Every Thought and Prayer

Every thought and prayer was answered. Everything reversed.

The news crews packed their vans with cameras and microphones, and the people they were interviewing, some of them covered in blood, most of them elderly, floated back into the grocery store. The produce stands and shelves reassembled like magic, the carnage of the many torn boxes, bags, pulverized fruit becoming again pristine—again perfect and inviting to all the morning shoppers. And then, as if magnetized, each bullet returned from so many heads, chests, arms, and legs, the strange device that used to fire them now reclaiming them. The same device that once slayed now saved, soothed, as every wound healed, every bloodstain vanished, every desperate groan and scream returned to every gaping mouth and became a sigh. The thing that once made holes in human bodies became holy.

The man with the miraculous reverso rifle marched backward, deep into the parking lot, this display an obvious mockery of blind militant hate. He disconnected his body camera, then removed his black vest, helmet, boots, and jacket in further protest, stuffing all of it, along with his rifle and ammunition, back into a large duffel bag in the trunk of his car. The torn pieces of a paper flier reassembled from all around it—the advertisement suddenly whole and legible again: Elderly Shopping Hour! EBT, SSD, Senior Specials Monday Morning 7 – 8 am. Bring along your grandkids for a free cookie and balloon!

He got into his car, removed his typed manifesto from the breast pocket of his jacket, and, after reading through it for the very first time, he seemed to realize what utter nonsense it was. It spoke of Saving the White Race from Extinction and Taking Every Darkie, Old and Young, Back to Hell. But nobody alive today had ever been to Hell before. And white skin had nothing to do with race; in fact, race itself was not even real but rather something that fearful, bigoted people mythologized to remain angry rather than weep. All this suddenly seemed to occur to the magical man as he stuffed the ugly pages into his glove box, burying the bitter words beneath registration slips, parking tickets, and old, forgotten mail, where nobody else would ever read them.

Then the man stared at his reflection in his rearview mirror. Challenged himself. Are you strong enough? He spat at himself. Are you going to do what needs to be done? He decided that he was, would. He started his car, then backed out of the parking lot and all the way back home. Soon, it would be as if he’d never driven to that grocery store, on the poor, predominately Black, south side of town, or perhaps had merely dropped by that day to wish the people there well and smile and pat some old woman’s grandson on the head.

The house was cold and dark, the scent dank and repulsive as he trudged inside. But then the magic seeped into the entryway, and the tiny home grew warm, bright, and the smell that in the man’s lifetime seemed to pour from his pores, that painted him in poverty regardless of the clothing he wore, grew pleasant, redolent. The mother and father, who worked long hours for pitiful pay each day, now eased into the weekend, with a late breakfast together, after a calm, four-day workweek.

That’s our strong son. The father smiled at his meek, hunched child of barely eighteen.

Doing the Lord’s work. The mother squeezed her son’s hand. Doing what needs doing.

His chest ballooned. His spine stiffened. Just like you taught me.

Today’s the day. The father crossed himself.

Today’s the day. The man typed the words on his keyboard downstairs, waited for the replies. The exclamations. The Follows. The Views. Then, he collected all the information he possibly could about every user that was online and connected to his account. He collected it, then passed that information along to local police, and to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Both organizations investigated and prosecuted domestic white terrorism and hate crimes—and likewise purged these scourges from their own ranks—with such ferocious regularity and intolerance that the radicalization of white men could finally be said to be on the decline.

Many called this a miracle. Maybe it was the inactions of mere mortals.

After that, he tore the posters and the flags from his walls, the images of German fascists, treasonous Confederates, and despicable modern political apologists, all defeated just the same by true American patriots, all where they belonged in the same shameful, crumpled pile on the ground.

Then the magic man kissed his healthy, happy parents goodbye. And he drove to a local department store, lugging in the massive duffel bag filled with destructive materials. He took it straight to the Fire Arms counter in the back, handing over the rifle, the boxes of ammunition, the body armor, the protective vest, the helmet. He could do all this just like that. Without ID. Without a background check. Without waiting at all. Without vetting or training of any kind.

The attendant loaded everything from the duffel bag into a scorching furnace. And as the materials sagged, and then disintegrated, what remained was siphoned below into powders with mysterious regenerative powers that would be used in topsoil, medicines, and portentous ashen marks on so many weary Christian foreheads.

Would you like to claim credit for your donation? The attendant asked the man, who had become momentarily captivated by the digital newsstands near the register.

He stared at a livestream, broadcasting on a local news network, in which an angel saved fourteen adults’, eight senior-citizens’, and eight kids’ lives with his odd, miraculous, magnetic weapon. The video was circulating on all the Anti-Hate websites, Peace and Solidarity forums, social media platforms. How had this lone wolf managed to remove all the deadly metals? one reporter asked. And why did he do it? For fame? To feel worthy? Powerful? The reporter, misty-eyed, paused for effect. Was he sent to us from God?

The man smiled at the news screen, smiled at the attendant, and then, noticing his own reflection in a glass display behind the register, he smiled again.

No, thank you. No credit. I’d rather remain anonymous.