, and mingled terror and disgust bare in his eyes. The emperor turned in disdain. He who had no stomach for blood was no real man. Yet again, the emperor smirked, Wang Zhi was no real man and could therefore be excused his feminine weakness.
The Manchu women were lined along the cliff, already slick with blood. The emperor sat forward, tense with eagerness. The most beautiful of the women had already been set aside for him, and he would sort through them later. Yet, here was a collection that rivaled his harem. He would wait, let a few follow the men into the river bed. Then...Wang Zhi followed his master's intense gaze and almost sighed in relief. Only one thing could distract the emperor from blood...
Jason took the golden skein from the man and sat back on his stool. "Did you find that satisfactory?"
The man caught onto the counter, blinking away images of blood and desire. The warm brown of the logs dulled the brazen, enticing life embedded in the golden skein.
"Is that your choice?" Jason pressed, sliding the glasses up his nose.
"How... how does it end?" the man asked. It was one thing to relish the power of control, of life and death, of feeding off those too weak to stand, but would the emperor retain that glory, that might, without feeling the blade turn against him?
"That would be up to you," Jason said.
"I could choose my end just like I could choose the gold skein?"
"Not precisely so," Jason smiled. "Your choices in life eliminate options. Your beginning directs the end. They are interlocked."
"But would I keep the throne?" the man asked eagerly.
Jason looked at the man, at the passions furrowing in his face. "If I could guarantee security, you would choose this life? This life with all its violence and unbridled desires?"
"I thought I was free to choose. Free to take anyone I wanted." The man gestured to the rows of yarn, each glistening with its own tale. He could still see the men tumbling over the cliff, the crumpled bodies scattered over the rocks. There was something alluring in the ability to weild such control, something so desirous it made him sick with want. Yet, the bodies? What gave him the right? But was he not emperor? And the decision to kill is an inherent right of a ruler. Or is it?
Jason returned the skein to its shelf. "There are many doorways, but you only choose once."
"Not much of a choice with all your interference," the man said bitterly. "But you made all these," the man almost interrupted himself with haste, waving a hand at the rainbow of yarn, "you made the emperor like that. You could have made him someone I could be."
Jason pushed his glasses back up his nose. "But you can be him."
"Be him with all your disapproval and advice? I thought you were here to sell wares."
"Is it no longer your choice if I advise? And I do sell wares…but to the right buyer."
"So you know...or you have one picked...one you'll shove at me with moralistic counsel?"
"Since you ask, I do know."
"Then give it to me and have done."
"That would be no choice..."
"And neither is it one if you leave me no option."
"But you have options..."
"One choice...one that you'll let me have at least. It still turns out to be one option," the man spluttered.
"On your side of time there are many doorways, many options. If I only laid out one skein and bid you choose, then you might ask where the choice."
"So you're saying I have no choice because you've chosen, but I do because I don't know what you've chosen?" the man fumed.
"Think of it this way. Do all children learn to walk?" Jason asked.
The man shrugged. There were too many questions pricking his mind with discontent.
"And if the mother guides and teaches the child to walk,” Jason continued when the man did not answer, “does that mean the child is not learning? The child is designed to walk, taught to walk, and you could say there was no option left for him but to walk. Does that hinder you from realizing that the child in fact learned to stand and toddle forward?"
The man looked back at the golden skein, dizzy with questions and answers ricocheting in his mind, but the color seemed gaudy and the streaks of red were the color of fresh blood. Was it only the fear of an usurper's blade or the turning of torture upon him in the fragility of age that caused him to avoid that golden glow? Or perhaps something more: some disgust at the cage of self-deception the emperor dwelt in while thinking he ruled the world?
"Is there another?" Jason asked, leaning his elbows on the wide plank counter.
The man had already seen it. One the color of the mildest pink and soft as a cherry blossom. It was not brazen like the gold but warm and enticing. He could feel a tingle of expectation when Jason set it in his hands.
Spring was warm that year. Pale shadows littered parks flooded with sunlight. It almost made his life less drab. Ten years of marriage, three children. But was that what his life was to consist of? Diapers, disrupted sleep, and a woman who gave him no thrill or excitement. Was he to end his days wondering who he might have been, what he might have done, or whom he might have been with?
