The Eye of God

I have to say... this is a bit risky of a short story.  I couldn't help myself.  I want to be controversial but who doesn't?  Supposedly it acquires you fame or infamy.  Either ay it draws readers.  So, shamelessly, my mind wouldn't let this idea go.  Please know that I meant no harm. I just needed  characters of legend for a "matchup."
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 9
Matchup!
“Write a scene featuring a cruise ship or a boat, a sudden change of weather, and the idiom “Fools rush in.””

The prophet Mohammed stood on the rickety dock that jutted out into the waters of the Sea of Galilee. His band of followers were busily preparing the boat to set sail to the other side. One called from the ship, beckoning the prophet forward onto the skiff. Using the gentlest of motions he stepped down and they immediately set sail.
Mohammed tried dearly not to show his uncertainty, he was the prophet from Allah, he could not show any sense of fear, but deep down he dreaded being on the open sea. The fear of being washed overboard weighed heavily in his mind and he prayed for safe passage.
Then the clouds rolled in. Those around him commented at the momentary shimmer jumping from cloud to cloud. “It’s going to be a bad one,” someone said. Mohammed did not know who had whispered, what he thought, were the final words of his life. He had to admit that none of them truly mattered to him. They were mere stepping stones in his journey to retrieve the stone of power that rested on the other side. It was known as the Eye of God and any mortal that held it would take on the powers of one not of this world.
If it were not that he feared another would retrieve the stone he would have walked around the sea or at least found some other transportation other than the sea.
If only I had the stone now, he thought, I would stop this storm before it had spread like a disease across the sky.
The waves began to grow. They lapped at the edges of the boat, lobbing spray of sea at the men. The man chosen as captain tried his best to steer the ship through the waters. Mohammed would have thrown him overboard I he didn’t need him. The man clutched to the side of the ship, trying to stabilize himself, while keeping his eyes pointed ever forward.
The winds picked up and ripped the prophets ‘Imama from his head, relinquishing the greasy, black locks beneath. It whipped at his face like angry tentacles, entangling itself in his thick beard.
The wave first rose like a mountain rising from sleep at the bow of the ship, blocking Mohammed’s view of the other side of the sea. Then with the strength of the earth it crashed over the ship and sent everyone swirling into the blackness.
He scrambled. Climbing his way through the water but he could not tell what was up or down. But soon he found himself slowly drifting ever upwards.
His head broke the thrashing surface of the water. He gasped and gulped down the salty air.
“Why have you done this,” Mohammed cried out.
His black eyes scoured the sea for any sign of his companions. He knew none of them by name and felt it ridiculous to call out for anyone. There was no room for weakness.
A wave rose and cresting over it was another, larger, boat, still surviving the rough waters. It dove down the other side of the wave. It rushed past Mohammed, spraying him with a miniscule wave compared to it’s brethren.
“Over here,” he called out.
Lightning cracked the black and he saw the silhouettes of twelve men, scrambling across the deck of the ship. There was incoherent shouting but he did not recognize any of the words against all the other noise around him.
The storm quickly subside in a cool breeze.
“Look” shouted someone on the boat.
Mohammed waved his arms above his head and shouted again, until he was submerged in the water.
A hand grasped on to his shoulder and pulled him from the water.
Mohammed looked into the face of a Hebrew man, bearded like himself, with long locks of flowing hair. He knew that face. It was the man who claimed to be the son of God.
“You,” Mohammed said.
He looked down and realized with the sense of falling, that this man was standing on the surface of the water.
“Did you-“
“Yes, Mohammed, I got the stone.” Jesus sneered. “Cause only fools don’t rush in.”

Prompt 2 of 31

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 57 "Okay, it's true. I believe in vampires. But I have proof, okay?"

(P.S. these are all chosen at random.)

Start time: 11:13

"Okay, it's true. I believe in vampires. But I have proof, okay?" Derrick Trund said, running a hand through his long black hair. He leaned over the table closer to his friends, Janithyn and Garith. For the past thirty minutes he had been bombarded with questions from his comrades about his shifty appearance at the metaphysical section of the book store in downtown Boston.

