White Whale Review: An Online Literary Magazine Untitled Document
John Oliver Hodges
John Oliver Hodges lives in Brooklyn, and is the author of The Love Box and War of the Crazies (Main Street Rag).

Featured Work
Subscribe to RSS     Share

Omar’s Children

John Oliver Hodges


Each week upon the table the long tapering body of Omar’s dreams luxuriated yeastless in a moist pale sheen, the alluring body of eternal glory scarred by spears and thorns and instruments of torture, its feet and wrists driven through by hammer and spike. Omar caressed it, squeezed it, pinched it, cut it, and pulled it apart, and pressed it, and stretched it into the general shape of a male organ. Omar gave the dough testes, a urethra, stroked it with both hands, his mouth ajar. In these private moments as cook to Jesus, Omar felt pure, not so alone in the physical world, not so isolated within the corporeal shape stamping him as particle to the Great Plan. With hands on the clay that was to become his Lord, he felt plunged holistically into worship. His body hummed with worship, his loins became engorged and his benumbed face bore traces of profound emotion. In this worship was the vindication of the sacrifices he’d made to become a man presumed sexless. These moments of intimate contact with becoming were Omar’s reward.

Omar fed his prized hosts to the Mississippians who came to Saint Francis to worship. Omar treated them as their shepherd, but in his heart he saw these people, his children, as vulgar know-nots undeserving of the gifts they received. They were ignorant of the magnitude of the gift. In Omar’s worst moments he resented their dull bovine eyes, their fat leaky bodies, their burps and abundant perfumes and ungainly tics. There were times Omar despised their Southern dialect. He took great pains to explain to them what the sanctity of a life in God was about, what it meant. His efforts were so much seed cast upon parched soil.

The lousier the people of the Mississippi delta were, the farther Father Omar Mills fell into Christ, and the more he looked forward to his moments spent in the small kitchen house between the church and cemetery. Omar’s nights in the kitchen close to the bones of the dead clicked off the weeks of his life like the flaccid outstretched arms of the dead Christ falling when He was peeled from the cross, one arm, and the next, down one goes, down the next, a tick, a tock. In these ticks of the clock was bliss, for with each tick a beautiful anticlimax, Death’s hollowing or hollowation of the body,

occurred; but one evening Omar did the unthinkable. In a moment of weakness, of unbearable yearning, he consecrated the dough.    

The dough roiled and thickened beneath his effeminate hands. Omar recoiled, but his fingers were stuck. He yanked his arms away from the table, trying to free himself, but the dough pulled out with them, like taffy in the making. Omar would have screamed, but a small voice, a voice that sounded much like a child’s, spoke to him. It said, “Omar,” and giggled. Omar, his hands glued to the dough, the dough that continued to grow, enlarging and pulsating beneath his palms, looked behind him, over his shoulders and around the room but saw no child. Had the voice come from within? Omar pulled one hand out, watched it stretch away with its gossamer goo, then return to the dough. Again there was a giggle, but this time Omar spotted the source. The giggle had issued from the urethral hole, what Omar had made by piercing the dough with his car key. The lips at the head of the organ had fluttered, as if a burst of air and sound had passed through them. Omar eyed the hole closely, waiting for what it might say next.

The dough became elongated and smooth and Omar watched the formation of testicles and veins, and then his hands, he noticed, were free. He slid them away from each other, as if parting some curtains, and then pulled them back together. He was afraid, but the veins in the thing had swelled up and taken color, many shades of maroon, a pulsing matrix of scarlet threads within which aquamarine sluices and purple runnels ran haywire.

Omar was afraid, but once more heard a child’s giggle. Omar felt as if he was being laughed at now, and he said, aloud, “Is it You, my Love?”

The opening to the urethra fluttered and squealed.

“Just tell me what you want,” Omar said, his heart bursting open like an orchidian bud filmed in clips, fast snatches from the hours of its blooming so that when it is replayed on the screen, you see the flower open, gape in full submission to the sky, willing to receive, appearing, even, in the sudden stop of its movement, to beg.

