The Why Things Are


Mark Sutton


In the Hall of Justifiable Damnation and Divine Redemption, there exists five doors. And through these five doors endure six realities. The son of the Lord of All Things was afraid as he entered the great Hall. To be brought before his father by a specific command was unheard of. His aura fluctuated between a bright yellow, to a sickly red with just a hint of black.

"It is your time, my son."

"Yes, Father."

"It is your time to see and understand all that inhabit our realities." He pointed to the first of the five doors and said, "Enter the first door, and when you leave, you will be a little older, a little wiser."

He did as his father commanded.

He was as the others around him. Fleshy translucent balloons of immense proportions. He, like them, sailed the winds of a distant gas giant. He learned and sang the songs that made survival possible. Each song filled his mind with thoughts: food, defecation, procreation. And as he sang the songs he learned and understood the power in instinct. He exited the first door a millennium later; a little older, a little wiser.

"My son, I command you to enter the second door, and when you leave, you will be a little older, a little wiser."

This reality reeked with beings of white energy. A technological intelligence far beyond that of his own. Yet, as part of them, he would learn. They taught him all the sciences, and why such an education was important. Their knowledge gave him deductive reasoning, and hints into his own immortality. He exited the second door a millennium later; a little older, a little wiser.

"The third door, enter it, and when you leave you will be a little older, a little wiser."

He did as his father commanded, entering a type of space filled by but one creature. It was, or seemed to be, sentient, yet was ignorant of its dominion. It was in the process of gathering the extreme bulk of itself together. He sat and watched with interest as it collected its mass, reaching the bounds set for it. Lumpy. Shaped as one would think of as a turd. It was then the creature exploded, and from that detonation came a multiverse of heroic beauty. Its life-force scattered, it would find its intelligence as it expanded.

He watched as each new galaxy formed planets, which then begat intelligent life, which passed its intelligence on in death to that which gave it life. After a millennium, he left, a little older, a little wiser.

"Now, my son, you understand me. Enter the fourth door, and when you leave you will be a little older, a little wiser."

Inside the fourth door he found great billowing clouds of matter. The stuff of life. It could and did respond to his thoughts. He shaped it into a realm of his own creation. He lived many incarnations, where the life-force he nurtured could manipulate the Powers That Be. Magic was born. It was through this interaction with his own creations that he understood power and ambition in all its many, and sometimes dangerous forms. After a millennium he exited the forth door; a little older, a little wiser.

"The fifth door, my son. You may enter if you so chose. I will tell you this, the realities of Order and Chaos live intertwined in the form of a concept. The concept of Good and Evil. This concept was not of my doing, but of the people who live this reality. In all of my multiverse, these beings are unique."

"I understand."

"No, my son, I fear you do not. Yet that will not halt you."

"No, Father, it will not. Do not fear for me."

"I fear not for you, immortality is yours, but for all you will touch and eventually leave behind."

And so he entered the fifth door, and stepped onto a land of great confusion. It was called Earth.

* * *

Pontius Pilate ordered the prisoner scourged. The guards brought him out of the cell, onto the outer courtyard. They tied him to the center pole with hemp cords, and whipped him for the pleasure of the crowd with wet leather straps. The guards bound a crown of thorns and forced it down in a painful fashion over the man's furrowed, dirty brow. The crowd cheered as a purple robe was supplied.

"Behold the man."

Those in whom he had trusted the most, only saw him for what he represented. The others saw in him their power in question.

"Crucify him!"

"You crucify him! I find no fault in him," Pilate said.

"He has made himself the son of God, therefore in the eyes of our law and judgement, he must die" an Elder spoke.

"I, am more afraid of you, than him. To condemn a man for his words..." Pilate went to the accused. "Who are you?"

But the man had nothing to say. He stood with his eyes cast down.

"Will you not speak to me?" Pilate asked. "I have the power to kill you, or free you."

The bearded man raised his solemn eyes.

"You have no power over me than given to you by God. He who brought me before you, he has the greatest sin."

"I will release you unto the people's hands," Pilate said.

"You would let him go for the charge of treason against Caesar?" the eldest priest among them spoke. "He does not reign above us. Are you speaking against Caesar?"

"Shall I crucify your King?"

"We have no king but Caesar."

"Take him then to be crucified. I wash my hands of the matter," Pilate replied.

They forced him to carry his own rood to the place of his impending death. They bound and nailed his feet and hands to the wood. They lifted him into the sky along with two others.

Below him, Pilate had found a large piece of doorwood and wrote on it. He had it placed at the foot of the center cross for all to see. It was written in Hebrew, Latin and Greek.


One Elder intoned, "You would be better served to write, he said he was the King of the Jews."

"What I have written, I have written." Pilate was more than finished this day.

The guards stripped him of his robes, and rather than shred them, decided to cast lots.

"Let the scripture he spoke of come true," a follower in the crowd said.

Three Marys stood at his feet. His mother, his mother's sister, wife of the Eldest Priest, and Mary Magdalene.

He spoke. "Woman, behold your son."

Then to Mary Magdalene. "Behold now your mother."

His head bowed again to the weight of his wounds. Time passed. "I thirst, " he whispered.

A sponge filled with vinegar was given to him to drink from.

"It is finished, " his shallow voice announced, trying to lift his head, eyes reaching for his father.

He died.






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Author Bio

Mark Sutton has been married for fifteen years to a lovely woman by the name of Lisa, and his son, Steven, is in the seventh grade. Mark is the former Art Director of Knightís Typography, former Marketing Coordinator for Media Associates, and a full-time published writer.

His publishing credits include Wisdom Divine, Serve Revenge Hot and Fit For Survival for the print magazine The Ultimate Unknown, which also reprinted Shoosh, It's A Secret. Percible Traynor's Quest For Immortality for Fear of the Dark e-zine. Shoosh, Itís A Secret for ShadowKeep e-zine, who also decided to reprint Serve Revenge Hot. GateWay S-F Magazine, both online and print, picked up on Abracadabra Is Just A Word, Isn't It?, Weird Visions on Conjured From Stone And Steel, and he can now add Fables to his list of reprints for Wisdom Divine--on site now.






"The Why Things Are" Copyright © 2002 Mark Sutton. All rights reserved. Published by permission of the author.


This page last updated 4-24-02.

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