Discontent rankled. Buds to a new spring wormed their way to the surface of his mind. He could live in spring again. He didn't have to let fall take over his life...not yet.
The park was warm that afternoon; the maple leaves a lime green. Paul was alive to the newness of it all. And in the newness was freedom. Freedom from the constraints of his past, the ties binding him to a woman and life grown drab with years.
In all the freshness and renewal of mind, he saw a young woman under the maple by the wading pool. She was a feast for the eyes. His mind, unfettered from the last provincial chain, feasted too, but was not satisfied. He needed more, for she was his spring blossom... just opened.
He dropped on a park bench and glanced over his shoulder. She was standing there... waiting for him. If she already knew, already sensed his mind, then he was one step in. And why not? If each man got one life, one chance at trapping happiness... why not? Time... his time... was slipping past him. Each day he drudged through life. But what was life without true happiness, true fulfillment? What was life without exotic interludes that intoxicated the senses? He stood up and followed the summer dress.
Jason took the skein from the man's limp hands and returned it to the shelf. "And how did that compare? Is that a more agreeable choice?"
The man clutched the wooden counter. His mind reeled, trembling under an intoxication needier than drink.
"Does he stay that happy?" the man managed, still gripping the counter.
"Was that happiness?"
"If not, what is? I'd just need to keep that..."
"Happiness cannot be corralled."
"So you take it when you can get it. Look how miserable he was before."
"Perhaps because he spent more time chasing fool's gold than in counting the gold he already had."
"If his wife were like that...that one in the park, then there might be sense to what you're saying..."
"He made sex his food, and his palate was never satisfied."
"Condemning something you made again." sneered the man. "Why give desires that can't be satiated? Why create someone you condemn?"
"Unlike happiness, desires can be corralled. It's only then they have the ability to run freely without tumbling over a cliff."
"Then why make desires so unmanageable? Why not make people good, but make them enjoy life too?"
Jason smiled, and the man saw a hint of a chuckle in his eyes. "I thought you wanted freedom to choose? Where's the choice if desires are manageable? Where's the good if no bad interposed? Where is the enjoyment if mandated?"
"At least life wouldn't be a meaningless drag..."
The chuckle reached Jason's lips. "We have different definitions of 'meaningless,' and fortunately mine is correct. You want to live the life of a dictator but don't want to be called a tyrant. You want the freedom to stain your soul but can't stand hearing it called black. You want the freedom of every terrain but want to be held back from all dangers. You want continual pleasure but only cling to your version of enjoyment. You want life on your terms but don't question who gave life and on what terms. You want a life full of answers but only the answers you want. You want a life of meaning, but meaning to you is a life tailored to your desires. You want life, demand a part from the author, yet reject it because the author will not be dictated by you."
The man leaned against the wide counter, polished a dark walnut. "I know the one that's mine."
"Very well," Jason said, adjusting his large glasses.
The man pointed to a small skein of forest green.
"Do you wish to try it first?" Jason asked.
"No," the man shook his head. "I'd rather not."
"Thank you for talking, Thomas."
The man looked up at Jason and smiled, "I like the name."
"You wear it well."
Jason held out his hand. Thomas shook it, looking into Jason's eyes. His thick lenses hid the color of majestic green, the speckles of sunrise yellow.
Jason clasped Thomas's hand in both of his own. "We'll meet again… soon."
Thomas took the dark green skein from the counter. A drowsiness settled over him, and he slipped to the ground. The logs of the cabin seemed to be crawling with ivy. His mind was sluggish with fatigue, but Jason was kneeling beside him as the green skein worked its way into his veins.
The warm brown of the logs strung with ivy and Jason's smile were the last things he saw before a darkness coated his mind.
Ten years later, a boy named Thomas wandered the woods behind his house making carnage amongst the Indians with his toy gun. He came to a tree, decked in ivy. There was a memory there, something that tugged at his subconscious, something that reminded him of belonging.
But the dinner bell rang, and Thomas hefted his gun over his shoulder and sprinted home.
Tabitha Mock
🙦 God grants us all different dominions. Is there a spot in your garden for growing poems? Or do you at least have a dirt patch behind the shed to pitch ideas? If you’re tired of dumping out your stray thoughts into the composter to rot, send some of that fertilizer our way.