Omar set his fingertips gently upon the shaft of the miracle, the priapic log that had become

animated at Omar’s behest. He held it, squeezed it, slid the outer layer, the skin of it, back and forth above the hard substance below. The opening to the urethra fluttered and moaned and Omar redoubled his efforts. The cock was now fully formed in shape and it was about four feet long with balls the size of bowling balls. The dough was enamel-smooth, its veins soft pulsating worms that gave to his touch; but soon the thing convulsed and the opening to the urethra expanded, exhaling the uncanny smell of wet roses into the kitchen. Omar sucked it up his nostrils while the mouth on the thing below bellowed. When it was through laughing it said, still in the high-pitched child’s voice: “Omar, I want to show you a secret.”

Terrified, Omar cast his vision upon the window, then the door.

“Grab onto me!” the thing commanded, and Father Omar Mills, the winsome rose of St. Francis Roman Catholic Church in Silkwater, Mississippi, climbed onto the table of Italian marble. He straddled the phallus and the phallus, having grown to about six feet long, rose from the table and shot through the wall into the night. The thing shot

vertically into the sky, in the direction of the moon, and Omar in fear hugged it close, kissed it a few times and prayed for the congregation that would be left destitute should he not return. There was Boyl Heartfield who hated his boss at the potato chip factory so much that he fantasized about going in there and blowing his head off with his shotgun. Boyl needed Omar. There was Billy James who suffered from unfounded jealousy, always suspected his wife of sexual misconduct, even though he often locked her in the basement when he left the house. And little Gary Avers who suffered from the pokes of demons, and Mrs. Mary Pine whose husband made her eat Brussels sprouts even though she abhorred them more than any other food in the world. Don’t even mention Abigail Kelley with her daughters Keesha, Laqueesha, and Laquaneesha. The Kelley family appeared to be on a real downward spiral. The Kelley daughters, as far as Omar could tell, were being used to create profit—black stamp lickers they were—and Father Mills wasn’t pleased. He hoped to help these doleful Mississippians, and wanted to think of himself as a man who could make a difference in a world of mysterious pain.  

What Omar held onto now, the cock of God, pierced the clouds then leveled and flew south. The force of the air against Omar’s face was intense, the air entered his mouth and drew his lips apart grotesquely and caused his priestly robes of office to flap like some white trash woman’s sheets in the breeze.

A miracle had transpired. It was transpiring before Omar’s eyes now, a miracle that he himself had brought into being. He was in the sky, flying over lakes and rivers and cities upon the sexual staff of his Lord. The backs of Omar’s ankles were hooked below the staggering weight of the balls of Jesus. As frightening as the experience was, Omar felt somewhat like a rodeo rider, and he was beginning to enjoy himself. He dug his fingers into the firm yet pliant corona, clutching it tightly, and kicked a little, the imaginary spurs of his heels pricking the underside of his lord’s most sensitive parts, one ball and the other ball, hyahh! The two flew faster. They pierced the night like a holy arrow shot from the constellation of the great archer. Omar had flown plenty in planes, had crossed oceans and seas in his visits to Rome, South Africa,

Nicaragua. He had often wondered, as people do while looking out the widow of a plane, what it would be like to ride upon the wing. Now he knew.

Or was this beautiful absurdity a divine trick, a device to correct in Omar what had strayed from its purpose? In the sky, exhilarated as he was, Omar began to feel morally weakened. In the sky, his hair thrashing about his face, Omar felt what he’d thought he was ebb away, and drooled. He became lax. He feared that he could fall off, so leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the cock. He was on the verge of fainting, but a vein in the pecker’s midsection pierced through its outer skin. The vein wavered behind Omar like a cobra, and it reached up the priestly robes. Omar felt it press against his fundament, and thought No, but heard the child’s giggle. The vein pressed against him harder, and entered his colon, curled up through his bowels and began to pump some kind of liquid into him. He felt the liquid—was it blood?—running down his legs, soaking his socks. Omar felt inflated, as if he could burst, suffocate, for the damn thing, the vein, was moving up into the cockles of his heart, causing him to choke. Just when he thought

he could bear it no more, when he knew that his body would explode, the thing began to withdraw—yes, Christ knew his limits!—and Omar took his joy, his every molecule screaming out with pleasure. This love-shudder like no other involved no mammalian emission—it was purely spiritual, and oh, the thing pulled out of him slow, taking with it all of his previous fatigue. Omar felt revitalized now, stronger than he’d felt ever before in his life, and besides that, he knew that he’d been chosen, and of this was proud. He looked down upon the Mississippi cotton fields with a great love in his heart. He felt a connection to the land.      

