Prophets Of The Burning Bush

Moses had the burning bush on a short leash tonight, mostly because the bush kept trying to hop out of the firelight and get closer to the snack table. The desert air tasted like hot dust and old goat, and the bush’s flames smelled faintly of sweet sap and something medicinal-like a pharmacy that lost a fight with a campfire. Moses stood barefoot in the sand, jaw working like he was chewing through a court case, mandrake roots pulsing bitter and earthy between his teeth. Every few seconds he’d spit, wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and announce-way too confidently-that the whole thing was “just a vibe.”

“Buddy,” he said to the bush, voice carrying over the camp’s grumbling. “We all love a good light show, but don’t get weird. I’m here for the commandments. Free. With purchase.”

Behind him, the people shifted in their tents and pressed closer to the edge of the fire. Someone’s kid had found a stick and was poking the sand with it like that would summon meaning. Moses didn’t look back. He was locked in, cheeks flexing, eyes glassy with mandrake-fueled certainty. The flame flickered higher and Moses swore it leaned toward him like it had opinions.

Then the bush spoke-sort of. It didn’t so much form sentences as it delivered a feeling, like a prophet’s app notification arriving late and still rude. Moses inhaled, mandrake breath mixing with smoke, and heard the laws start sliding into his head as if they’d been packed inside his skull like leftovers.

“Thou shalt-” he started, and the air went sharp as flint.

The next words didn’t land like thunder. They landed like a DJ dropping rules into a party mix. Moses’s lips kept moving, but his brain-helped along by the mandrake-turned every command into a suggestion with vibes attached. He pointed at the flames as if they were a clerk behind a counter.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered. “I got it. No murdering. No stealing. Be chill. And also-” He blinked hard. The letters in the air rearranged themselves like a prankster’s alphabet. “Also, apparently, we’re leaving Egypt. Like… today. Cool.”

The camp erupted in the kind of excitement that sounded less like worship and more like a crowd noticing the locks had been left unlatched. People began gathering bags, yanking blankets, shouting over the crackle of fire. Someone started screaming prayers like they were trying to win an argument with the universe. Moses felt the burning bush’s attention tighten, and he grinned-because of course he did. He was a man who believed the cosmos was basically a coworker who could be negotiated with.

“Don’t worry,” Moses called out, loud enough to get his own echo. “This is an escape plan. We’re doing it. We’re-” He searched for the phrase that would sound holy and organized at the same time. Mandrake offered him something unhelpful. “We’re doing it as a… baked party.”

His own words offended him for being too accurate, and the flame snapped like it agreed. The bush flared, and the laws poured faster. Moses tried to keep up, chewing harder, saliva slick and bitter. Every command came with an urge to add a comment, like the universe had hired him as an MC.

The first mishap arrived before anyone had even finished pretending they were ready. The people surged toward the exits and the exit surge became a stampede, which became a traffic jam made of sandals and panic. Someone grabbed the wrong bundle. Someone let go of the right one. A goat got loose and charged directly into a pile of drums, producing a sound like war turning into comedy.

Moses tried to restore order by doing what he always did: talking louder than reality. He ran to the front, waving both arms, mandrake root stuck between his teeth like a stubborn comma.

“Listen!” he shouted. “The bush says we go! The laws say we go! The vibes say we go!”

A woman-eyes wide, hair full of dust-pointed at Moses’s mouth. “You’re chewing something,” she said, as if that was the scandal.

“It’s medicine,” Moses answered, offended on behalf of his jaw. “Mandrake. It’s-” He swallowed, and his tongue betrayed him with a bitter clench. “It’s for prophecy. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

The people stared. The flames snapped again, and Moses, high on his own confidence, decided the staring meant agreement. So he did what any reasonable prophet would do when reality starts misbehaving: he doubled down.

“Okay!” he declared. “Everyone follow me. I’ll lead. I’m the-” he paused, searching for the holy title that would make the desert obey. “I’m the burning-bush guy. That’s official.”

He started walking with the authority of a man who had never once met a wall he couldn’t insult. The people followed, dragging carts, holding children, hauling bread that steamed up into the cold night like regret. Behind them, Egypt’s last cries faded into the distance, replaced by wind and the rustle of tents and the constant sound of someone saying, “Wait, where’s my-” and then discovering they’d lost it.

...