The little, fine voice perked up at 4:30 in the morning of the last day of the world. As we had discussed, there were many days that masqueraded as the “last day of the world,” and there was a particular day in which it looked as though the last day of the world had begun outside of a sandwich shop in Tulsa, but none of these had amounted to much. Not a single one of them managed to make a dent in prime-time viewing.
On the real last day of the world, the little, fine voice perked up very early and made a gentle peeping sound, followed by a grand silence. No one took note aside from Clarence Mirman, an insurance salesman with over-active bowels. Clarence had arisen quite early to visit the washroom when he heard the little, fine voice perk up and make its gentle peeping sound. During the grand silence that followed, Clarence made sure to punctuate the stillness with a heroic flush, and then venture out into the front yard of his palatial Cape Cod. He stood in the wet grass and listened for the voice – the little, fine voice.
“Speak to me,” Clarence said up into the heavens, already stained with daybreak and showing some promise. “Speak to me, you grand silence of all ages...speak to me.”
The dew was ready to sparkle, if the dew could sparkle. The birds were ready to sing, if the birds could sing. All mankind was ready for justice, if justice could be had. Clarence stood still and listened to his words echo in the grand silence.
“Speak to me,” he called out again. The heavens roared a silent purple and Clarence held his hands in tight fists. His bowels churned and made a familiar sound.
Where love and justice meet peace and power, the horns of life break heaven's promise to a world so bent on its own change and with the anticipation of a day better than the last. Better than the last, better than the last, and better than the last is the dream and the hope and the desire. Anticipation makes a man hungry and it makes a man tired and it makes a man lose sight of the dream that might have already broken right before him.
“Speak to me,” he called out again as a cool wind crossed his lawn and dissolved his flesh. His skin melted like cornstarch in water – still there, but unable to do what you expect it to do. His skin melted and his bones turned into air and Clarence stood clear and silent and looked painfully into the roaring purple skies, the silent, roaring purple future – silent with great roars of hope and the anticipation of the last day of the world.
The last day of the world had begun and the little, fine voice spoke volumes in the quiet morning. We all chose to ignore its words, and Clarence escaped as a vapor into the balance of time. Poor Clarence and his over-active bowels. He strained to make a sound, to compete with the little, fine voice and to have his own voice heard. He strained in a silent struggle, shaking and in the same breath knowing release, and his spirit formed three words in concert with the question of the grand silence of all the ages.
“Speak to me.”