"Well where is this evidence?" Garith said. He casually took a sip of beer from the half empty pint glass.

Jan leaned closer to Derrick. Her eyes wide behind her cat eye glasses.

Derrick's dark brown eyes flicked from one friend to the next before he opened his mouth and showed them his teeth. His canines were a little longer than normal.

Garith laughed, choking on his beer.

"That's your proof? My aunt Cecilia had abnormally long teeth too. You've proven nothing."

Derrick's face soured.

"They're not long enough because I'm new. I am a vampire. Not even a year old."

Jan gaped.

Garith just shook his head and chuckled.

With an uneasy hand Jan touched Derrick's hand. Immediately she retracted it.

"You feel like ice."

"You're imagining things, sis." Garith said.

Jan determinedly wrenched her brother's hand away from his beer and stretched it to Derrick's hand. He knew he could have met them half way but he couldn't have cared less about proving his point. He had other things to worry about.

Garith's finger tips rested on Derrick's hand for less than a nanosecond. He pulled his hand to his chest and stood up, the wooden chair scraped across the barroom floor.

"What the fuck," Garith said.

Derrick rolled his eyes and motioned for his friend to sit.

"I've been a vampire for the past six months and haven't hurt either of you yet. You have nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, now." Garith said, he took a step back, his voice getting louder.

Derrick could feel the eyes scattered around the bar looking at him. He had to nip this in the bud. He quickly stood and with sweeping moves, grabbed Jan's wrist, and hook his arm around Garith's and pulled them to the exit.

"Let go of me freak," Garith said. He attempted to pull his arm free but failed miserably.

The tension, excitement, and panic of the other patrons filled the bar to the brim and Derrick could feel his urge take hold. If he remained a second longer in Trombo's bar he would become ravenous. He knew from experience.

The cold autumn air embraced them with stiff arms outside the bar.

"Calm down, Gary," Derrick said.

The vampire let go of his friends. He could sense that Gary wanted to run but couldn't. He was afraid.

"I sought you two for a reason."

Jan's eyes widened behind her glasses.

"Why?" she said softly.

"I want to undo this and I know you can help."

"Is that why you started talking to us?" Jan said. Her shoulders went slack.

Derrick's expression was pained. He knew this would eventually come to light. Yes, he had treated them worse than any other kid during high school. Yes he had thought they were a couple of freaks then but now that he had been turned he knew they would understand. But even now he couldn't bring himself to say it. He was going to have to soften the blow. Plus, it may have started out trying to use them but his heart had changed since then. It only took taking away his mortal soul to do it.

"The why isn't important. You two have become my closest friends these past few months. You're the only ones that spend your waking hours in the dark. But it's more than that." He knew he had to deliver something quick. "You two are professionals when it comes to the paranormal."

Garith crossed his arms over his chest and held his head to the side. The energy radiating from him was beyond skeptical.

Jan on the other hand, she beamed at Derrick.

"Of course we'll help," she said.

"Jan!" Garith said. "Obviously he's using us. That's why he's been spending time with us. Obviously. God, how could we be so stupid. He wanted nothing to do with us in school."

Jan turned furiously to her brother. A few strands of hair fell from her messy bun.

"What does it matter how he treated us then."

"Because he's using us, sis."

"No he's not. Think of how long he's been hanging out with us and hasn't even brought up the topic of ghosts, werewolves, or vampires once! If he wanted to use us he would have just done it."

Garith turned to Derrick and pressed his lips together into a thin line, his bushy brows formed a single line. He looked back at his sister and the two held a silent argument that ended with a punch in the chest from Jan to Garith.

"How can we help?" Jan said cheerfully.

If derrick's heart was still beating it would have began to race with excitement. Instead he was filled with even more cold.

"Coincidentally enough I was in search of a book that Mr. Nemmits said you had purchased."

The two siblings looked at each other puzzled.

"It's called the La Inverser La Mort. It was written by Pierre-Jacques Lefevre."

The two remained silent.

"Do you know what book he's talking about?" Garith said, he pointed a thumb at Derrick. "Sounds French."

"I think I know what you're talking about. Let's go to our place." Jan said.

End time: 11:53