But the cock shot downward without notice. Omar saw the earth approaching. He understood what happened when people fell against the earth. They went splat. If Omar was to go splat while hugging the masculine shaft of Jesus, so be it—it would be his privilege—and Omar even dug the heels of his penny loafers into the balls and shouted out loud—he screamed—yes—and a lake appeared—no—it was a sinkhole—a small hole that showed itself—a perforation, a dimple—and the cock smashed into it and drove downward, down,

down into the dark wet earth through tunnels of light, and then curved around and passed through chamber after chamber, and there were great flashes of light and color, and the cock slowed down and stopped, finally, in a round, domed room where two golden thrones faced each other. In each throne sat a skinny naked man, each wearing a crown. Their bodies were pale and bore bleeding wounds and old scars and the long hair of the men coursed backwards from their crowns and fell to the floor in silver rivers that piled up in tangled heaps around their thrones; but these were no saints, clearly, for from their shoulders wiggled snakes that reached over the golden bowl of red liquid situated between them. The snake-mouths of many small white shiny teeth snapped at each other and struck and bit, tearing off scales and dripping bits of flesh that they then tossed to their sides.

“This is the pride,” the giggly cock, floating like a Shetland pony above the flagging, explained.

“I see,” Omar said, and hopped down.

The cock said, “Each snake is a piece of the pride. That is like a piece of the pie, ha ha ha! Listen

to them go at it, will you?” 

Omar walked up close, observed and, yes, these kings were devoted to one thing, their dominion over the other, the making of the other a slave. The organs of these ugly emaciated kings could be seen through the diaphanous flesh of their ribby torsos. The catlike eyes of the king on the left were bright yellow, and issued yellow smoke, while the eyes of the other king were orange and droopy, and issued orange smoke. The yellow-eyed king shouted, “By the size of my pearls I condemn you! My ruby legions assault you to nada! My diamonds mock your impudence, you are impotent! My intelligence assaults you! My beauty is unmatched. Throw in the towel, you impotent scourge!”

The orange-eyed king replied: “Your father ate the flesh of rats and you were born into the sewer water of a brothel. Your mother was a whore and you are the son of a whore. All your children have the mark of the whore upon their souls.”

And the snakes snapped at each other continuously, digging their teeth into each other’s bodies, and into the legs and arms and fingers of

their opposing kings. The picture was gruesomefully frightful. Under normal circumstances Omar would have run, but Omar felt cocky tonight after his recent infusion of Christly fluids. He strolled back toward the floating phallus and said, “Don’t they ever get tired?”

“If they tired, what do you think would happen then, Omar?”

“The world would be a better place. Brotherly love would rule the day?”

“What about the night?”

“The night too. It would be a better world.”

The lips of the urethra wiggled and giggled and a sparkling red ruby emerged from the hole.

“What’s that?” Omar asked.

The ruby pushed out a little further and Omar saw that it was the jewel at the tip of a handle.

“Grab it,” the eyeless phallus said.

Omar pulled it and a sword emerged from the meatus. When he yanked it all the way out the

sword twanged in the air and sang a little. “Kill it,” the phallus said.


“You have earned this right by how you have treated me. Kill Pride!”

“I will try,” Omar said, and entered the arena where the two kings were locked in battle. Omar whipped the sword over his head and brought it down across the bodies of the entangled snakes. Snake pieces fell to the floor and blood spurted from their cut ends, and the walls of the room started flashing, and in the flashes Omar saw firing squads, and duels, and human bodies hanging in trees, and burning buildings, forests burning, and people burning and their bodies exploding. These images were not projections, but real things happening somewhere in time. Omar was looking at hundreds of real events taking place in different countries and different eras, all simultaneously. Then Omar heard a horrible screech. He looked up to see a dark-haired naked woman of surpassing beauty. The woman cried grievously in pain as she fell from the roof onto the stones and writhed at

Omar’s feet. Omar watched her breasts scab over and collapse bleedingly into her body as she shriveled up, bricks and mortar falling on top of her. In the rumble the bowl of red liquid between the two kings was upset and its contents ran in glowing red streams across the floor.

