Felicia Carparelli is a teacher and musician, writing in Chicago. She has work published and forthcoming in Mystic Owl, Scarlet, Sinister Wisdom, The Rhubris, Flexx Mag, Tiny Love, Coping with Cancer and Cure Today. She plays her accordion during the full moon.

Her Sapphic mystery, Tile M for Murder, Bella Books, February 2024. Her Pre-Raphaelite inspired thriller, Killing Mr. Darcy, darkstroke Books, 2022. The Murder at the Opera, TBA.felicia carparelli.

The Book of John

By Felicia Carparelli

I am a prophet on a mission. I awoke to that revelation after a night of prayer and meditation. Like the dude on the road to Damascus, I was struck down in my single, lonely bed, and illuminated with a new calling.

Forty years ago, I had slipped from my mother’s aging womb into this world, with only one cry, but with non-stop fussing. I never latched onto my mother’s breast, it was flat like a ping-pong paddle and not welcoming. In my baby psyche I knew that day that I would lead a life filled with apologies and anxiety.

At my baptism, I was told I was a silent baby, and stared at the priest with unblinking eyes. There is one faded photograph of this event, me in a lace heirloom christening gown, yellowed with age, being held by my parents who looked embarrassed.

Today, the first day of my new life, I rushed to the kitchen and plunged my head into a sink full of ice-cold water. I felt cleansed. I was newly baptized. I knew that I could now create a religious duality that was unique. I sat down and wrote out my version of the ten commandments.

Meditate daily. Burn sage and joss sticks.
Carry a rosary at all times. Wear a scapular. You won’t go to hell.
Never use plastic. Plastic is planet poison.
Walk, don’t drive. Don’t get fat.
Eat less meat. No processed foods, less sodium, sugar, alcohol.
No nicotine, weed, vaping.
Recycle everything.
Read more books. Learn a new word each day.
Order less takeout. Make your own coffee in the morning. You can do it.
Be kind to animals and birds, they are our friends.

I adored weeping before a crucifix, any crucifix, the bigger the better, while staring at the image of Jesus, nailed to the cross, blood dripping from his wounds. I felt rapture sitting before a statue of Buddha, trying to mimic the cross-legged posture, ignoring the pain from my cracking joints. I tried to arrange my face into a reasonable facsimile of the Buddha, my smile a tiny crescent of peace. I searched my soul for elusive enlightenment.

Being a prophet was a full-time profession. I needed to warn the world that it was killing itself.

“Are you sure this is a real job, John?” Ida, my eighty-eight-year-old mother asked me every day. “How you can worship at the feet of a little, fat, bald man who smirks?”

“It’s a vocation, mother,” I explained, over and over. “I have been called to deliver the message of a new religion.”

“I’m not sure what your father or Sister Millicent would say,” she frowned. Mother had been in the convent, had almost taken her vows, before she had a vision of a child speaking to her. The child, not Jesus, informed her to come out of the convent and enjoy a secular life. She obeyed. At forty, mother married a school librarian, a gentle man who made puppets for his students and ate tofu. She gave birth, most miraculously at forty-eight, in a nine-minute labor that astonished even the health professionals.

I followed in the timid footsteps of my late father and became a librarian, in a small but worthy university, near the small brick home I shared with mother. While not exciting, the satisfaction I received from supervising students in keeping the stacks in order and in submitting book orders on my area of expertise—Buddha (BQ860-939) and Jesus (BT296-500) per Library of Congress classifications, gave me a full life. Yes, true love had eluded me and yes, I was a single man with two Angora cats, Mary Magdalen and Lotus Blossom, but these truths did not dim the luster from my new religion, that glowed with the promise of enlightenment and salvation.

Even though there was papal disapproval of the melding of both religions, and I risked being ex-communicated, I knew that I was on a glorious path to righteousness. The evening of my revelation, I posted a video on social media. I sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, on the hooked rug I made, (another passion), and preached about my new religion. My cats sat by my side. I saw myself on the screen. I looked at my crewcut, squeaky voice, and sweaty face, as smooth as the Buddha’s, and as moist as holy water, and hoped I appeared sincere. I read aloud my new commandments for living and explained each one. When the video was finished, I mopped my face on a white towel and looked at my image, that was imprinted onto the cotton. Would I be believed?

By the next morning, I had millions of views and followers. It was a miracle. I saw that I was a media sensation. Less timid now, I posted daily videos and I was stunned and honored by the attention I received.

