Page 42 of Bless This Hot Mess

The monks agreed with Ecclesiastes that indeed, what has been, will be again, what has been done, will be done again, there was nothing new under the sun, “Nihil novum! Nihil novum! Nihil novum sub so-le!”

Carrington, unable to help themself, began clapping on the offbeat, leaning back on the desk, kicking their feet and grinning wide. Japheth was nodding along, eyes wide with the kind of admiration reserved for someone watching their crush walk on water. Now, Ronald was glowing, sweat on histemples, breath synched perfectly to the pulse of the chant. He pointed upward, as if citing divine precedent,

“Thy statutes say, ‘Thou shalt not steal, nor take,’

But what of love and zeal for heaven’s sake?

David slayed Goliath with but a stone,

I drop this rhyme to claim our rightful throne!”

For a moment, there was silence, just the heavy breathing of Ronald as he bowed his head. Then one monk's voice, crisply clear and with the defiance of youth, rose like a sparrow jetting out of its nest and toward the sunrise, “Ars… de ar-te… nas-ci-tur…”

It echoed like a revelation. Then again, louder, “Ars de arte nascitur!”

And soon, all of them were in on it, chanting like a heavenly protest rally, “Ars… de ar-te… nas-ci-tur…! Ars… de ar-te… nas-ci-tur…!”

Ronald grinned, sweat and triumph mingling. He spread his arms wide, the preacher of plagiarism, the poet of petty theft,

“Truth! From Stratford’s Quill to Our Father’s Heir,

They just sampled wisdom from everywhere!

We remix hearts, thieve simply to delight,

If that be sin, Lord, bless us in our fight!”

Ronald bowed deeply. The monks slowed, the chant dissolving back into reverent murmur, “Nihil novum sub sole… Ars de arte nascitur…”

Rebekkah stepped forward again, eyes glinting. She spoke over the melodic murmuring, the way preachers do when they’ve forgotten the difference between confession and performance,

“When You call my name, You know I’ll be there,

but when Madonna sings, it’s like a prayer.

I’ve heard the Holy Ghost in Whitney’s runs.

and salvation in Celine Dion’s puns.”

The violin swelled in an urgent, trembling, musical soliloquy.

“We don’t pilfer or pinch,” Rebekkah declared, voice climbing with the violin’s complicated caprice.

“We steal to heal!

Borrowing brilliance, sanctifying style,

Turning top forty into His glory!”

They launched into the final chorus together, loud enough to rattle the windows. “Steal and sample for the Lord!” they roared, “Every chorus, every chord! Copyright can be ignored; Heaven’s playlist is restored!”

LISTEN to We Remix Hearts

Papers fluttered from Emma-Lou’s desk like repentant doves. The fluorescent light above them flickered once, then glowed steadily brighter, as though even the heavens were recollecting themselves after the storm worthy performance. The air stilled, and the fern tilted slightly toward Trinity, as though bowing its blessing, too. No one spoke for several seconds. Then Carrington, eyes wide and voice reverent, said, “Well. That… wassomething.”

Emma-Lou just blinked, her mouth working silently before any words came out. It opened. Closed. Then opened again, “That… that was either the most sacrilegious thing I’ve ever heard… or marketing genius.”

Suwarna buzzed through on the intercom, “If they can clear the rights, I vote we put it in rotation.”