The Bible, Unplugged
The Bible, Unplugged
Quinn Baldwin
THE BIBLE, UNPLUGGED
Quinn Baldwin
Copyright © 2015 by Quinn Baldwin. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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DELIALAH & SAMSON: Judges 13 - 16
Dear Diary-
I saw the strangest and most gruesome sight today: a lion, or what was left of one, ripped open, its insides laid bare. What on earth could possibly slay the king of cats? It turned my stomach just to look upon it. My thoughts quickly turned back to my Ismael. Just writing his name sends gooseflesh racing down my arms. The Captain of the Guards. The strongest man in the village. I am in love.
Dear Diary-
Oh, the horror! I can barely write, my hands are shaking so! Thirty people dead! Struck down as they tended their fields. Our neighbor Ruth said it was terrible to behold, bodies and blood everywhere, each corpse ripped of its clothing. Her weeping seeps through our walls like an accusing finger. Her dear brother, the one who always saved a piece of licorice root for me, among the slain, killed for his tunic. So senseless! We assumed it was an invading army or a band of savages, but no, one long-haired, wild-eyed maniac felled thirty with his bare hands claiming to be on a mission from God. What god would command such a thing?
Dear Diary-
When will the bloodshed end? It seems we are cursed, a new tragedy greets us each day with the rising of the sun. All our fields, our grain, our olives, our vineyards, our entire livelihood to sustain us through winter gone, burned by this madman who was apparently upset with a woman. The people were angry and took vengeance on her and her family. So, this lunatic who we learned today goes by the name of Samson, killed an entire village, ripping innocent people to pieces. Who does this? And, they call us uncivilized. My only comfort is dear Ismael, the love that sustains me. He is so strong perhaps he can save us all.
Dear Diary-
Throughout this entire Samson nightmare, I've felt profound sadness and fierce anger, but for the first time fear has seized my heart. A company of our men are going out to find Samson and kill him. (Oddly enough, I almost felt sorry for the lunatic for it will be 300 against one. Then, I remembered what Samson has visited upon us and, as much as I hate myself for it, I want his blood spilled.) I know our brave men will ultimately prevail, but still my handsome Ismael leads the company. He is so strong, how can he possibly not win? Our god is more powerful than Samson's god. He will bless us and keep my love safe.
Dear Diary-
I will never love again. My heart is a broken place filled with the bleakness of winter and night. Ismael is dead, along with his entire company. I cannot even weep; my tears have run dry.
Dear Diary-
Oh, how I thirst for blood! Rumors are circulating that Samson is headed our way. I cannot wield a sword and shield, but I can attack with batted eyes and bare shoulders! Sure enough, when he enters our city gates, his eyes seek me out. I am taken aback by the sheer size of him, his hair covering his head like a lion's mane. His eyes are hard, his jaw set, but when he sees me, I instantly notice something else...vulnerability, perhaps? His look did not go unnoticed. The Elders pull me aside and tell me to seduce him and find out the secret of his strength so we can defeat him once and for all. With gladness that I could avenge Ismael and all of our lost, I agree.
Dear Diary-
So he says, this man-killing monster, Your red hair is beautiful. You will be my wife. It is not a question. People surround us in the market, all ears. Anger burns my soul. It would be my honor, I say, bile rising to my throat at the words, but remembering I have a job to do, I add, but first let's walk. I love to walk. Ismael did not. Most men do not. Samson surprises me with a nod and a smile. We leave the throngs behind and find ourselves alone on a dusty road, the sun gently warming our faces. With each step, his jaw relaxes more, he smiles more easily, his words flow like honey and seem just as sweet. We pause in the shade. The haughty tone he used with everyone in town has disappeared. I still cannot look at his hands without imagining them stained with blood, Ismael's blood. Yet, as the sun casts long fingers across the ground, I find myself laughing and once even touch his shoulder. I catch myself. What am I doing?
Dear Diary-
Samson surprises me again. Flowers. I will throw them away when he leaves. Yet, his eyes are so genuine, I'm speechless for a moment. I snap out of it. This man is a killer and if he foolishly thinks he's doing some god's bidding by killing innocents, then he's a lunatic too. Where does your strength come from? I ask suddenly. He stops and stares at me, imploring with his eyes. There is no anger, no surprise, but it's as if he's trying to read the pages of my book. I thought that you...that we... This mountain of confidence is at a loss for words. He sighs and tells me something about green vines. There is sadness in his voice, but I don't know why.