My new followers named themselves John-ites. T-shirts, mugs and tattoos appeared world-wide that proclaimed John-ites for Jesus and Buddha, often condensed to J for J.B., depending on the size of the item or the area of one’s flesh. Most proceeds were donated to the Church-Temple of John, an entity that sprouted without my approval, including a board with legal and financial representation. Attorneys can be so clever.

I felt awe by the immense and astonishing response to my calling, but I knew it is a sign from the gods and Gods that my creation of a new spiritual duality was the right path on the road of life. I received many gifts. When I mentioned mother could no longer make jam or knit due to her arthritic hands, thousands of jars of jam and home-made blankets appeared at my door. When I said I remembered playing pinball in the back of the barber shop where father went for his bi-monthly trims, I received thousands of gaming consoles and arcades games.

I rented a warehouse to house the many gifts until the “board” sent the items to schools and correctional facilities. I kept very little for myself, a jar of blackberry jelly, now and then, to put on my toast, and a couple of hats with big pom-poms to keep my head warm during the winter. Mother liked the jigsaw puzzles; the boxes with colorful cardboard pieces gave her many hours of happiness. My cats received treats and catnip toys in abundance.

I did not like being put in the same category as a “god.” That, caused me distress. I was just a prophet who offered guidance to find the new duality. I did not want to speak in a temple or a church; I was content in my small home, with my small mother, and small cats.

One day, a gift arrived, that I couldn’t send to the warehouse. It was a vintage pinball machine with an Asian theme. It was so old, the game was named “Oriental Fantasy,” and the face of a smiling Buddha, mouth wide open, received the highest scoring ball. I agonized about this pinball machine and if I should keep it. I worried that it would be misconstrued as heresy to the new religion. I hid it in the basement, far away from my laptop’s all-seeing eye. In contrition, I draped rosaries and scapulars around the machine, and holy medals with the faces of Jesus and Mary I placed on the glass top.

I was able to quit my job at the library as I could support myself, my mother, and cats on the generous donations that stuffed my little mailbox. I spent hours in the basement creating a daily sermon and hours playing the pinball machine. I grew my hair to my shoulders; the long locks make me feel like Jesus. I gained weight. With my new rotund belly, I felt like Buddha.

This idyllic and isolated life continued for five years. I never left my small home. I refused the world tours, declined the guest spots on late-night shows, and rejected all the bios that writers clamored to publish in my honor. I never aspired to be famous on the outside, my inside universe was enough. But I sensed, deep in my soul, that all good things must end. I was exhausted. It was a challenge to be a prophet. The daily inspirations became weekly, then monthly. The delivery of gifts slowed down, week by week, then dribbled to nothing.

After a night of prayer and meditation I played pinball and then delivered my final sermon to the few faithful John-ites that still followed me. I placed mother in her wheelchair next to me. My cats sat on my lap, purring.

“My friends, my fellow John-ites who follow my humble tenets on Jesus and Buddha and who are on the path to enlightenment, I must tell you that it is time for me to move on. It is time to relinquish my role as leader, as prophet and rabbi, and it is time to give back to you, my friends, the power you need to fulfill your destiny. You must try to save the Earth; you are its only hope. Your kindness and generosity to my mother and I will always be remembered and appreciated as we move on. We have agreed, mother and I, that it’s time we make our transition to Heaven and Nirvana, with Mary and Lotus.”

I began to cry. “These are tears of joy, not sorrow. Don’t fret, my friends. I have traveled my path to a most beautiful end.” I stood, placed the cats on mother’s lap, arranged her favorite blanket over her bony knees and inhaled. I stretched my hands out to the pinball machine. I pushed my fingers onto the red flipper buttons, and felt a buzz, a current of energy. I was transfigured into a form of white light, that enveloped mother and my kitties. We were all sucked into the machine, as the Buddha smiled and the holy medals and rosaries rattled a last bravo of contrition and salvation.

***

The final video exploded into another video sensation. Millions of past and present John-ites wept for their leader. His ascension into the pinball machine was so astounding that even the most unspiritual, saw that as a divine sign, and came to believe. Churches of John were created. Pinball machines appeared in every home. Cats, like in Egyptian days, became sacred. And his teachings were assembled into a handbook that would last for as long as the world, sagging with war, gun violence, and gasping with heat, would allow.

John had achieved his goal.