And God Was Not There

A man looked upon the mountains. The sunrise beaming over the ridge he stood on. Either side of this knife edge was steep, jagged. His young son stood beside him. There were no clouds. There was no rain. There was no gloom. Just the clear panorama of the earth. While walking along the ridge, the shale beneath their feet grew looser. But the father picked up pace, leading his young child through the exposed, isolated, beautiful terrain. All it took was one slip of a foot. The boy fell from the ridge top and down the mountain. The father screamed horror and scrambled down to his son's body. He lifted the limp physique in his arms. His tears flowed softly down to the rocks, where they settled and were dried out by the hot sun.
And God was not there.

A man had heard of this young woman. She was beautiful. He would see her everyday as he walked the busy street sidewalks to get to work. Politely, he would always say hello, and she would always smile. One day, at the bar he tended, she and her boyfriend walked in. As the night progressed, and the juices were absorbed, the air grew hostile. This boyfriend was large, bulky, with a beard and a look that put the devil to shame. An argument arose between her and the girl. In anger, he grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her out into the night. The man observed this, and left his shift early. He followed the boyfriend and her cab, close behind. He saw them go into their house. Then go in front of their window Then the screaming. Then the blood, running down her face. Her eyelids flashing, pupils dilated in fear. He exited his car, the cold metal of revolver pulsating in his nervous hand. The door opened, the trigger fired, the woman approached. The boyfriend lie on the entryway.
And god was not there.

She had hated this woman for many years. A woman that was bitter. Bitter as black coffee, but not coffee, rather a beverage so intoxicating it would cause nausea rather than intoxication. The lot of people did not think fondly of her. The way she dressed. The way she walked. The way she spoke of other people's affairs. The way she treated others. No, there was nothing unlawful about her. She abided, in her own despicable matter. And she, who had hated this woman, had had enough. On a coffee meeting she had so kindly asked this woman out to, the conversation grew sour, quickly. When the woman turned her head to complain to the server about the taste of her coffee, she took the small vial out and held it above the woman's cup. Drip. Drip. Drip. The woman passed out in her car after the meeting was over. Weeks later her stench caught the attention of the public.
And god wasn't there.

This man had raped many women. He had gotten so used to raping women it became almost a daily routine. His fraternity always had enough alcohol, roofies and what not. There was constant opportunity. All of his women were worthy. He would only invite the best of the best to come into his place. In the mornings his friends would fist bump him, chest bump him, high five him, as the poor young female walked shamefully down the stairs and out the front door. One night was special. Twas the night of big game. He had been growing out his mustache for this one. That night he raped three women. At once. No one around interfered, no one around cared, no one around flinched. The next week one of these three girls was found with her feet dangling, in her dark closet. A note with the recollection of the incident in her pocket. The rapist went to court. He was found innocent.
And



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