Jack and Matilda

Jack heard a noise in the barn, but when he went up to it, empty: the barn was empty, save for a few bales of hay and the supplies. Sounded like a horse knocking against the door, but there were no horses to be seen. Just a black void that deafened Jack's eyes in its screaming silence. He darted his eyes to the left -- nothing. He darted his eyes to the right -- nothing. He turned behind him -- nothing. And then another noise, a banging against the outside of the wall in front of him. He started in terror. And then a banging against the outside of the wall behind him. He jumped in terror. And then, simultaneously, noises on either side of him and the slamming of the barn's door. Locking him into the prison.

He heard the door's gate lock. And then, above him, a bright, orange light emerged in the opening of the roof twenty feet above him -- and that bright, orange light descended in a comet that descended onto the floor. The comet exploded on the hay into a fireball that doubled, tripled in size in just a fraction of time. Jack braced a moment, and rushed for the barn door. He knew his chances were slim. He knew the fireball would only take a few seconds to reach him. He knew he'd be consumed by smoke, more quickly than he'd be consumed by flames. And he knew what stood outside these doors, unseen but not unknown, that had locked him in this empty prison and dropped the inferno of a holocaust into his life.

He rushed the door. No budge but for his shoulder. He backed up, rushed again. No budge again, but for his other shoulder. Damaged, nearly spent, he backed up a third time. He thought about Matilda. His true love -- how he wanted to see her again. He backed up a little more. His last chance -- the flames would reach the door before he got another chance. Matilda, his life, his love. As he flew through the air, as he gathered power over speed, he thought of Matilda. And this time, the door cracked and he burst through the shards of wooden planks, landing bloody on the dirt floor beneath him.

And that's when they toppled him. All those men in white sheets, tell-tale pointy hats, holes poked through the middle of the hats for eyes and mouth -- they overtook him, they lifted him sky high, tossed him on the ground. Broken bones but -- Matilda! -- not broken spirit. They couldn't take that away from him. And as they dragged his body to the foot of the flaming cross nearby, he said, "You can have my body, you can't have me!" For he saw with providential clarity, as none other did, that the emptiness of the barn mirrored the emptiness of their white sheets. And his thoughts of Matilda filled him with completeness.