“Do her!” the child voice of the phallus cried.

“No, please!” the woman on the flagging begged. Omar was surprised that she could even speak at all at this point. The skin around her face was so tight that the shape of her skull was clearly visible. Her gums were drying up. Though her hair was still beautiful and healthy, she looked hideous. Omar felt great compassion. It was his duty to put her out of her misery. He was going to stab her through, but the snakes whose bodies he’d cut, the parts of their bodies that were still attached to their kings, were growing back, forming new bodies, new heads. As this happened, the woman on the floor began to grow breasts again, and she blossomed and rose into the air and was sucked back into the image from which she fell. The same thing happened with the bricks and dust.

Omar eyed the phallus with suspicion, for it was clear to him that should he chop off the heads of these helpless kings, the entire world would collapse. All would come to an end right here in this room in the earth in Mississippi.

“Now you see,” the phallus said.

“Yes,” Omar said, and another orgasmic gush of joy spread through his body. Omar felt so special. Had he not been deemed worthy to touch the staff of God? He saw that of his own pride he could not be found guiltless, but did that make him guilty? “My deformity!” Omar cried, and fell to his knees before the urethra, knowing that he need not speak his crimes, for God knew that in his dreams he was Saul’s Jonathan, he was Serge to Bacchus and, perhaps worst of all, the man from Judges who threw his woman to a gang of Benjamanites, this to appease the lust they held for him, for the man. In Omar’s vicarious appropriation of the biblical tale, he always saved the poor woman by giving himself over. The men pulled Omar into the field, stripped him of his habiliments and violated him under the full moon, beat him and threw his bloody body onto the doorstep of his host. God knew of Omar’s

unnatural desires, of the unwholesome sacrilegious images that had pressed him for so long, the Davids lounging candid and muscular at the edges of streams, the beautiful long-haired Absaloms pierced by arrows, the beaten Cains, and the many naked bleeding Christs.

“Don’t sweat it,” the phallus said, and giggled, as if He found Omar’s predicament amusing.

“And I hate my flock!” Omar confessed. “They are vile, ignorant, wicked. I feed them your body and am disgusted and want to vomit. I feel so wretched—”

“Pull yourself together, man!” the child’s voice cried, and shot a fast stream of thick white smoke into Omar’s face. Omar fell backwards from the force of it, and then woke, facedown, without any grogginess whatsoever, on the floor of the kitchen of St. Francis Roman Catholic Church in Silkwater, Mississippi, population eighteen thousand, give or take a few hundred souls.

Father Omar Mills jumped to his feet, and saw that his timer was still counting down the seconds. There were over two minutes left, and the dough

was on the table, bunched up on the Italian marble. Omar saw where his fingers had been before he’d consecrated the dough.

This was very weird. What had happened, it was no vision, of this Omar was certain. It had happened in real time, in reality, but the clock was ticking. Father Mills set his fingers back into the dough and began to knead, pondering the significance of the last words spoken to him by the ever-erect shaft of his dearest Lord and Savior.

As Omar kneaded the dough, the faces of his congregation came to him, how they looked from his vantage point on the pulpit, vacuous for the most part, their heads predominantly fat or smeared with absurd amounts of makeup. He saw their black voodoo faces, their bloated red catfish faces, their girly faces and their decrepit introverted faces puffed and sneered, a huge family; he, Omar, was their father. These were the children entrusted to Omar’s care, and for the first time since moving to Silkwater, Mississippi four years prior, Father Mills loved them one and all—they were funny, they farted, they ate enormous amounts of food. Some were proud of their physical traits, their

breasts, their complexions, their hair, their feet. Still others prided themselves on the things they owned, their houses, their cars. They were pathetic, pitiable, and Father Omar Mills loved them all.

The timer buzzed and Omar stopped kneading. Father Omar Mills grabbed the rolling pin and rolled the dough out over the Italian marble tabletop. Using the tub stopper, he began the process of making perfect wafers, pressing the stopper into the dough circle by circle, moon by moon, an array of pale coins whose slag he rolled up in his hands and kneaded and rolled out again across the marble.







Copyright© John Oliver Hodges. White Whale Review, issue 7.1

Previous Author Prev Next Author