We are happy to share yet another submission from our 2025 WGI Invite to Write Challenge!
Last summer, we asked our talented cohorts to create a piece on this prompt: Write a story where the end is also the beginning.
Next up, we are sharing an anonymous participant’s piece entitled, “Mo’s Is, Deluded.” Stay tuned, as we will continue posting the submissions throughout the winter!
Mo’s Is, Deluded
Abe was drinking again. The pressure had been mounting at work, and between the money troubles and his marriage, he was at the end of his rope. He’d been with Sara for what seemed like an eternity, and things didn’t look like they were ever going to change for the better. Beyond his career ambitions in the livestock industry, what Abe and Sara yearned for most of all was a child. A child that had yet to present itself. As the sun slipped past the horizon, it ushered in another long night for Abe. Another night sitting cross-legged around an empty dinner table, its very existence mocking his impotence. With the recent hailstorm smiting half his flock into oblivion, Abe turned to the best coping mechanism he knew: he hit the bottle.
It was something he’d struggled with for decades, now. The drinking, that is. He knew it wasn’t good for his health, but when life expectancy hovers around 200 years, what’s a few years surrendered to having a good time? Abe had never been the sentimental type. Live fast, die young at 120, was his creed. Yet this recent batch of booze he’d brewed up seemed unusually strong. He’d been hearing The Voice for a few weeks now, and as the moonshine started to take hold, its familiar warmth brought with it a wave of anxiety. The Voice was nigh.
“Abraham.”
Abe startled. The Voice had never arrived this early before. He looked around, wildly, at the starry desert night and tried to work out if he’d actually heard something. Abe took another swig from the leather flask, furiously working to remember if he had diluted the brew as usual. He shrugged. Must have been the wind.
“Abraham. Make the Covenant.”
Abe covered his ears.
“Make the Covenant.”
Abe spiked the flask into the sand. He wasn’t in the mood for the Voice tonight.
“Look here, you sonofabitch! I ain’t doing that! I ain’t making no damn covenant!”
The Voice hesitated. It tried again, more cajoling this time.
“Just the tip, Abraham. Just the tip.”
Abe sank back into his stool, while his hand scrabbled around in the sand for his flask. Hands trembling, he brought it to his lips and had another pull. The Voice grew louder as he drew yet again from the flask. He must have really overdone it this time. You aren’t 100 years old anymore, he chided himself. Stupid, to think he could handle this kind of volume in middle age. Stretching out his legs, Abe made a half-hearted resolution to focus on his hydration, recalling Sara’s pleadings to start drinking more beer and less of the hard stuff.
“Make it, Abraham. Make the Cov…“
The Voice faded into the background as Abe fought back the first wave of nausea. He just couldn’t handle the Voice tonight. He raised his flask once more, while attempting to stand. Swaying in the moonlight, arms flailing, Abe began to shout at the Voice. His robe flew open as he fought to regain his balance, but Abe didn’t seem notice as he roared at the Milky Way.
“…and to hell with sheep yields, the market expectations are totally out of whack—”
“Good, Abraham. Just like that.”
Abe paused, mid-rant.
“Now that your robe is readied, Abraham, begin to sharpen your tool as you prepare to make The Covenant with me, and allow your home to fill with children and…um, sheep?” The Voice sounded like it was shuffling through some papyrus folios.
Confused, Abraham’s hand began drifting past his belt line.
“Ahem, not that tool. Begin sharpening your knife. Your knife. Remember, just the tip.”
Abe’s flask was nearly empty at this point. Wondering if he was dreaming, he began to run his dagger along a stone lying nearby, as he vowed to never drink again.
_________
Mo was drinking again. The pressure had been mounting at work, and between that and his marriage, he was at the end of his rope. It was hard supporting a wife and kids on a nomad’s salary, and he was feeling the strain. He’d taken to selling his tent-brewed concoctions on the sly at local village markets off the highway. Mo had never heard the adage about not getting high on one’s supply, and as such, it seemed like he’d been drinking more and more lately. Yet tonight seemed different than usual…
“Moses.”
Mo took another swig from the leather flask and tried to remember if he had diluted the brew as usual. He shrugged. Must have been the wind. He blinked, as his eyes teared up. Was that cactus on fire? Shivering, he drew his robe more tightly about him.
“FREE THE SLAVES, MOSES. LET THEM KNOW MY WAYS. SPREAD THE GOSPEL.” Mo thought he heard papyrus rustling. “Sorry, uh, I meant TEACH THEM MY LAWS, MOSES.”
The wind had stopped by now. Mo had heard the stories, alright. Make the Covenant. Just the tip. Abe’s Covenant was something he’d always believed to be true, but this…this couldn’t possibly be real. How would the people respond to Mo’s tale of divine prophecy? They’d never believe him. When Mo wasn’t starting fires in the wilderness, he was out of his mind on primordial moonshine. He wasn’t The One to free the slaves, or teach the laws. After all, Abe’s fable was real, wasn’t it? He wasn’t Abe, that’s what people would say about him. They’d whisper behind his back:
“Abe’s story was real. At least Abe’s was real. Mo’s is deluded.”
Mo’s hands trembled. His lifestyle was spiraling out of control. Too much booze. Not enough beer. Pulling his eyes from the cactus, he hurled his slurred protestations at the Voice, all the while fighting for balance. The wind was back again. The desert sky was ablaze.
“The people ain’t gonna believe me! They ain’t gonna believe me, you hear?”
But they totally did.
The End
