*Author's Note: This is the sequel to a book I wrote last year entitled "The Whispering Gallery." I originally posted it on Facebook, but the notes feature isn't really fiction-friendly, so I am returning to my beloved AP for the sequel. If anyone is desperate enough to read the first book, email me at thetravelingmagpie @ gmail. com and I'll send you a PDF copy of The Whispering Gallery, with the stipulation that you have to give me a bit of a critique. :D Enjoy, and as always, any questions, suggestions, or comments are welcome!*

In the book The Spirit of Islam, from which Smith quotes liberally in this chapter, author Ali writes, “The glory of Islam consists in having embodied the beautiful sentiments of Jesus in definite laws.” Smith himself goes so far as to write,

“If Jesus had a longer career, or if the Jews had not been so socially powerless at the time, Jesus might have systemized his teaching more. As it was, his work ‘was left unfinished. It was reserved for another Teacher to systematize the laws of morality.’ The Koran is this later teacher.” (Smith, 249)

Picture a small child standing at your side, anywhere from eight to fifteen years old. Their arms are shrunken, and their belly is bloated. Their face is toneless and unimpassioned. Yet, these are not the most exceptional things about this child. Rather, grasped in their malnourished, clenched fists is a gun.

Push of from shore!
Cast off the more!
My sweetheart, I’m leaving for sea,
Tell mother, I shall miss her tea.

Heave and then ho!
Tossed high and low!
Hard work away on this galley,
but men are brave, forth we sally.

The rain now pours!
The storm it roars!
But battle, men, against the sea.
Battle now, soon you’ll be free.

Loyalty great!
To die is fate!
All is fair in love and in war
we have much to live and die for.

The Mold creeps
Beyond the happy chimney tops
Into forsaken cabin’s corners
Out of rotting rickety cupboards
From decaying trees and logs
Out of boundless time and ancient empires
Beyond the roaming woodlands
Down to the dark depths of depression
Underneath the lowest branches
Beside lethal mires
Into dripping caverns
The Mold creeps
Past blinding darkness
Into the criminal’s damp den and
Out to the bog’s vapors
To torture the weary maiden in her grief

**So this is a pretty long short story. I'm talking 18,000-word short story. If you're feeling adventurous enough to read it, I really appreciate this. I talk about the inspiration behind it a bit more in the notes. I just wanted to add that this story has been edited to suit Apricot Pie's standards. There is no censorship needed (so it's bleep/asterisk [*] free, as it didn't need it), so as long as you're mature (due to some older themes, not of an inappropriate nature, but a darker one) you should be good to read it. :) Thanks so much if you do!

My Thoughts Like Stars 
I'm stuck in space, 
Surrounded by darkness,
Stars shine in the distance,
(My thoughts)
Some bright some dim, 
Too far too touch, 
Unless one comes shooting by. 
Make a wish upon an idea, 
Then let it circle back, 
Gravitating, 
Orbiting,
Back around even brighter. 

it is
not knowing
that sinks into the bones
of living creatures
and holds them captive

and those undefinable
longings in the heart
that turn eyes
to far away mountains

it is the
face of an imaginary
future that clings
to the lashes of
the sleeping

and the vague
desires that settle
in the shoes of
the fearful

it is
wandering
that brings the
wondering back to
this precipice

In the light of my loneliness
tonight--
the world casts shadows
sullen, as though
absorbed in early rain--
the way starlight hangs,
shadow of black and falling up
--holes that could break
shatter down, not old
or infallible
--lonely--
and i live somewhere
beneath God's curtain

The Youngest Son and the Hand of the Princess
Because youngest sons always succeed and the older brothers don't